“Here.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a Xeroxed article. “I just wanted to prove you wrong. Read this.”
“What is it?” I ask, opening the folded page.
“It’s an article on your hero, Donald Trump.” McDermott grins.
“It sure is,” I say apprehensively. “Why didn’t I ever see this, I wonder.”
“And …” McDermott scans the article and points an accusatory finger at the bottom paragraph, which he’s highlighted in red ink. “Where does Donald Trump think the best pizza in Manhattan is served?”
“Let me read this,” I sigh, waving him away. “You might be wrong. What a lousy photo.”
“Bateman. Look. I circled it,” he says. I pretend to read the Fucking article but I’m getting very angry and I have to hand the article back to McDermott and ask, thoroughly annoyed, “So what? What does it mean? What are you, McDermott, trying to tell me?”
“What do you think of the pizza at Pastels now, Bateman?” he asks smugly.
“Well,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I think I have to go back and retaste the pizza.…” I’m saying this through gritted teeth. “I’m just suggesting that the last time I was there the pizza was …”
“Brittle?” McDermott offers.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Brittle.”
“Uh-huh.” McDermott smiles, triumphant.
“Listen, if the pizza at Pastels is okay with Donny,” I start, hating to admit this to McDermott, then sighing, almost unintelligibly, “it’s okay with me.”
McDermott cackles gleefully, a victor.