Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Neither proud nor ashamed,” I said. “As you said, nonjudgmental. I served my sentence in grad school, learned primarily that psychology is crumbs of science mixed in with dollops of nonsense. Expositions of the obvious passed off as profundity. Before I took it further, I decided to spend some time figuring out if I can live with that.” I raised the bag with the books. “Ergo this.”

“Ergo what?”

“Unassigned reading, not the PC swill they shove at you. I want to decide for myself whether or not any of it's relevant. In terms of the aforementioned improvement. Putting a brake on the slippery slope toward mediocrity. When I came in here, I had no idea what you were about. When I saw these”- rattling the bag-“they said “buy me.' ”

She leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “The slide toward mediocrity. I'd say we're well past that.”

“I was trying to be charitable.”

“Don't be. Charity leads to delusion. Then again, you are an almost-psychologist. Making you an almost-keeper of the sacred chalice of self-esteem.”

“Or selfish steam,” I said. “Depending upon your point of view.”

She laughed. Too much more of this and I'd be ready to puke.

“Well, A., in answer to your question, I tend to dine at a French joint in Echo Park. La Petite. ProvenÇal and all that good stuff.”

“Cassoulet?”

“It's been known to appear on the menu.”

“Maybe I'll be lucky. Thanks.”

“Maybe you will, at that.” She half-closed her eyes, displaying blue lids.

“So,” I said, “what's it to be, invitation or factual inquiry?”

“The latter, I'm afraid. I'm working.”

“Chained to the rock? Some boss looking over your shoulder?”

“Hardly,” she said, suddenly peeved. “It's my store.”

“Then why not fly?” I said. “As you said, your customers know you. I'm sure they'll forgive a brief absence.”

Her grin was wide but close-mouthed, almost regretful. “How do I know you're not some dangerous psychopath.”

“You don't.” I bared my teeth in a wolfish grimace.

“A carnivore?”

“All animals weren't created equal on the food chain.” Another shake of the bag. “That's the point of all this, isn't it?”

“Is it?” she said.

“For me it is, Z. However, if your sensibilities are bruised, apologies.”

She gave me a long, hard look, then pulled a key out of her jeans and locked the register. “I'll fetch my purse and lock up. Meet you out front.”

Five minutes later, she emerged rubbing her hands together and got in the Karmann Ghia.

“All but drivability,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the mess in back.

“Had I known, I'd have brought the Rolls.”

The news was on the radio. She said, “Go,” fiddled with the dial until she found elevator music, stretched her legs, wiggled her toes in the open pink sandals, looked behind. “No cops, Andrew. Make a U and get back to Sunset, then go east.”

Orders. She stared out the open passenger window. Said nothing as I drove.

A block later, she reached over and grabbed my crotch.

Two squeezes and the hand was back at her hair, stroking slowly. She aimed the rearview mirror at herself and checked her lipstick. Was Milo back there?

As she fooled with the radio dial again, I prepared for anything. But she placed her hands in her lap and turned to me, looking smug. “Honk, honk. Guess that's why they call it goosing.”

“Sauce for the gander.”

“Ha! Don't go getting ideas, A. Desmond. I'm empowered to shop without buying.”

“I'm sure you shop and return.”

“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.