Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“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 few 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.”