The Informers - Bret Easton Ellis [62]
“I see.”
“Graham,” Christie starts. “Martin is nothing. You were just on edge last week. I couldn’t deal with you just sitting in a chair saying nothing and holding that giant avocado.”
“But aren’t we, like, seeing each other or something?” I ask.
“I guess.” She sighs. “we’re together now. I’m eating a salad with you now.” She stops, lowers Martin’s Wayfarers, but I’m not looking at her anyway. “Forget Martin. Besides, who cares if we see other people? Don’t tell me one of us.”
“See or fuck?” I ask.
“Fuck.” She sighs. “I think.” Pause. “I guess.”
“Okay,” I say. “Who knows, right?”
Later she asks, grinning, rubbing suntan oil over my abs, “Did you care that I slept with him?” and then, “Nice definition.”
“No,” I finally say.
The sound of gunshots wakes me up. I look over at Martin, who is lying on his stomach, nude, breathing deeply, Christie between us along with two fluffy calico cats and a guinea pig I have never seen before wearing a small diamond necklace, and another couple of shots are fired and they both flinch in their sleep. I get out of bed and put on a pair of Bermuda shorts and a FLIP T-shirt and take the elevator down to the lobby, put on my sunglasses since my eyes are puffy. As the elevator doors open, two more shots are fired. I walk slowly through the dark lobby. The night doorman, young guy, tan, blond, maybe twenty, a Walkman around his neck, stands by the door, looking outside. On Wilshire there are seven or eight police cars parked outside the building across the street. Another shot is fired from the apartment buildings. The doorman stares, dazed, mouth open, Dire Straits coming from the Walkman. A big blue Slurpee glows from where it’s sitting on the front desk.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I think some guy has his wife up there and is, like, threatening to shoot her or something. Something like that,” the doorman says. “Maybe he’s already shot her. Maybe he’s already killed a whole bunch of people.”
I walk over next to him mainly because I like the song on the Walkman. It’s so cold in the lobby our breath steams.
“I think there’s a SWAT team up in the building trying to talk him down,” the doorman says. “I don’t think you should open the door.”
“I won’t,” I say.
Another shot. Another police car arrives. Then an ambulance. My stepmother for about ten months, who I ended up sleeping with twice, gets out of a van and is lit, positioned in front of a camera. I yawn, shivering.
“Did the shots wake you up?” the doorman asks.
“Yeah.” I nod.
“You’re the guy who lives on the eleventh floor, right? The guy who directs videos, Jason or something, visits you a lot?”
“Martin?” I say.
“Yeah, hi. I’m Jack,” the doorman says.
“I’m Graham.” We shake hands.
“I’ve talked to Martin a couple of times,” Jack says.
“About … what?”
“Just that he knows someone in a band I was almost in.” Jack takes out a pack of clove cigarettes, offers me one. Three more shots, then a helicopter starts circling. “What do you do?” he asks.
“Go to school.”
Jack lights my cigarette. “Yeah? Where do you go to school?”
“I go to school at …” I stop. “Um, I go to school at U … at, um, USC.”
“Yeah? What are you? Freshman?”
“I’ll be a sophomore in the fall,” I tell him. “I think.”
“Yeah? Cool.” Jack thinks about this for a minute. “Do you know Tim Price? Blond guy? Really good-looking but, like, the worst person in the world? I think he’s in a fraternity?”
“I don’t think so,” I tell him. There’s a horrible scream from across Wilshire, then smoke.
“How about Dirk Erickson?” he asks. Pretending to think about it for a minute, I answer, “No, I don’t think so.” Pause. “But I know a guy named Wave.” pause. “He’s very fit and his family basically owns Lake Tahoe.”
Another police car arrives.
“Do you go to school?” I ask, after a while.
“No, I’m an actor, really.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “What have you been in?”
“A commercial for gum. Boyfriend in a Clearasil spot.” Jack shrugs. “Unless you’re willing to do some pretty awful things it’s hard getting a job in this—and I