"I'm sorry, sir," the waitress says. "No cheese. Kosher," and I have no idea what the f**k she's talking about and I say, "Fine. A kosher burger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and - oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. "No cheese, sir," she says. "Kosher... " "Oh god, is this a nightmare, you f**king Jew?" I mutter, and then, "Cottage cheese? Just bring it?" "I'll get the manager," she says. "Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile," I hiss. "Yes?" she asks. "A... vanilla... milk shake..." "No milk shakes. Kosher," she says, then, "I'll get the manager." "No, wait." "Mister I'll get the manager." "What in the f**k is going on?" I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. "No milk shake. Kosher," she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. "Then bring me a f**king... vanilla... malted!" I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. "Extra thick!" I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, "Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike," and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street where this
Chapter Ten
Yale Club
"What are the rules for a sweater vest?" Van Patten asks the table.
"What do you mean?" McDermott furrows his brow, takes a sip of Absolut.
"Yes," I say, "Cla rify."
"Well, is it strictly infor mal - "
"Or can it be worn with a suit?" I interrupt, finishing his sentence.
"Exactly." He smiles.
"Well, according to Bruce Boyer - " I begin.
"Wait." Van Patten stops me. "Is he with Morgan Stanley?"
"No." I smile. "He's not with Morgan Stanley."
"Wasn't he a serial killer?" McDermott asks suspiciously, then moans. "Don't tell me he was another serial killer, Bateman. Not another serial killer."
"No, McDufus, he wasn't a serial killer," I say, turning back to Van Patten, but before continuing turn back to McDermott. 'That really pisses me off."
"But you always bring them up," McDermott complains. "And always in this casual, educational sort of way. I mean, I don't want to know anything about Son of Sam or the f**king Hillside Strangler or Ted Bundy or Featherhead, for god sake."
"Featherhead?" Van Patten asks. "Who's Featherhead? He sounds exceptionally dangerous."
"He means Leatherface," I say, teeth tightly clenched.