INT. PASTELS RESTAURANT- NIGHT

An insanely expensive restaurant on the Upper East Side.
The decor is a mixture of chi-chi and rustic, with swagged
silk curtains, handwritten menus and pale pink tablecloths
decorated with arrangements of moss, twigs and hideous
exotic flowers. The clientele is young, wealthy and
confident, dressed in the height of late-eighties style:
pouffy Lacroix dresses, slinky Alaïa, Armani power suits.

CLOSE-UP on a WAITER reading out the specials.

WAITER
With goat cheese profiteroles and I also have an arugula
Caesar salad. For entrées tonight I have a swordfish
meatloaf with onion marmalade, a rare-roasted partridge
breast in raspberry coulis with a sorrel timbale...

Huge white porcelain plates descend on very pale pink linen
table cloths. Each of the entrees is a rectangle about four
inches square and look exactly alike.

CLOSE-UP on various diners as we hear fragments of
conversation. "Is that Charlie Sheen over there?" "Excuse
me? I ordered cactus pear sorbet."

WAITER
And grilled free-range rabbit with herbed French fries. Our
pasta tonight is a squid ravioli in a lemon grass broth...

CLOSE-UP on porcelain plates containing elaborate
perpendicular desserts descending on another table.

PATRICK BATEMAN, TIMOTHY PRICE, CRAIG MCDERMOTT and DAVID
VAN PATTEN are at a table set for four. They are all wearing
expensively cut suits and suspenders and have slicked-back
hair. Van Patten wears horn-rimmed glasses.

The camera moves in on Bateman as his narration begins:

BATEMAN (V.O.)
We're sitting in Pastels, this nouvelle Northern California
place on the Upper East Side.

The Waiter sets down plates containing tiny, elaborately
decorated starters. As he does so we hear Bateman's
description of each of the men at the table.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
You'll notice that my friends and I all look and behave in
a remarkably similar fashion, but there are subtle differences
between us. McDermott is the biggest asshole. Van
Patten is the yes man. Price is the most wired. I'm the
best looking. We all have light tans. Right now I'm in a
bad mood because this is not a good table, and Van Patten
keeps asking dumb, obvious questions about how to dress .

VAN PATTEN
What are the rules for a sweater vest?

McDERMOTT
What do you mean?

PRICE
Yes. Clarify.

McDERMOTT
Well, is it strictly informal-

BATEMAN
Or can it be worn with a suit?

McDERMOTT
(Smiling)
Exactly

BATEMAN
With discreet pinstripes you should wear a subdued blue or
charcoal gray vest. A plaid suit would cal I for a bolder
vest.

McDERMOTT
But avoid matching the vest's pattern with your socks or
tie. Wearing argyle socks with an argyle vest will look
too studied.

VAN PATTEN
You think so?

PRICE
You'll look like you consciously worked for the look.

VAN PATTEN
Good point. Excuse me, gentlemen.

Van Patten leaves the table. As he does so, a busboy
discreetly removes their largely untouched plates.

BATEMAN
Van Patten looks puffy. Has he stopped working out?

PRICE
It looks that way, doesn't it?

McDERMOTT
(Staring at retreating waiter)
Did he just take our plates away?

PRICE
He took them away because the portions are so small he
probably thought we were finished. God, I hate this place.
This is a chicks' restaurant. Why aren't we at Dorsia?

McDERMOTT
Because Bateman won't give the maitre d' head.
(He guffaws)

Bateman throws a swizzle stick at him.

McDermott scans the room, settling on a handsome young man
with slicked-back hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

McDERMOTT
Is that Reed Robinson over there?
PRICE
Are you freebasing or what? That's not Robinson.

McDERMOTT
Who is it then?

PRICE
That's Paul Owen.

BATEMAN
That's not Paul Owen. Paul Owen's on the other side of the
room. Over there.

He points to another handsome young man with slicked-back
hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

McDERMOTT
Who is he with?

PRICE
(Distracted by the waitress's
cleavage as she bends over to
uncork a bottle of wine – the
waitress glares at him)
Some weasel from Kicker Peabody.

Van Patten returns.

VAN PATTEN
They don't have a good bathroom to do coke in.

McDERMOTT
Are you sure that's Paul Owen over there?

PRICE
Yes. McDufus, I am.

McDERMOTT
He's handling the Fisher account.

PRICE
Lucky bastard.

McDERMOTT
Lucky Jew bastard.

BATEMAN
Oh Jesus, McDermott, what does that have to do with
anything?

McDERMOTT
Listen. I've seen the bastard sitting in his office on the
phone with CEOs, spinning a fucking menorah. The
bastard brought a Hanukkah bush into the office last December.

BATEMAN
You spin a dreidel, McDermott, not a menorah.
You spin a dreidel.

McDERMOTT
Oh my God. Bateman, do you want me to fry you up
some fucking potato pancakes? Some latkes?

BATEMAN
No. Just cool it with the anti-Semitic remarks.

McDERMOTT
Oh I forgot. Bateman's dating someone from the
ACLU.

Price leans over and pats Bateman on the back.

PRICE
The voice of reason. The boy next door. And speaking
of reasonable...

He shows McDermott the bill for the meal.

McDERMOTT
Only $470.

VAN PATTEN
(Without irony)
Not bad.

The others murmur agreement. Four platinum Amex cards slap
down on the table.

INT. LIMOUSINE - NIGHT
Bateman is pouring vintage champagne into flutes. Price is
lighting up a cigar.

McDERMOTT
Last week I picked up this Vassar chick-

VAN PATTEN
Oh God, I was there. I don't need to hear this
story again.

McDERMOTT
But I never told you what happened afterwards. So
okay, I pick up this Vassar chick at Tunnel-hot number, big
tits, great legs, this chick was a little hardbody-and so I
buy her a couple of champagne kirs and she's in the city on
spring break and she's practically blowing me in the
Chandelier Room and so I take her back to my place-

BATEMAN
Whoa, wait. May I ask where Pamela is during all
this?

McDERMOTT
Oh fuck you. I want a blowjob, Bate-man. I want a chick
who's gonna let me-

VAN PATTEN
(Putting his hands over his ears)
I don't want to hear this. He's going to say something
disgusting.

McDERMOTT
You prude. Listen, we're not gonna invest in a co-op
together or jet down to Saint Bart's. I just want some
chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes.

Price throws a cigar at McDermott, who catches it.

McDERMOTT
Anyway, so we're back at my place and listen to
this. She's had enough champagne by now to get a fucking
rhino tipsy, and get this-

VAN PATTEN
She let you fuck her without a condom?

McDERMOTT
This is a Vassar girl. She's not from Queens. She
would only-are you ready?
(Dramatic pause)
She would only give me a handjob, and get this...she kept
her glove on.

The men sit in shocked, horrified silence.

ALL IN UNISON Never date a Vassar girl.

EXT. TUNNEL NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT

The limo pulls up to the sidewalk outside the Tunnel.
McDermott holds the door open for a passing HOMELESS MAN,
who looks confused.

McDERMOTT
I suppose he doesn't want the car. Price, ask
him if he takes American Express.

PRICE
(Offering card)
You take Amex, dude?

The man stumbles away. The club DOORMAN, seeing the limousine,
unhooks the
velvet rope and welcomes them inside.

INT. LADIES ROOM, TUNNEL - NIGHT

Brilliant white light, a bemused elderly female attendant in a
black-and-white maid's uniform trying to give out paper towels.
MUSIC thuds through an open doorway. Trashed-looking girls
stare into mirrors repairing their eye make-up or sit on the
counter chatting to friends. There are almost as many men as
women in the room. Couples stand in line, twitching as they
wait to do coke. As soon as one bathroom door opens, a couple
lurches out rubbing their noses while another couple rushes
past them and slams the door.

PRICE
There's this theory out now that if you can catch the
AIDS virus through having sex with someone who is infected,
then you can also catch anything-Alzheimer's, muscular
dystrophy, hemophilia, leukemia, diabetes, dyslexia, for
Christ's sake-you can get dyslexia from pussy-

BATEMAN
I'm not sure, guy, but I don't think dyslexia is a
virus.

PRICE
Oh, who knows? They don't know that. Prove it.

Price and Bateman finally get a stall and rush in. Price is
sweating.

PRICE
I'm shaking. You open it.

Bateman opens a tiny packet of coke.

PRICE
Jeez. That's not a helluva lot, is it?

BATEMAN
Maybe it's just the light.

PRICE
Is he fucking selling it by the milligram? (He dips
the corner of his Amex card in the packet and takes a snort)
Oh my God...

BATEMAN
What?

PRICE
It's a fucking milligram of Sweet'n Low!

Bateman dips his Amex in the envelope and snorts.

BATEMAN
It's definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do
enough of it we'll be okay.

PRICE
I want to get high off this; Bateman, not sprinkle it
on my fucking All-Bran.

The GUY IN STALL next door yells at them in an effeminate
voice:

GUY IN STALL
Could you keep it down, I'm trying to do drugs!

Price pounds his fist against the stall.

PRICE
(screaming)
SHUT UP!

BATEMAN
Calm down. Let's do it anyway

PRICE
I guess you're right...
(Raising his voice)
THAT IS, IF THE FAGGOT IN THE NEXT STALL THINKS IT'S OKAY!

GUY IN STALL
Fuck you!

PRICE
(Trying to climb up against the aluminum divider)
No, FUCK YOU!!
(He collapses, panting against the stall door)
Sorry, dude. Steroids...Okay, let's do it.

BATEMAN
That's the spirit.

They both dig their platinum Amex cards into the envelope
of white powder, shoveling it up their noses, then sticking
their fingers in to catch the residue and rubbing it into
their gums.

INT. NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT

Bateman saunters toward the bar as "Pump Up the Volume"
plays in the background.

BATEMAN (to BARGIRL) Two Stoli on the rocks.

He hands her two drink tickets.

BARGIRL
It's after eleven. Those aren't good anymore. It's
a cash bar. That'll be twenty-five dollars.

Bateman pulls out an expensive-looking wallet and hands her
a $50.

She turns her back and searches the cash register for
change.

BATEMAN You are a fucking ugly bitch I want to stab to
death and then play around with your blood.

The music muffles his voice. She turns around. He is
smiling at her. She gives him his change impassively.

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT- MORNING

Tableaux of Bateman's apartment in the early morning light.
A huge white living room with floor-to-ceiling windows
looking out over Manhattan, decorated in expensive, minimalist
high style: bleached oak floors, a huge white sofa, a large
Baselitz painting (hung upside down) and much expensive
electronic equipment. The room is impeccably neat, and oddly
impersonal - as if it had sprung straight from the pages of
a design magazine.

BATEMAN (V.0.)
My name is Patrick Bateman. I am
twenty-six years old. I live in the American Garden
Buildings on West Eighty-First Street, on the eleventh
floor Tom Cruise lives in the penthouse.

Bateman walks into his bathroom, urinates while trying to
see his reflection in a poster for Les Miserables above his
toilet.

BATEMAN
(V.0.) I believe in taking care of myself, in a
balanced diet, in a rigorous exercise routine. In the
morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice
pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand
now.

Bateman ties a plastic ice pack around his face.

Bateman does his morning stretching exercises in the living
room wearing the ice pack.

CUT TO:

A mirror-lined bathroom. Bateman is luxuriating in the
shower steam, scrubbing his body, admiring his muscles.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
After I remove the icepack, I use a deep
pore-cleanser lotion. In the shower, I use a
water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body
scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub.

Bateman stands in front of a massive marble sink applying a
gel facial masque.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
Then I apply an herb mint facial masque which
I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my
routine.

Bateman opens the door of a mirrored cabinet, which is
stocked with immaculate rows of skin care products. He
begins selecting bottles jars and brushes, laying them in
readiness on the marble counter.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I always use an after-shave lotion with little
or no alcohol because alcohol dries your face out and makes
you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye
balm, followed by a final moisturizing "protective" lotion...

Bateman stares into the mirror. The masque has dried,
giving his face a strange distorted look as if it has been
wrapped in plastic. He begins slowly peeling the gel masque
off his face.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some
kind of abstraction, hut there is no real me, only an
entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold
gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping you
and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably
comparable: I simply am not there.

INT. BATEMAN BEDROOM - MORNING

Another huge white room, equally minimal: a futon, rumpled
white sheets, a bedside lamp with a halogen bulb, and a large
expensive painting (Eric Fischl or David Salle) chosen by
Bateman's interior decorator.

Dressed in silk boxer shorts, Bateman stands in front of a
huge walk-in closet, filled with rows of expensive shirts,
shoes and designer suits, organized according to color and
tone.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
It is hard for me to make sense on any given
level. My self is fabricated, an aberration. My personality
is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is
persistent.

Fully dressed in Armani, Bateman stands in front of a
full-length mirror in the middle of his vast bedroom,
adjusting his cuff-links.

BATEMAN (V.0.)
My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared
a long time ago, if they ever did exist.

He gives a last look at the mirror and likes what he sees.
He gives his reflection a smile.

INT. OFFICES OF PIERCE & PIERCE - DAY

As Bateman walks down the corridor, he passes another MAN who
looks just like him.

MAN
Morning, Hamilton. Nice tan.

Bateman walks past the desk of JEAN, his secretary, pulling
his Walkman from around his neck. Jean is attractive,
wholesome, earnest. She smiles shyly. She loves him.

JEAN
Late?

BATEMAN
Aerobics class. Sorry. Any messages?

JEAN
Ricky Hendricks has to cancel today. He didn't say what
he was canceling or why.

BATEMAN
I occasionally box with Ricky at the Harvard Club.
Anyone else?

JEAN
And...Spencer wants to meet you for a drink at Fluties Pier 17.

BATEMAN
When?

JEAN
After six.

BATEMAN
Negative. Cancel it.

Jean follows him into his office.

JEAN
Oh? And what should I say?

BATEMAN
Just...say...no.

JEAN
Just say no?

Jean stands at his desk, waiting for instructions.

BATEMAN
Okay, Jean. I need reservations for three at Camols
at twelve-thirty, and if not there, try Crayons. All
right?

JEAN
(Playfully)
Yes, sir.

She turns to leave.

BATEMAN
Oh wait. And I need reservations for two at Arcadia at eight
tonight.

Jean turns around.

JEAN
Oh, something. . romantic?

BATEMAN
No, silly. Forget it. I'll make them. Thanks.

JEAN
I'll do it.

BATEMAN
No. No. Be a doll and just get me a Perrier, okay?

JEAN
You look nice today.

Jean exits. Bateman straightens some magazines in his
office, lifts a painting off the wall and puts it back at a
slightly different angle. He fiddles with some pencils in a
beer stein. He puts on some MUSIC and flips through a
Sports Illustrated. He buzzes Jean. She comes in a moment
later with the Perrier and a file.

JEAN
Yes?

BATEMAN
Is that the Ransom file? Thanks. Don't wear that
outfit again.

JEAN
Ummm...what? I didn't hear you.

BATEMAN
I said "Do not wear that outfit again." Wear a
dress. A skirt or something.

Jean stands there, then looks down at herself.

JEAN
(Smiling bravely)
You don't like this, I take it?

BATEMAN
Come on, you're prettier than that.

JEAN
(Sarcastically)
Thanks, Patrick.

The phone RINGS and Jean turns to leave.

BATEMAN
I'm not here. And high heels. I like high heels.

As Jean leaves, Bateman clicks on the TV set in one corner
of the room and starts watching Jeopardy!

INT. TAXI - EVENING

EVELYN WILLIAMS, Patrick Bateman's
fiancée, is making notes with a gold Cross pen and sipping
a bottle of mineral water. Evelyn is blonde, classically
beautiful, expensively educated, and utterly pleased with
herself. She usually addresses Patrick as if he were a
small child.

EVELYN
I'd want a zydeco band, Patrick. That's what I'd
want, a zydeco band. Or mariachi. Or reggae. Something
ethnic to shock Daddy Oh, I can't decide...And lots
of chocolate truffles. Godiva. And oysters on the halfshell.

CLOSE-UP on Bateman, who is wearing a Walkman and staring
out the window.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I'm trying to listen to the new George
Michael tape but Evelyn-my supposed fiancée-keeps buzzing
in my ear.

Evelyn continues to make notes.

EVELYN
Marzipan. Pink tents. Hundreds, thousands of roses.
Photographers. Annie Leibovitz. We'll get Annie Leibovitz.
And we'll hire someone to videotape. Patrick, we should do it.

BATEMAN
(Removing his Walkman)
Do...what.

EVELYN
Get married. Have a wedding.

BATEMAN
Evelyn?

EVELYN
Yes, darling?

BATEMAN
Is your Evian spiked?

EVELYN
We should do it.

BATEMAN
No-I can't take the time off work.

EVELYN
Your father practically owns the company. You can do
anything you like, silly.

BATEMAN
I don't want to talk about it.

EVELYN
Well, you hate that job anyway. Why don't you just
quit? You don't have to work.

BATEMAN
Because I...want...to...fit...in.

The taxi bumps to a halt.

INT. ESPACE RESTAURANT- NIGHT

A cavernous garage, harshly spot-lit, decorated in
self-conscious brutalist chic. Iron girders, walls of waxed
plaster featuring exposed rusted pipes, a huge Schnabel
smashed-plate painting on one wall. The tables and chairs are
made of extremely uncomfortable
bolted steel.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I'm on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Espace
since I'm positive we won't have a decent table, but we do,
and relief washes over me in an awesome wave.

Tm Price and two downtown types, STASH and VANDEN, are
already seated. Vanden is about twenty, pretty and sullen,
with green streaks in her black hair. Stash is pale, with
ragged black hair and bad skin.

They are all trying to read large stainless steel menus
that look like minimalist art.

PRICE
The menu's in braille.

He gets up to greet them, giving Evelyn a suspiciously long
kiss.

PRICE
I have to talk to you.

He drags her away, half giggling and protesting.

EVELYN
(Over her shoulder)
Pat, this is my cousin Vanden
and her boyfriend Stash. He's an artist.

BATEMAN
(After smiling at his own reflection in the mirror and
checking his hair)
Hi. Pat Bateman.

Vanden takes his hand reluctantly, says nothing.

BATEMAN
Let me guess-you live in the East Village?

Pause.

STASH
SoHo.

COURTNEY RAWLINSON and LUIS CARRUTHERS arrive at the table.
Courtney is blonde, classically beautiful and from
precisely the same social background as Evelyn, but she is
considerably more fragile and neurotic. Luis is
half-English, half-Argentinean, slightly overweight (a
rarity in this crowd), puppyish and eager to please. He
wears the same type of designer clothes as Price and
Bateman, but with foppish tendencies: velvet jackets,
bow-ties, boldly patterned vests.

They exchange air kisses. As soon as Luis turns his back,
Bateman sneaks a kiss on Courtney's neck.

COURTNEY
(Whispering)
Stop it!

Stash and Vanden watch them in silence.

LATER:

Price is whispering in Evelyn's ear. Everyone else is
quietly eating, except Bateman, who is drinking and watching
Evelyn and Price.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I am fairly sure that Timothy and Evelyn
are having an affair. Timothy is the only interesting
person I know. Courtney is almost perfect looking. She s
usually operating on one or more psychiatric drugs. Tonight
I believe it's Xanax. More disturbing than her drug use,
though, is the fact that she's engaged to Luis Carruthers,
the biggest dufus in the business.

Courtney rouses herself from her drug haze.

COURTNEY
Tell me. Stash...do you think SoHo is
becoming to...commercial?

CARRUTHERS
Yes, I read that.

PRICE
Oh, who gives a rat's ass?

VANDEN
Hey. That affects us.

PRICE
(Wired on coke)
Oh ho ho. That affects us? What
about the massacres in Sri Lanka, honey? Doesn't that
affect us, too? I mean don't you know anything about Sri
Lanka? About how the Sikhs are killing like tons of
Israelis there? Doesn't that affect us?

BATEMAN
Oh come on. Price. There are a lot more important
problems than Sri Lanka to worry about. Sure our foreign
policy is important, but there are more pressing problems
at hand.

PRICE
Like what?

BATEMAN
Well, we have to end apartheid for one. And slow
down the nuclear arms race, stop terrorism and world
hunger. But we can't ignore our social needs. either We
have to stop people from abusing the welfare system. We
have to provide food and shelter for the homeless and
oppose racial discrimination and promote civil rights while
also promoting equal rights for women but change the
abortion laws to protect the right to life yet still
somehow maintain women's freedom of choice.

The table stares at Bateman uncomfortably.

BATEMAN
We also have to control the influx of illegal
immigrants. We have to encourage a return to traditional
moral values and curb graphic sex and violence on TV, in
movies, in pop music, everywhere. Most importantly we have
to promote general social concern and less materialism in
young people.

Price chokes on his drink. Everyone is silent and
mystified.

CARRUTHERS
Patrick, how thought-provoking.

INT. EVELYN'S BEDROOM - LATER THE SAME EVENING

Bateman and Evelyn are lying on her bed watching television.

BATEMAN
Why don t you just go for Price?

EVELYN
Oh God, Patrick. Why Price? Price?

BATEMAN
He's rich.

EVELYN
Everybody's rich.

BATEMAN
He's good-looking.

EVELYN
Everybody's good-looking, Patrick.

BATEMAN
He has a great body

EVELYN
Everybody has a great body now.

Bateman unbuttons his shirt and makes advances to get
Evelyn to have sex with him. She ignores him, watching the
Home Shopping Channel with the remote in her hand. Finally,
he straddles her, penis close to her face. She tries to
look around him at the TV, then takes notice.

EVELYN
What do you want to do with that, floss with it?

Bateman flops back down beside her and stares at the television.

EVELYN
Are you using minoxidil?

BATEMAN
No. I'm not. Why should I ?

EVELYN
Your hairline looks like it's receding.

BATEMAN
It's not.

EXT. STREET - LATER THAT NIGHT

It is 3 a.m. Bateman is standing at an ATM, listening to the
comforting sound of fresh bills thudding out of the machine.
Bateman turns around and watches a solitary young woman walk
past him. He collects his money, placing it carefully in his
wallet, and then walks toward her, whistling. He catches up
to her as she pauses at a red light.

BATEMAN
Hello.

The woman looks suspicious for a moment and then, seeing
his smile, smiles back.

INT. DRY CLEANERS - DAY

Bateman, dressed in an Armani suit
with an unlit cigar between his teeth is standing in a dry
cleaners, arguing with the Chinese woman behind the
counter.

BATEMAN
Listen, wait. You're not...shhh wait...
you're not giving me valid reasons.

The woman continues to speak to him in another language,
grabbing at the sleeve of the jacket.

BATEMAN
What are you trying to say to me?

Her husband has taken Bateman's horribly bloodstained
sheets out of the bag and is staring at them.

BATEMAN
Bleach-ee? Are you trying to say bleach-ee?
Bleach-ee. Oh my God.

She keeps pointing to the jacket and talking.

BATEMAN
(Talking over her)
Two things. One. You can't bleach a Soprani. Out of the question.
Two.
(Louder)
Two. I can only get these sheets in Santa Fe. These are very
expensive sheets and I really need them clean.

She keeps talking and Bateman leans into her.

BATEMAN
If you don't shut your fucking mouth I will kill
you, are you understanding me?

She talks faster.

BATEMAN
Now listen-I have a very important lunch meeting
(Checks Rolex)
at Hubert's in thirty minutes, and I need those
...no wait, twenty minutes. I have a lunch meeting at
Hubert's in twenty minutes with Ronald Harrison and I need
those sheets cleaned by this afternoon.

She keeps talking.

BATEMAN Listen. I cannot understand you.

Bateman starts laughing, slaps his hand down on the
counter.

BATEMAN
This is crazy. You're a fool. I can't cope with
this.

Bateman is on the verge of tears.

BATEMAN
Stupid bitchee! Understand? Oh Christ!

Someone enters the store behind him. It's VICTORIA,
late-twenties, attractive but a little overweight, wearing a
tailored business suit with white sneakers and sports socks.

VICTORIA
Patrick?

She takes off her sunglasses.

VICTORIA
Hi, Patrick. I thought that was you.

BATEMAN
Hello
(Mumbles un incomprehensible name)

Awkward pause.

BATEMAN
Well.

VICTORIA
Isn't it ridiculous? Coming all the way up here,
but you
know. They really are the best.

BATEMAN
Then why can't they get these stains out? I mean can you talk
to these people or something? I'm not getting anywhere.

Victoria moves toward the sheet that the old man is holding
up. She
touches it and the woman behind the counter begins talking
again.

VICTORIA
Oh my, I see. What are those? Oh my.
BATEMAN
Um, well...it s cranberry juice. Cranapple.

VICTORiA
(Skeptically) Really?

BATEMAN
Well, I mean, um, it s really...Bosco. You
know, like...
like a Dove Bar. It's a Dove Bar...Hershey's Syrup?

VICTORIA
(As if sharing a secret joke) Oh yeah. Oh I get it.
Fun with chocolate.

BATEMAN
Listen, if you could talk to them
(He yanks the sheet out of the man's hand)
I would really appreciate it. I'm really late. I have a
lunch appointment at Hubert's in fifteen minutes.

Bateman turns to leave.

VICTORIA
Hubert's? Oh really? It moved uptown, right?

BATEMAN
Yeah, well, oh boy, listen, I've got to go. Thank
you, uh...
Victoria?

VICTORIA
Maybe we could have lunch one day next week? You
know, I'm downtown near Wall Street quite often.

BATEMAN
Oh, I don't know, Victoria. I'm at work all the
time.

VICTORIA
Well, what about, oh, you know, maybe a Saturday?

BATEMAN
(Checking his watch)
Next Saturday?

VICTORIA
(Shrugging)
Yeah.

BATEMAN
Oh, can't, I'm afraid. Matinée of Les Miserables.
Listen, I've really got to go. I'll-Oh...Christ...I'll call
you.

VICTORIA
Okay. Do.

Bateman glares at the woman behind the counter and rushes
out the door. Victoria stares after him as we hear the sound
of the bell on the closing door.

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT - DAY

Bateman is sitting on the sofa watching a video, talking to
Courtney on a portable phone. He's holding a video box in one
hand, perusing the title: Inside Lydia's Ass. Offscreen we hear
the sounds of the porn movie as he talks.

BATEMAN
Listen, what are you doing tonight?

COURTNEY
What? Oh, I'm...busy.

BATEMAN
Listen, you're dating Luis, he's in Arizona. You're fucking me,
and we haven't made plans. What could you possibly be up to
tonight?

COURTNEY
Stop it. I'm...

BATEMAN
On a lot of lithium?

COURTNEY
Waiting for Luis to call me. He said he'd call
tonight. Oh don't be difficult, Patrick.

BATEMAN
You should come have dinner with me.
COURTNEY
But-when?

BATEMAN
Am I confused or were we talking about tonight?

COURTNEY
Ummm . . yeah. Luis is calling me tonight. I
need to be
home for that.

BATEMAN
Pumpkin?

COURTNEY
Yes?

BATEMAN
Pumpkin you're dating an asshole.

COURTNEY
Uh huh.

BATEMAN
Pumpkin you're dating the biggest dickweed in New
York.

COURTNEY
I know. Stop it.

BATEMAN
Pumpkin, you're dating a tumbling, tumbling
dickweed.

COURTNEY
Patrick don't call me pumpkin anymore, okay? I have to go.

BATEMAN
Courtney? Dinner?

COURTNEY
I can't.

BATEMAN
I'm thinking Dorsia.

COURTNEY
Dorsia's nice.

BATEMAN
Nice?

COURTNEY
You like it there, don't you?

BATEMAN
The question is do you like it, Courtney? And will
you blow off a fucking phone call from your sad excuse for a
boyfriend to eat there tonight.

COURTNEY
Okay. Yeah. What time?

BATEMAN
Eight?

COURTNEY
Pick me up?

BATEMAN
Sounds like I'll have to. Don't fall asleep, okay? Wear
something fabulous. Dorsia, remember?

Bateman hangs up, opens up the Zagat's guide and dials the
number for Dorsia with trembling fingers. It's busy and so
he puts it on speakerphone, constant redial. He waits with
his head in his hands, sweating with anxiety, until there
is finally an answer.

MAITRE D'
Dorsia. Please hold.

He is on hold for a long time, getting very tense.

MAITRE D'
Dorsia.

BATEMAN
(Both of his eyes are closed)
Umm...yes...I know it's a little late but is it possible to
reserve a table for two at eight or eight-thirty perhaps?

Long pause. The Maitre D' starts giggling quietly and then
more loudly until the laughter is almost hysterical and he
hangs up the phone.

INT. TAXI- NIGHT

Bateman and Courtney are in the back of a cab. Courtney is
heavily medicated.

COURTNEY
A facial at Elizabeth Arden, which was really
relaxing, then to the Pottery Bam where I bought this
silver muffin dish.
(She starts to pass out)

BATEMAN
Is that Donald Trump's car?

COURTNEY
(Thickly)
Oh God, Patrick. Shut up.

BATEMAN
You know, Courtney, you should take some more
lithium. Or have a Diet Coke. Some caffeine might get you
out of this slump.

COURTNEY
I just want to have a child. Just...two...
perfect...children...
(Her voice trails as she descends back into a drug haze)

The cab draws up outside a restaurant. The awning reads
"Barcadia."

INT. BARCADIA - NIGHT

An insanely expensive nouvelle Italian restaurant all
polished natural brick, spotless white tablecloths,
minimalist flower arrangements, discreet lighting.

A waiter has come to take their drink orders.

BATEMAN
J&B. Straight.

COURTNEY
Champagne on the rocks. Oh-could I have that with
a twist? She starts to sink back in her chair and Bateman
leans over and pulls her back up.

COURTNEY
Are we here?

BATEMAN
Yes.

COURTNEY
This is Dorsia?

BATEMAN
(Examining a menu that says "Barcadia" in large script)
Yes, dear.

Courtney almost falls asleep while looking at her menu, and
starts to slide off of her chair. Bateman grabs her by both
shoulders and props her up.

BATEMAN
Courtney, you're going to have the peanut butter
soup with smoked duck and mashed squash. New York magazine
called it a 'playful but mysterious little dish." You'll
love it. And then...the red snapper with violets and
pine nuts. I think that'll follow nicely.

COURTNEY
Mmmm...thanks, Patrick.

She falls asleep at the table.

INT. COURTNEY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
Bateman and Courtney are in Courtney's bed. Bateman is on
top of her, reaching for a condom in the ashtray. He tears
it open with his teeth, puts it on.

COURTNEY
(Dazed on lithium)
I want you to fuck me.

Bateman gets on top of her, starts to fuck her.

COURTNEY
Luis is a despicable twit.

BATEMAN
Yes, Luis is a despicable twit. I hate him.

He keeps fucking her.

COURTNEY
No, you idiot. I said "Is it a receptacle tip?"
Not, is Luis a despicable twit. Is it a receptacle tip?
Get off me.

BATEMAN
Is it a what?

COURTNEY
Pull out.

BATEMAN
I'm ignoring you.

COURTNEY
(screaming)
Pull out, goddamnit!

BATEMAN
(Slowing down but not stopping)
What do you want, Courtney?

She pushes him away from her.

BATEMAN
It's a plain end. I think.

COURTNEY
Turn the light on.

She tries to sit up.

BATEMAN
Oh Jesus. I'm going home.

COURTNEY
Patrick. Turn on the Light.
He turns on the light.

BATEMAN
It's a plain end, see? So?

COURTNEY
Take it off.

BATEMAN
Why?

COURTNEY
Because you have to leave half an inch at the tip –
(She covers herself with her comforter)
to catch the force of the ejaculate!
BATEMAN
I'm getting out of here. Where's your lithium?

Courtney throws a pillow over her head and starts crying.

COURTNEY
(Screaming)
Do you think you're turning me on by having unsafe sex?

Bateman pulls the pillow off her and slaps her face.

BATEMAN
Oh Christ, this really isn't worth it. And see,
Courtney, it's there for what? Huh? Tell us.
(He slaps her again lightly)
Why is it pulled down half an inch?
So it can catch the force of the ejaculate!

COURTNEY
(Choking crying)
Well, it's not a turn-on for me.
I have a promotion coming to me. I don't want to get AIDS.

Bateman grabs her head and makes her look at the condom.

BATEMAN
See? Happy? You dumb bitch? Are you happy, you dumb bitch?

COURTNEY
Oh God, just get it over with.

He fucks her quickly until he has a mediocre orgasm and
falls down next to her. They lie side by side with their
bodies not touching, eyes open, staring at the
ceiling.

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM, PIERCE & PIERCE - DAY

Bateman and Luis Carruthers are seated at a long table in
the conference room at Pierce & Pierce, which looks out onto
a spectacular view of Manhattan.

CARRUTHERS
Patrick, thanks so much for looking after Courtney.
Dorsia, how impressive! How on earth did you get a
reservation there?

BATEMAN
Lucky, I guess.

CARRUTHERS
That's a wonderful jacket. Let me guess,
Valentino Couture?

BATEMAN
Uh huh.

CARRUTHERS
(Reaching out to touch it)
It looks so soft.

BATEMAN
(Catching Luis hand)
Your compliment was sufficient Luis.

Carruthers is distracted by a question from the colleague
on his left.Paul Owen enters, carrying the Wall St. Journal
under his arm. He is handsome, supremely confident and
self-satisfied; he sees himself as a leader among men.

OWEN
(To Bateman)
Hello, Halberstam. Nice tie. How the hell are you?

BATEMAN
I've been great. And you?

Their conversation fades down as we hear Bateman's
thoughts.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
Owen has mistaken me for this dickhead Marcus Halberstam.
It seems logical because Marcus also works at P&P and in
fact does the same exact thing I do and he also has a
penchant for Valentino suits and Oliver Peoples glasses.
Marcus and I even go to the same barber, although I have
a slightly better haircut.

During this voiceover the CAMERA WANDERS over to MARCUS
HALBERSTAM, who is conferring with a colleague in the
opposite corner of the room. He bears a
superficial resemblance to Bateman.

OWEN
How's the Ransom account going, Marcus?

BATEMAN
(Nervous)
It's...it's...all right.

OWEN
Really? That's interesting.
(He stares at Bateman, smiling)
Not great?

BATEMAN
Oh well, you know.

OWEN
And how's Cecilia? She's a great girl.

BATEMAN
Oh yes. I'm very lucky.

McDermott and Price enter.

McDERMOTT
Hey. Owen! Congratulations on the Fisher account.

OWEN
Thank you, Baxter.

PRICE
Listen, Paul. Squash?

OWEN
Call me.
(Hands him a business card)

PRICE
How about Friday?

OWEN
No can do. Got a res at eight-thirty at Dorsia. Great sea
urchin ceviche. There is a stunned silence as he walks away
and sits in a corner of the room, ostentatiously studying papers.

CLOSE-UP on Bateman's face, cold with hatred.

PRICE
(Whispering)
Jesus. Dorsia? On a Friday night? How'd he swing that?

McDERMOTT (Whispering)
I think he's lying.

Bateman takes out his wallet and pulls out a card.

PRICE
(Suddenly enthused)
What's that, a gram?

BATEMAN
New card. What do you think?

McDermott lifts it up and examines the lettering carefully.

McDERMOTT
Whoa. Very nice. Take a look.

He hands it to Van Patten.

BATEMAN
Picked them up from the printers yesterday

VAN PATTEN
Good coloring.

BATEMAN
That's bone. And the lettering is something called
Silian Rail.

McDERMOTT
(Envious)
Silian Rail?

VAN PATTEN
It is very cool, Bateman. But that's nothing.

He pulls a card out of his wallet and slaps it on the
table.

VAN PATTEN
Look at this.

They all lean forward to inspect it.

PRICE
That's really nice.

Bateman clenches his fists beneath the table, trying to
control his anxiety.

VAN PATTEN
Eggshell with Romalian type.
(Turning to Bateman)
What do you think?

BATEMAN
(Barely able to breath, his voice a croak)
Nice.

PRICE
(Holding the card up to the light)
Jesus. This is really super. How'd a nitwit like you get so
tasteful?

Bateman stares at his own card and then enviously at
McDermott's.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I can't believe that Price prefers McDermott's card to mine.

PRICE
But wait. You ain't seen nothin' yet.

He holds up his own card.

PRICE
Raised lettering, pale nimbus white...

BATEMAN
(Choking with anxiety)
Impressive. Very nice. Let's see Paul Owen's card.

Price pulls a card from an inside coat pocket and holds it
up for their inspection: "PAUL OWEN, PIERCE & PIERCE,
MERGERS AND ACQUISITIONS." Bateman swallows, speechless.
The sound in the room dies down and all we hear is a faint
heartbeat as Bateman stares at the magnificent card.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
Look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness
of it. Oh my God, it even has a watermark...

His hand shaking, Bateman lifts up the card and stares at it
until it fills the screen.

He lets it fall. The SOUND RETURNS TO NORMAL.

CARRUTHERS Is something wrong? Patrick...you're sweating.

EXT. STREET- EVENING

The financial district. The streets are eerily deserted.

Bateman stands at an ATM, enjoying the reassuring sound of
$500 in fresh bills thudding from the machine. As he turns
to leave, he notices someone across the street.

A HOMELESS MAN is lying in a doorway on top of an open
grate, surrounded by bags of garbage and a shopping cart. A
cardboard sign is attached to the front of the cart: I AM
HOMELESS AND HUNGRY PLEASE HELP ME. A small, thin dog lies
next to him.

He is black, dressed in a stained, torn, lime-green
polyester pants suit with jeans worn over the pants.

BATEMAN
(Offering his hand) Hello. Pat Bateman.

The Homeless Man stares at Bateman, struggling to sit up.

BATEMAN
You want some money?. Some...food?

The Homeless Man nods and starts to cry. Bateman reaches
into his pocket and pulls out a $I 0 bill, then changes his
mind and holds out a $5 instead.

BATEMAN
Is this what you need?

The Homeless Man nods, looks away, wipes his nose.

HOMELESS MAN
I'm so hungry.

BATEMAN
It's cold out, too, isn't it?

HOMELESS MAN
I'm so hungry.

BATEMAN
(Holding the bill just out of the man's reach)
Why don't you get a job? If you're so hungry, why don't you
get a job?

HOMELESS MAN
(Shivering and sobbing)
I lost my job...

BATEMAN
Why? Were you drinking? Is that why you lost it?
Insider trading? Just joking. No, really-were you drinking on
the job?

HOMELESS MAN I was fired. I was laid off.

BATEMAN
Gee, uh, that's too bad.

HOMELESS MAN
I'm so hungry.

The dog starts to whimper.

BATEMAN
Why don't you get another one? Why don't , you get another job?

HOMELESS MAN
I'm not...

BATEMAN
You're not what? Qualified for anything else?

HOMELESS MAN
I'm hungry

BATEMAN
I know that, I know that. Jeez, you're like a broken record.
I'm trying to help you.

HOMELESS MAN
I'm hungry.

BATEMAN
Listen, do you think it's fair to take money from people who
do have jobs? From people who do work?

HOMELESS MAN
What am I gonna do?

BATEMAN
Listen, what's your name?

HOMELESS MAN
Al.

BATEMAN
Speak up. Come on.

HOMELESS MAN
Al.

BATEMAN
Get a goddamn job, Al. You've got a negative attitude.
That's what's stopping you. You've got to get your act together.
I'll help you.

HOMELESS MAN
You re so kind, mister. You're kind. You're a kind
man. I can tell.

BATEMAN
(Petting the dog)
Shhhh...it's okay.

HOMELESS MAN
(Grabbing Bateman's wrist)
Please...I don know what to do. I'm so cold.

BATEMAN
(Stroking his face, whispering)
Do ,you know how bad you smell? The stench, my God.

HOMELESS MAN
I can't...I can't find a shelter

BATEMAN
You reek. You reek of...shit. Do you know that?
(Shouting)
Goddammit, Al-look at me and stop crying like some kind of
faggot. Al...I'm sorry.

Bateman carefully puts the money back in his wallet.

BATEMAN
It's just that...I don't know I don't have anything in common
with you.

He opens his briefcase and pulls out a long thin knife with
a serrated edge. He pushes up the sleeve of his jacket to
protect it.

BATEMAN
Do you know what a fucking loser ,you are?

HOMELESS MAN'S POV as Bateman lunges at him with the knife.

EXTREME WIDE SHOT of the street. Bateman's shadowed figure
is hunched over the Homeless Man, stabbing him in the stomach.
The dog barks wildly and Bateman stomps on it until it is
silent.

LOW ANGLE shot of Bateman as he throws a quarter on the ground.

BATEMAN
There's a quarter. Go buy some gum.

Bateman walks calmly into the empty caverns of Wall Street.
Cars drift past, their headlights momentarily illuminating the
body left twitching on the ground.

INT. BEAUTY SALON - DAY

CLOSE-UP on Bateman's face and torso. His eyes are closed as a
woman's hands rub cream into his face.

FACIALIST
What beautiful skin you have, Mr Bateman. So
fine, so smooth...

His eyes open to look up at the facialist and then he
closes them again.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I have all the characteristics of a human being- flesh, blood,
skin, hair-but not a single clear, identifiable emotion except
for greed ,und disgust. Something horrible is happening inside
me and I don't know why.

CUT TO:

Bateman sitting in a chair, looking down at the
MANICURIST who is giving him a pedicure. She is cutting his
nails with tiny sharp scissors. He stares at them longingly.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
My nightly bloodlust has overflowed into my days. I feel lethal,
on the verge of frenzy.

CUT TO:

Bateman lying irradiated by ultraviolet light on a tanning
bed, wearing goggles.

BATEMAN (V.O.)
I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.

INT. TEXARKANA RESTAURANT - NIGHT

An insanely expensive nouvelle Tex-Mex restaurant, with an
ironic Southwestern decor: Santa Fe colors, Navajo blankets,
naive cowboy art, rawhide banquettes.

Bateman bursts in the door, late, and approaches the MAITRE D'.

BATEMAN
Marcus Halberstam. For two at eight?

MAITRE D'
Your friend has already been seated. Follow me, Mr. Halberstam.

Paul Owen is seated at a table underneath an enormous pair of
ram's horns. He is arguing with the WAITER.

OWEN
No, I want to know. I came here for the cilantro
crawfish gumbo, which is after all the only excuse one
could have for being in this restaurant, which is by the
way, almost completely empty. Am I to believe that all ten
people in this restaurant have eaten your entire supply of
cilantro crawfish gumbo?

WAITER
I'm very sorry sir. There was a fire in the kitchen
earlier today, and-

BATEMAN
J&B, straight. And a Dixie beer.

WAITER
Would you like to hear-

OWEN
Double Absolut martini.

WAITER
Yes, sir. Would you like to hear the specials?

BATEMAN
Not if you want to keep your spleen.

The Waiter leaves.

OWEN
This is a real beehive of, uh, activity, Halberstam.

This place is hot, very hot.

BATEMAN
Listen, the mud soup and the charcoal arugula are outrageous
here.

OWEN
Yeah, well, you're late.

BATEMAN
Hey, I'm a child of divorce. Give me a break
(Studying the menu; he's in a surprisingly good mood)
Hmmm, I see they've omitted the pork loin with lime jello.

OWEN
We should've gone to Dorsia. I could've gotten us a table.

BATEMAN
Nobody goes there anymore.

There is a long disgruntled silence.

BATEMAN
Is that Ivana Trump over there? (Laughs) Jeez
Patrick I mean Marcus, what are you thinking? Why would Ivana
be at Texarkana?

Another pause.

BATEMAN
So, wasn't Rothschild originally handling the
Fisher account? How did you get it?

OWEN
I could tell you that, Halberstam, but then I'd have
to kill you.

He guffaws. Bateman laughs politely.

LATER:
Paul Owen is very drunk. BATEMAN cold sober.

BATEMAN
I like to dissect girls. Did you know I'm utterly insane?

Owen continues laughing and motions to the waiter for another
drink.

OWEN
Great tan, Marcus. Really impressive. Where do you tan?

BATEMAN Salon.

OWEN
I've got a tanning bed at home. You should look into it.

Bateman nods, agitated.

OWEN
And Cecelia, how is she? Where is she tonight?

BATEMAN
Cecelia is, well...you know (Cecelia. I think
she's having dinner with...Evelyn Williams.

OWEN
Evelyn. Great ass. Goes out with that loser Patrick
Bateman. What a dork.

BATEMAN
Another Martini, Paul?

Owen nods drunkenly.

LATER:

The end of the meal. Owen is squeezing a lime onto the
table, missing his beer, incredibly drunk. The check is laid
down.

BATEMAN
(Talking to Owen like a child)
Paul, give me your Amex card. Good boy.
Bateman slaps the card down, looks at the check.

BATEMAN
Two-hundred-and-fifty. Very reasonable. Let's leave
a big tip, shall we? My place hr a nightcap?

OWEN
No, man. I'm gonna bail.

BATEMAN
Come on, you dumb son of a bitch.
(Helping him into his jacket)
I've got a preview of the Barneys catalogue and a
bottle of Absolut waiting for us.

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
The living room floor has been meticulously covered with
newspaper.

Owen is slumped drunkenly in a white Eames chair, a glass
in his hand. Bateman is looking through his CDs.

BATEMAN
You like Huey Lewis and the News?

OWEN
They're okay.
BATEMAN
Their early work was a little too New Wave for my
taste. But then Sports came out in 1983, I think they really
came into their own, commercially and artistically.

Bateman walks to his bathroom, taking a large ax out of the
shower. He takes two Valium.

BATEMAN
(Said partly from the bathroom)
The whole album has a clear, crisp sound and a new sheen of
consummate professionalism that gives the songs a big boost.
Bateman comes back out and leans the ax against the wall.
He walks to the foyer and puts on a raincoat, watching Owen
from behind ail the time.

BATEMAN
He's been compared to ELvis Costello but I think
Huey has a more bitter, cynical sense of humor.

Owen is absent-mindedly leafing through the Barneys
catalogue.

OWEN
Hey, Halberstam?

BATEMAN
Yes, Owen?

OWEN
Why are there copies of the Style section all over
the place? Do you have a dog? A chow or something?

BATEMAN
No, Owen.

OWEN
(Confused)
Is that a raincoat?

BATEMAN
Yes, it is.

Bateman moves to the CD player. He takes a CD out of its
case and slides it in the machine.

BATEMAN
In 1987 Huey released this, Fore!, their most
accomplished album. I think I heir undisputed masterpiece is
"HiP To Be Square," a song so catchy that most people probably
don't listen to the lyrics. But they should because it's not
just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of
trends. It's al~ a personal statement about the band itself.

Bateman puts on "Hip To Be Square."

BATEMAN crosses the room and picks up the ax.

We follow BATEMAN from behind as he walks up to Owen, the
ax raised over his head.

BATEMAN
Hey, Paul?

As Owen turns around, FROM OWEN'S POV we see Bateman swing
the ax toward his face.

Blood sprays onto the white raincoat.

FROM BEHIND OWEN, we see BATEMAN as he yanks the ax out.

Owen drops to the floor. His body falls out of the frame.
We stay on his legs twitching mechanically.

Blood pulses onto the newspaper-covered floor.

BATEMAN
(Raising the ax and screaming)
Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now, you fucking
stupid bastard!

LOW ANGLE ON BATEMAN as he beats Owen with the back of the
ax.

OFFSCREEN, the sound of the ax hitting Owen.

BATEMAN
(Panting)
Fucking bastard...

Bateman takes his raincoat off, still panting. He folds the
coat carefully in half, bloody side in, and drapes it neatly
over the back of a chair.

He sits back on the white sofa and surveys the scene. He
checks his Rolex and lights a cigar.

OFFSCREEN, Paul Owen's last faint sighs are heard.

INT. LOBBY - NIGHT

BATEMAN drags a large, blood-soaked sleeping bag through the lobby,
past the bored doorman, who looks up from the Post for a moment.

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

BATEMAN is trying to hail a cab. Owen's body is at his
feet. Luis Carruthers and a Japanese girl walk up to him.

CARRUTHERS
Patrick? Is that you?

BATEMAN
No, Luis. It's not me. You're mistaken.

CARRUTHERS
This is Gwendolyn Ichiban. This is my very good
friend Patrick Bateman. Where are you going? We're going to
Nell's. Gwendolyn's father's buying it.
(Looking down at the body)
Where did you get your overnight bag?

BATEMAN
Commes des Garcon.

A cab stops. BATEMAN opens the door and manages to get
Owen's body into the backseat.

Bateman gets into the cab.

CARRUTHERS
Call me please, Patrick.

BATEMAN
Jesus lives, Luis.

INT. BATEMAN'S HELL'S KITCHEN APARTMENT - NIGHT

A bare room, lit by one light bulb. The walls are blank
except for a Les Miserables poster. There is one ratty chair.

Bateman pours lime over Paul Owen's body, which is lying in
a bathtub. He plays Huey Lewis, smokes a cigar, watches the
body dissolve.

INT. PAUL OWEN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Bateman is letting himself into the apartment. It is very
similar to Bateman's, but even more minimalist. The walls
are white-pigmented concrete with a large minimalist painting
on the wall. One wall is covered in a trendy, large-scale
scientific drawing above a long, black leather couch.

BATEMAN
Where to send the bastard? Dallas? Pans?

He throws some clothes into a suitcase, randomly grabbing
toiletries and shoving them in.

BATEMAN
Singapore? London. I'll send the asshole to London.

He puts some music on to help muffle his voice, then leans
over the answering machine.

He does a passable imitation of Owen's speech.

BATEMAN
Hi, this is Paul. I've been called away to London
for a few days. Meredith, I'll call you when I get back.
Hasta la vista, baby.

INT. BATEMAN'S OFFICE - MORNING

Bateman is sitting at his desk, with the latest copy of
Sports Illustrated in front of him and his Walkman playing
Kenny G. We hear the MUSIC until Jean enters and he takes
the Walkman off.

BATEMAN
(Faintly irritable)
What is it?

JEAN
Patrick?

BATEMAN
(Condescendingly)
Ye-es, Je-an?

JEAN
Patrick, a Mr. Donald KIMBALL is here to see you.

BATEMAN
Who?

JEAN
Detective Donald KIMBALL?

Silence. Bateman stares out the window, then down at the
drawing of a headless woman he's been doodling on the back
cover of Sports Illustrated.

BATEMAN
Tell him I'm at lunch.

JEAN
(whispering)
Patrick, I think he knows you're here.
It's only ten-thirty.

Silence.

BATEMAN
Send him in, I guess. As she exits, he picks up the cordless
phone and pretends to talk to someone at the other end.

BATEMAN
Now, John, you've got to wear clothes in proportion
to your physique. There are definite do's and don'ts, good
buddy, of wearing a bold-striped shirt. A hold-striped shirt
calls for solid-colored or discreetly patterned suits and ties...

The door to the office opens and he waves in DETECTIVE DONALD
KIMBALL. KIMBALL is surprisingly young - about Bateman's age -
and good-looking, dressed in a crumpled linen Armani suit of
the type Bateman and his friends might wear.

Kimball sits down and crosses his legs with a
self-assurance that makes Bateman so nervous he forgets to
carry on with his fake conversation. Kimball looks up at
him curiously, noticing the silence.

BATEMAN
(Realizing that Kimball is staring at him)
Right. And yes...always tip the stylist fifteen percent.

Bateman shrugs at the detective, rolling his eyes in
exasperation.

KIMBALL nods understandingly.

BATEMAN
Listen, John, I've got to go. T Boone Pickens just
walked in...
(He laughs inanely)
Just joking...
(Pause)
No don't tip the owner of the salon. Okay, John,
right, got it.
(He hangs up the phone and pushes the antenna in)
Sorry about that.

KIMBALL
No, I'm sorry. I should've made an appointment.
(Gesturing toward the phone)
Was that anything important?

BATEMAN
Oh that? Just mulling over business problems.
Examining opportunities...Exchanging rumors...
Spreading gossip.

They laugh politely.

KIMBALL
(Holding out his hand)
Hi. I'm Donald KIMBALL

BATEMAN
(Shaking firmly)
Hi. Pat Bateman. Nice to meet you.

KIMBALL
I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. but I was supposed
to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn't in and...well,
you're here, so...I know how busy you guys can get.

KIMBALL stares at the three open copies of Sports
Illustrated and the Sony Walkman lying on Bateman's desk.
Bateman sees the look and sweeps the magazines
into the top drawer along with the Walkman, which is
still running.

BATEMAN
(Forcing himself to sound friendly and relaxed)
So, what's the topic of discussion?

KIMBALL
I've been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate
the disappearance of Paul Owen.

BATEMAN
You're not with the FBI or anything, are you?

KIMBALL
Nothing like that. I'm just a private investigator.

BATEMAN
Ah, I see...Yes. Paul's disappearance...Yes.

KIMBALL
So it's nothing that official. I just have some
basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself-

BATEMAN
Coffee?

KIMBALL
No. I'm okay.

BATEMAN
Perrier? San Pellegrino?

KIMBALL
No, I'm okay.

KIMBALL takes out a small black notepad and the same gold
Cross pen that Bateman and his friends all use. Bateman buzzes
Jean.

JEAN (O.S.)
Patrick?

BATEMAN
Can you bring Mr...

KIMBALL
KIMBALL.

BATEMAN
Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle-

KIMBALL
Oh no, I'm okay.

BATEMAN
It's no problem

Bateman watches intently as KIMBALL writes something down
in his notebook, then crosses something out. Jean enters
and places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched
glass on the table, shooting a concerned glance at Bateman.
He glares at her. KIMBALL smiles and nods at Jean as she leaves.

BATEMAN
Well, what's the topic of discussion?

KIMBALL
The disappearance of Paul Owen.

BATEMAN
Oh right. Well, I haven't heard anything about the
disappearance or anything...
(Trying to laugh)
Not on "Page Six" at least.

KIMBALL
I think his family wants this kept quiet.

BATEMAN
Understandable.
(Staring at the untouched bottle of San Pellegrino)
Lime?

KIMBALL
No, really. I'm okay.

BATEMAN
You sure? I can always get you a lime.

A pause.

KIMBALL
Just some preliminary questions that I need for my own
files, okay?

BATEMAN
Shoot.

KIMBALL
How old are you?

BATEMAN
Twenty-six. I'll be twenty-seven in October.

KIMBALL
(Scribbling in his notebook)
Where did you go to school?

BATEMAN
Harvard. The Harvard Business School.

KIMBALL
Your address?

BATEMAN
Fifty-five West Eighty-First Street. The American
Gardens Building.

KIMBALL
(Looking up, impressed)
Nice. Very nice.

BATEMAN
(Flattered)
Thanks.

A pause as KIMBALL studies his notebook. Bateman closes his
eyes, as if in pain.

KIMBALL
Pardon me, but are you okay?

BATEMAN
Who do you ask?

KIMBALL
You seem...nervous.

Bateman reaches into his desk drawer and brings out a
bottle of aspirin.

BATEMAN
Nuprin?

KIMBALL Uh...no, thanks.

Kimball takes out a pack of Marlboro's and lays it on the
desk.

BATEMAN
Bad habit.

KIMBALL
I know. I'm sorry.

A pause, as Bateman stares at the cigarettes.

KIMBALL
Would you rather I not smoke?

BATEMAN
No, I guess it's okay.

KIMBALL
You sure?

BATEMAN
No problem.
(Buzzing Jean)

JEAN (O.S.)
Yes, Patrick?

BATEMAN
Bring us an ashtray for Mr. KIMBALL, please.
She whisks in with a crystal ashtray as they sit in silence.

KIMBALL
What can you tell me about Paul Owen?

BATEMAN
Well...

He coughs, shakes two Nuprin into his hand and swallows
them dry.

KIMBALL
How well did you know him?

BATEMAN
I'm...at a loss. He was part of that whole...Yale thing,
you know.

KIMBALL
Yale thing?

A pause.

BATEMAN
Yeah...Yale thing.

KIMBALL
What do you mean...Yale thing?

A pause.

BATEMAN
Well, I think for one that he was probably a closet
homosexual. Who did a lot of cocaine...that Yale thing.

A silence during which the sound of the air conditioner
becomes deafening.

KIMBALL
So...there's nothing you can tell me about Paul
Owen?

BATEMAN
He led what I suppose was an orderly life. He...
ate a balanced diet.

KIMBALL
What kind of man was he? Besides...
(He hesitates tries to smile)
the information you've just given.

BATEMAN
I hope I'm not being cross-examined here.

KIMBALL
Do you feel that way?

BATEMAN
No. Not really.

KIMBALL
(As he writes without looking up)
Where did Paul hang out?

BATEMAN
Hang...out?

KIMBALL
Yeah. You know...hang out.

BATEMAN
Let me think. The Newport. Harry's. Fluties. Endochine.
Nell's. Comell Club. The New York Yacht Club. The regular
places.

KIMBALL
He had a yacht?

BATEMAN
No, he just hung out there.

KIMBALL
And where did he go to school?

A slight pause.

BATEMAN
Don't you know this?

KIMBALL
I just wanted to know if you know.
BATEMAN
Before Yale? If I remember correctly, Saint Paul's...
Listen, I just...I just want to help.

KIMBALL
I understand.

He makes another note.

KIMBALL
Anything else you can tell me about Owen?

BATEMAN
We were both seven in 1969.

KIMBALL
(Smiles)
So was I.

BATEMAN
Do you have any witnesses or fingerprints?

KIMBALL
Well, there's a message on his answering machine saying he
went to London.

BATEMAN
Well, maybe he did, huh?

KIMBALL
His girlfriend doesn't think so.

BATEMAN
But...has anyone seen him in London?

KIMBALL
Actually, yes.

BATEMAN
Hmmm.

KIMBALL
Well, I've had a hard time getting an actual verification.
A Stephen Hughes says he saw him at a restaurant there, but
I checked it out and what happened is, he mistook a Hubert
Ainsworth for Paul, so...

BATEMAN
Oh.

KIMBALL
Was he involved at all , do you think, in occultism or Satan
worship?

BATEMAN
What?

KIMBALL
I know it sounds like a lame question, but in New Jersey I
know this sounds like a lame question, but last month-I don't
know if you've heard about this, but a young stockbroker was
recently arrested and charged with murdering a young Chicano
girl and performing voodoo rituals with various body parts-

BATEMAN
Yikes! No. Paul wasn't into that. He followed a balanced
diet and-

KIMBALL
Yeah, I know, and was into that whole Yale thing.

A pause - the longest so far.

BATEMAN
Have you consulted a psychic?

KIMBALL
No.

BATEMAN
Had his apartment been burglarized?

KIMBALL
No, it actually hadn't. Toiletries were missing. A
suit was gone. So was some luggage. That's it.

BATEMAN
I mean no one's dealing with the homicide squad yet
or anything, right?

KIMBALL
No, not yet. As I said, we're not sure. But...
basically no one has seen or heard anything.

BATEMAN
That's so typical, isn't it?

KIMBALL
It's just strange.
(He stares out the window, lost in thought)
One day someone's walking around, going to work, alive,
and then...

BATEMAN
Nothing.

KIMBALL
People just...disappear.

BATEMAN
The earth just opens up and swallows people.
(He checks his Rolex)

KIMBALL
Eerie. Really eerie.

Silence.

BATEMAN
(Standing up)
You'll have to excuse me. I have a lunch meeting
with Cliff Huxtable at Four Seasons in twenty minutes.

KIMBALL
Isn't the Four Seasons a little far uptown? I
mean aren't you going to be late?

BATEMAN
Uh, no. There's one...down here.

KIMBALL
Oh really? I didn't know that.

Bateman leads him to the door.

BATEMAN
Yes. It's very good.

KIMBALL turns to face him.

KIMBALL
Listen, if anything occurs to you, any information
at all...

BATEMAN
Absolutely, I'm 100% with you.

KIMBALL
Great, and thanks for your, uh, time, Mr. Bateman.

Bateman closes the door firmly on KIMBALL. He closes his
eyes and leans against the door, sweating.

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON

A perfectly lit kitchen still-life - a bottle of Evian,
a white porcelain plate on which sits a sliced kiwi, some perfect
green grapes, a few berries.

OFFSCREEN, the SOUND OF SCREAMS AND A CHAINSAW can be heard
from the living room.

The living room: Bateman is maniacally doing abdominal
crunches as the television plays a video of Texas Chainsaw
Massacre. There is a pile of horror videos on his coffee table,
next to a copy of GQ.

LATER:

Bateman is sitting in his armchair, phone book in hand,
jerking off. He is squealing into the phone and breathing.

BATEMAN
You like that, slut?

The person on the other end clearly hangs up.

CLOSE-UP on his fingers dialing the phone.

BATEMAN
You want to know what I'm wearing? Sixty-dollar
boxer shorts by Ralph Lauren, a hundred-and-fifty-dollar white
cotton T-shirt by
Commes des Garcons.
(He snorts like a pig)
My Rolex cost-

Another hang-up. He dials again.

BATEMAN
(Whipering)
I'm a corporate raider. I orchestrate hostile takeovers. What do
you think of that?
(Makes disgusting sucking noises and grunts)
Huh, bitch?

GIRL (O.S.)
Dad, is that you?

Bateman hangs up, frustrated.

EXT. STREET/INT. LIMOUSINE - NIGHT

Bateman cruises around in the limo. It pulls up alongside
CHRISTIE, a pretty blonde hooker in shorts and leather jacket.
Bateman opens his window to speak to her.

BATEMAN
I haven't seen you around here.

CHRISTIE
You just haven't been looking.

BATEMAN
Would you like to see my apartment?

Bateman flips on the light inside the limo. He's wearing a
tuxedo.

CHRISTIE
(looking away to some dark corner)
I'm not supposed to.

Bateman is holding out a $100 bill, which Christie now
notices, then takes.

BATEMAN
Do you want to come to my apartment or not?

CHRISTIE
I'm not supposed to.
(She pockets the bill)
But I can make an exception.

BATEMAN
Do you take American Express?

Christie is still looking out behind her.

BATEMAN
Do you take American Express?

Christie looks at him like he's crazy.

BATEMAN
I'm joking. Come on, get in.

As they drive uptown, Bateman dials the cell-phone. He
reads off a credit card number.

BATEMAN
I'd like a girl, early twenties, blonde, who does
couples. Couples. Fifty-five West Eighty-First, the
American Gardens Building. Apartment 7C. And I really
can't stress blonde enough. Blonde.

He hangs up.

BATEMAN I'm Paul. My name is Paul 0wen, have you'got that?
You are Christie. You are to respond only to Christie. Is
that clear?

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Christie is in the bathtub, Bateman is pouring in white
milky bath oil.

BATEMAN
That's a very fine Chardonnay you're drinking.

Long pause, in which Christie is luxuriating in the tub and
Bateman is casually touching her breast.

BATEMAN
I want you to clean your vagina.

Christie reaches for a washcloth.

BATEMAN
No. From behind. Get on your knees.

Christie shrugs.

BATEMAN
I want to watch. You have a very nice body.

The doorman RINGS. Bateman answers.

BATEMAN
Thank you. Send her up. Christie, get out and dry
off, choose a ro