The Fugitive
4/11/04 4:57 PM
I am sitting in a deck chair from the French Liner "Liberte" one of a set of twelve I bought at Phillip's last auction of Maritime Art and Furnishings. There is a slight haze over Central Park, much like the fine salt spray of the Atlantic that, over many crossings, has given these chairs a patina all of their own.
The Buildings opposite on Fifth Avenue glow a pale orange as the sun begins to set behind me. I am finishing my second glass of "Far Niente" as Ricardo steps out onto the terrace to announce that "Police Commissioner Donald Kimball is in the lobby and would like you to help him dispose of some Cohibas he was forced to confiscate."
"Send him up, and bring out the old cognac."
"Do you mean Napoleon's or President Roosevelt's," he asks?
"Napoleon's," I reply and settle back down in my chair.
Kimball steps out onto the terrace with the Cohiba already in the side of his mouth and hands me mine. I light them both, with the Faberge lighter that was the Czar's last Christmas present to himself, specially constructed to block out any wind that might interfere with the lighting of His cigar.
"Your suits have improved since we last met," I say to Commissioner Kimball as he settles into his chair.
"Thank you. I had a good teacher. What happened to your hand?"
"I tried to kill the waiter at Bice but the ax slipped and shattered the dessert cart. Panne Cotta, Creme brulee, Tarte Tatin everywhere."
"I'll watch for it on the 6 O'clock News. What do you know about Davis Ferguson?"
"You mean that fat guy with the place at the Hampshire House whose son hates him, but who secretly placed all his assets in a trust to get around the State Department, whose last meal consisted of the Sea Bass wrapped in Potato Skins at Le Cirque, which he ate with his mouth open, and who is now officially identified as "The Late Davis Ferguson?"
"Yes, that sounds like him," Kimball smiled.
"Nothing," I replied to the sound of Kimball laughing.
Virtually yours,
Patrick Bateman
I am sitting in a deck chair from the French Liner "Liberte" one of a set of twelve I bought at Phillip's last auction of Maritime Art and Furnishings. There is a slight haze over Central Park, much like the fine salt spray of the Atlantic that, over many crossings, has given these chairs a patina all of their own.
The Buildings opposite on Fifth Avenue glow a pale orange as the sun begins to set behind me. I am finishing my second glass of "Far Niente" as Ricardo steps out onto the terrace to announce that "Police Commissioner Donald Kimball is in the lobby and would like you to help him dispose of some Cohibas he was forced to confiscate."
"Send him up, and bring out the old cognac."
"Do you mean Napoleon's or President Roosevelt's," he asks?
"Napoleon's," I reply and settle back down in my chair.
Kimball steps out onto the terrace with the Cohiba already in the side of his mouth and hands me mine. I light them both, with the Faberge lighter that was the Czar's last Christmas present to himself, specially constructed to block out any wind that might interfere with the lighting of His cigar.
"Your suits have improved since we last met," I say to Commissioner Kimball as he settles into his chair.
"Thank you. I had a good teacher. What happened to your hand?"
"I tried to kill the waiter at Bice but the ax slipped and shattered the dessert cart. Panne Cotta, Creme brulee, Tarte Tatin everywhere."
"I'll watch for it on the 6 O'clock News. What do you know about Davis Ferguson?"
"You mean that fat guy with the place at the Hampshire House whose son hates him, but who secretly placed all his assets in a trust to get around the State Department, whose last meal consisted of the Sea Bass wrapped in Potato Skins at Le Cirque, which he ate with his mouth open, and who is now officially identified as "The Late Davis Ferguson?"
"Yes, that sounds like him," Kimball smiled.
"Nothing," I replied to the sound of Kimball laughing.
Virtually yours,
Patrick Bateman