Survival of the Fittest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “That you're a selective woman,” I said. “At least that would be my assumption.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Just a guess.”

  She wiggled her toes some more. “This could get interesting— turn here.”

  No further conversation. She kept staring out the passenger window, sticking her head out from time to time to breathe in smoggy wind. The rearview mirror remained askew. I straightened it and took the opportunity to glance back.

  Lots of cars behind me but no way to know if Milo was in any of them.

  “Right here,” said Zena. She arched her back and I saw the outline of her nipples, sharp and defined against pink polyester.

  I hadn't noticed that in the store. Had she removed her bra?

  I had a pretty good idea how she'd captured Malcolm Ponsico from Sally Branch.

  “Here,” she said.

  La Petite was misnamed— a big mock chateau on a generous property— more old L.A.— the only business in sight without a Spanish sign. The parking lot was nearly empty but the cars I saw were expensive. Red-vested valets lounged near the porte cochere. One of them held Zena's door open and eyed the Karmann Ghia as if it were contagious.

  The restaurant's interior was a couple of lumens above pitch-dark. Oak tables and ceiling beams, leather booths, Impressionist copies, dessert carts heaped with sculptural pastries on doilies. Suddenly I remembered the place. I'd eaten there once, fifteen years ago. A hospital administrator with an expense account explaining why surgery was heroic and psychology wasn't but that I was expected to speak to the volunteer luncheon anyway because genteel women didn't want to know about scalpels and retractors.

  Up front was a trio of worried-looking Frenchmen in tuxedos. They aimed cold looks of recognition at Zena. She walked ahead of me and announced, “Two.”

  The baldest and oldest of the three stiffened, said, “Mademoiselle,” and snatched up a pair of huge tasseled menus before hurrying after Zena as she headed for a remote corner booth.

  Her usual trysting place?

  The maitre d's chilly expression congealed as he watched her snap her napkin open. When I caught his attention, he gave me the same appraisal. “Bon apetit.”

  “Do you have cassoulet today?” she said.

  “No, mademoiselle, I'm afrai—”

  “What's decent?”

  His smile was so pained it could have used anesthesia. “What did you have last time, mademoiselle?”

  “Sole VÉronique but it was mushy.”

  “Mushy?”

  “Mushy, soft, flabby, pulpous. In need of another minute in the skillet. Which I saw to.”

  He grabbed his bow tie and entertained homicide. “Very well. I will inform the chef.”

  She smiled. “Two ice waters with lemon while we decide, and bring a bottle of a decent white wine.”

  “Decent,” he muttered.

  “A California wine,” she added. “Chardonnay, whatever year was decent.”

  When he was gone, she said, “The French are such pompous fucks. Pomposity in the face of substance is one thing, but they're so fucking socially and intellectually bankrupt, that it's reduced to pathetic posturing. Obsessed with their moribund culture, their snot-nosed language, in pathological denial of the fact that no one speaks it anymore because it's linguistically anorexic.”

  “How do you really feel about it?”

  She giggled.

  “By anorexic,” I said, “you mean not enough words?”

  “Oh, there're enough words to order pressed duck,” she said, “but insufficient for anything serious. As in technology. When's the last time computer software originated in French?”

  “It's a beautiful language,” I said.

  She laughed. A Mexican busboy brought water.

  “The chef,” she said. “More like a short-order cook with no green card— probably that one's uncle.”

  We were two feet apart in the booth and I could smell her perfume— light, floral, old-fashioned. Probably French. I smiled at her and she began to scoot farther away, changed her mind and stayed put. Licking a finger, she traced a vertical path down the frost on her water glass. Then another. Two lines. She crossed them twice, made a tic-tac-toe board, erased it.

  “As you can see,” she said, “I have my Swift-plus-Pope days, as well.”

  “Common ground.”

  “If you're lucky.”

  I laughed.

  “What?” she said.

  “You don't lack confidence.”

  She arched her back again. “Should I?”

  Before I could answer, a tiny hand clamped around my wrist. Small fingers, all bones, but soft at the tips. Hot, like those of a child with a fever or too much enthusiasm.

  “Should I lack confidence, Andrew?”

  “I'd say no,” I said. “You're obviously endowed on many levels.”

  The hand tightened and I felt her nails digging into my arm.

  “Am I?”

  “Intellectually and physically,” I said. The hand loosened and her index finger began massaging the space between my thumb and forefinger. Small, circular motions. Annoying, but I didn't resist.

  Abruptly, she pulled away.

  “Maybe it's psychological,” she said, grinning. “My confidence, that is. All through my childhood, my parents told me how wonderful I was.”

  “Good child-rearing,” I said.

  “I didn't say they were good. Just free with the praise.”

  Her voice had hardened. I looked into her eyes. In the weak light, the blue irises were deep gray.

  “Actually,” she said, “they were excellent. Brilliant, educated people who taught me standards. What about yours?”

  I shook my head. “Wish I could say the same.”

  “Abused child, tsk-tsk?”

  “No,” I said. “But far short of excellent.”

  “Poor snookums,” she said. “His mummy didn't nurture him— is that why you chose psychology?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably? You don't know?”

  “I'm not much for self-analysis.”

  “I thought that was the point.”

  “The point,” I said, “is to try to understand as much as you can of this psychotic world so you can do what you feel like. I get into other people's heads but stay away from my own crap. If that's inconsistent, so be it.”

  “Grumpy, grumpy, cher A. I'm getting the feeling that you get off on conflict. When things get too easy you lose interest, correct?”

  I didn't answer.

  “True?” she said, elbowing my arm hard.

  “As I said, self-analysis chafes, Z.” I picked up a menu. “What do you suggest?”

  Refusing to play. Her lean face was rigid with anger. Then she smiled.

  “Well,” she said merrily, “I'd go for the sole VÉronique.”

  I turned and stared at her. “Not mushy today?”

  “If it is, we throw it in their fucking faces.”

  It was firm.

  Presented by the maitre d' with a hateful flourish. He studied me as I tasted, then Zena. I nodded, she kept eating. He turned on his heel.

  I watched her dissect the fish, examining every forkful, chewing slowly but steadily, never pausing. She finished and moved through the side dishes with silent drive, and by the time I'd had enough, she'd cleaned her plate. Even the parsley.

  “Another talent,” I said.

  “Are you one of those men who thinks women shouldn't eat?”

  “Heaven forfend.”

  “Good. I like to eat.” She sat back and wiped her lips. “And not an ounce ends up here.” Patting a flat tummy. “I just burn calories. A surfeit of energy.”

  “You would have made a good cheerleader.”

  A flash of dentition spread across her face. “I was a great cheerleader.” Snapping her fingers, she began moving her head from side to side, threw her arms up, shaking imaginary pom-poms. A f
ew more people had come into the restaurant but all had been seated in the adjoining room. Zena earning her privacy with past displays?

  “ “Rah, rah, rah! Sis-boom-boom! The other side stinks! So clear the room! You think you're cool, you think you're hot! We're here to say you're definitely not!' ”

  Her arms floated down slowly.

  “Bracing,” I said. “High school?”

  “Where else? The great crucible of cruelty. Pretty lame material but those were the days before you could get away with, “Block that kick, block that pass, if that doesn't work, just fuck 'em in the ass!' ”

  “Didn't know things had gotten that loose.”

  “Oh, they have, they have. A complete lack of standards. Ergo the slippery slope. We're talking a return of the medieval age, Andrew, the only difference being the new nobility's that which earns it.”

  “How?”

  “Intellectually.”

  I pretended to think about that.

  She snapped her fingers at a busboy and demanded a mai tai. I watched her suck it slowly through a straw. “One thing will never change: The vast majority are relegated to serfdom. Serfs think they want freedom, Andrew, but they're incapable of dealing with it. Serfs need structure, predictability, someone to show them how to wipe their glutei.”

  “How vast is the vast majority?”

  “At least ninety-nine percent.”

  “And they get regulated by the remaining one percent.”

  “You don't agree?”

  “I guess that would depend upon which group I ended up in.”

  She laughed. “Do you doubt your own abilities?”

  More feigned deliberation. “No,” I said. “And I agree with your assessment. In principle. Things have deteriorated beyond belief. I just hadn't come up with a number.”

  “I thought that's what you psychologists were all about.”

  “ABD,” I said. “All but dogmatism.”

  She touched my hand briefly, pulled away, played with a black curl. “One percent is generous. Probably less than one-half percent are qualified to make choices.”

  The maitre d' came over and asked if everything was acceptable.

  She waved him off and said, “Maybe a third. And even in that range some individuals wouldn't qualify. Because they lack conviction. I've known people perceived to be geniuses who turned out to have all the backbone of an oyster.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Oh, quite. The requisite gray matter but no spine.”

  A tightening of her lips and I knew she meant Malcolm Ponsico. Keeping my voice even, I said, “Ideologically weak?”

  “Ideologically mushy.” She put her hand on my sleeve. “Cher Andrew, a brain without a spine is only half a central nervous system— but no matter, we're not here to fix society's problems.”

  “True. We'd need lunch and dinner for that.”

  The faintest smile. The mai tai was nearly gone and she sucked foam noisily, then leaned over suddenly, placed a frigid tongue tip on my cheek, and traced a wet trail to my earlobe.

  “What are we here for, Andrew?” she whispered.

  “You tell me.”

  Another cold tongue-dart, then a small, painful bite of the lobe. She snuggled closer, nibbled. I could hear her breathing, rapid and shallow, smell the alcohol on her breath. She put her hand on my chin, swiveled my face, bit my lower lip, pulled away, pinched my thigh, touched my knee. She was arrogant, disturbed, pathetic, quite possibly evil, but dammit, all of it had its effect and when she reached under the table and groped me again, she found exactly what she wanted and it brought a triumphant grin to the plump, pink lips.

  Then she pulled away, took a gold lipstick tube and matching compact out of her purse, made them pinker.

  “Well, you're an eager boy. Which creates a moral dilemma for me.”

  “Oh?”

  She smiled for the mirror. “The issue at hand is: Do I fuck the hell out of you today and risk having you think me a slattern, or shall I let you simmer until your balls turn turquoise and then— just maybe, if you behave— fuck the hell out of you and leave you begging for more?”

  Her hand returned to my groin. “Hello, Mr. Gander.”

  “Such problems,” I said. “Call in the ethicists.” Gently, I removed her fingers and placed them on the seat. “Take some time to figure it out, then call me.”

  She stared at me, outraged, grabbed her glass, nearly threw herself halfway down the booth and showed me her back.

  I saw her neck muscles tighten and loosen.

  I was dealing with something fragile, easily bruised, maybe more dangerous because of it.

  “Take me back, asshole.”

  “Zena—”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Suit yourself.” I stood, hot-faced, teeth clenched, not having to fake it. She started to slide out of the booth but I blocked her exit, leaning over the table, glaring down at her.

  “Get the hell out of my—”

  “Ms. Third-of-a-Percent,” I whisper-growled. “Because I don't feel like creaming my slacks right here, I've failed you? Shouldn't the elite be a little more secure?”

  My tone made her flinch. She was trying to outstare me but little things gave her away— nostrils flexing, spots of color sprouting on her face.

  Pink spots, like a mild case of eczema. Her mouth trembled. Her nipples were bigger than ever, poking at the pink fabric.

  I threw cash on the table. “It's been an experience. Let's go.”

  “I'll leave when I'm ready.”

  “Suit yourself.” I began walking out.

  “Where the fuck do you think you're going?”

  “Somewhere without pressure, Z.”

  “Can't handle pressure?”

  “Can but prefer not to.” I kept going. Suddenly, she was at my side, grabbing my bicep with both hands, clawing through tweed.

  “Hold on, dammit, or I'll rip your shirt off right here!”

  I stopped.

  She moved around and faced me, reached up and cupped my chin in one hand. When Robin stands on tiptoe she barely brings herself to eye level with me. Zena missed by several inches and her breasts were up against my abdomen, our faces nearly touching. Someone watching might have thought it affectionate but she was squeezing my face too hard for affection and as I felt her nails graze my jawline, I prepared to bleed.

  “Such a tough boy,” she said. “Such a tough, tough boy— when's the last time you were laid?”

  “I don't keep records.”

  She laughed. “Exactly as I thought. Okay, I'll attribute your lack of manners to drive level. You deserve release. My place. I'll show you how to get there.”

  I drove back to Apollo with her sitting as close as the gearshift would allow, one hand around my neck, caressing idly as she hummed along with the Bartok she'd found on the radio. Her singing voice was coarse, off-key. I wanted to tell her to shut up.

  “Tough boy,” she said. “Obviously, I need to be tender with you.”

  I smiled. Thinking, what the hell am I going to do?

  For all Milo's and Daniel's cautiousness, nothing had prepared me for this.

  I thought of Robin's good-bye, two hours ago.

  How far was I willing to go?

  I tried to put it in perspective by picturing Irit's body among the trees, Latvinia hanging in the schoolyard, Raymond's bloody shoes, the pain Melvin Myers had felt. But what if this creature hadn't been part of that— nutty but not dangerous—

  “Lyric's the next corner,” she said. “Make a left.”

  As I turned, I allowed myself another look-around for Milo. Once again, moderate traffic, but no one followed me up the steep, shady road.

  Lyric offered barely enough room for one car and I drove slowly, trying to sort out my thoughts. Zena began to drum her fingers on my thigh.

  “Keep going to the top.”

  I checked out the neighborhood. Houses to the right, dry embankment to the left. Draped with cactus, of all things.
Between the homes was an eastern view that would have been stunning but for a saucer-shaped suspension of airborne filth hovering over the skyline.