Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

Her fingers reached under my jacket and kneaded my tailbone.

“Oh, I don't know about that. Being hard to ignore.”

“Oh, I do, Z. Any bunch that shines you on is either pathologically self-centered or dead.”

Lifting her hair, I nuzzled the place where the fine strands met smooth neck flesh.

“They're acquaintances,” she said. “Think of them as kindred spirits.”

“Ah,” I said. “The intellectual elite?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Based upon what criterion?”

“Valid and reliable measurement, Andrew. Designed by psychologists.”

“Oh, my. Why am I not convulsing with awe?”

She laughed. “I think we could be even more selective but it's a start.”

“A smart club,” I said. “And you provide the house.”

She stared at me. “Tonight, I am. And that's my sole obligation, leaving me free for my own entertainment.”

She grabbed my chin again. Nasty habit. Tickled my lower lip with a fingernail.

“Well,” I said, “I feel privileged to be in such exalted company. Without even passing the test.”

“You've passed mine.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I shall apply for a federal grant based upon that.”

“Such cynicism.” She smiled but there was something tentative- wounded?- in her voice.

Still caressing her, I turned away and fixed my attention on the houses across the canyon. The air was a strange mixture of pollution and pines.

“Fun, fun, fun,” I said.

“You're not an ascetic, are you, Andrew? One of those New Age killjoys?”

“What does ascetism have to do with cynicism?”

“According to Milton, quite a bit. He wrote a poem about that-“And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub, Praising the lean and sallow abstinence.' ”

“Lean and sallow,” I said. “Haven't checked my complexion in the mirror, recently. But believe me, I know very well that abstinence does not make the heart grow fonder.”

She laughed. “I couldn't agree more- what I'm getting at is you seem so… oppositional. I feel a certain resistance.” She pressed closer.

I kept gazing straight ahead, then turned, looked down at her, and took hold of her shoulders. “The truth is, Z., I've been socially deformed. Too many years of listening to neurotics whine.”

“I can understand that,” she said.

“Can you? Then understand that parties bring out the worst in me. I came tonight because I wanted to see you. That makes anyone else two-legged refuse.”

Her breathing quickened.

“How say we arrange some quiet time?” I said. “Are you free tomorrow?”

I tightened my grip on her shoulders. She felt breakable, so easy to hurt. Then I thought about Malcolm Ponsico and had to restrain myself from squeezing tighter.

“I- what about finding some quiet time right here, Andrew?”

I cocked my head toward the packed room on the other side of the glass. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm not,” she said. “Downstairs. My bedroom.” She closed her eyes. “Come on, let me show you my stuffed animals.”

Brilliant, Delaware. Now what?

She dragged me across the balcony and back through the room. A few heads turned, but still, no real interest.

Up front, the bathroom door was now ajar, lights left on, and she shut it as we passed, taking me down the stairs. Rickety; the steps quivered under our weight.

At the bottom was another closet-bath combo and a single bedroom door.

She reached for the knob. Twisted, frowned. “Fuck.”

“Looks like someone beat us to it.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck !” A tiny fist beat the air. “They're not supposed to do that. I should pound til they- oh fuck it!”

Cursing, then shaking her head, she ran up the stairs and I followed.

I said, “I suppose the elite makes its own rules-”

“Stop ridiculing, already! I'm sopping wet and all you want to do is make fun, you misanthropic bastard!”

“I'd rather have fun than make fun but it's obvious this is not our night. So consider my original invitation: tomorrow. Or even tonight. After your soiree winds down. Come over to my place and I'll assure you privacy.”

I touched her hair.

“God,” she said, punching my chest very softly and looking at my zipper. “God, that sounds good… but I can't, dammit.”

“Who's playing hard to get, now?”

“It's not that. I've got… to clean up, set my houseguests up. By the time they get settled- it's just complicated, A.”

“Poor baby,” I said, drawing her to me. “All those responsibilities to- what's the name of this club, anyway?”

“What's the difference?” she said, more weary than cagey.

“All those responsibilities to the What's the Difference Club.”

She smiled.

“All right, then, Z. Tomorrow it is. If you put me off further, I'll know our karma-fate-cosmic-algorithm-whatever is accursed.”

She put her arms around my waist. Even with the heels, she fit under my chin, breasts poking my stomach.

“So what's the answer?”

“Yes,” she said. “Fuck yes !”

i told her i'd be using the bathroom and then leaving.

“So early?” she said.

“If I stay, I turn venomous. What time tomorrow?”

“At night, ten,” she said.

I began reciting the Genesee address.

“No, you come back here,” she said. “My guests depart tomorrow. I want you here. On my bed.”

“You and me and the stuffed animals?”

“I'll show you stuffed, all right. I'll show you things you never imagined.”

“Fine,” I said. “The stage doesn't matter, only the performers.”

“You bet,” she said. “I'm a star.”

One long, deep kiss and she was off, a blue flame burning through the crowd.

I went into the bathroom. Cramped and papered in brown foil printed with silver flowers, cracked white tile atop the vanity. No window; the stench of too many recent visits poorly dispelled by a noisy overhead fan.

Closing the commode, I sat on the lid and collected my thoughts.

I'd been here just over an hour and gotten nothing, not even Meta's name. Because what she was interested in was bedding me, not recruiting.

I could still taste her tongue, and the scent of her perfume stayed with me- I sensed it mentally rather than actually smelled it.

I rinsed my mouth out with tap water and spit.

If I went home tonight, Robin would ask how things had gone.

I'd say boring, the girl was crazy.

This was probably how female Vice cops felt standing on corners, waiting for hungry, frightened men to drive up and barter…

But it was wrong to think of her as pathetic rather than dangerous.

Had Malcolm Ponsico made that mistake?

Kill the pity. Stop thinking like a therapist.

Time to get back, call Milo, decide how much further this should be taken.

I rose, washed my hands, and opened the door. Saw movement to my left. Two people coming up the stairs.

Zena's bedroom door open. But no lovers emerging from a tryst.

First came the wheat-bearded crew-cut guy in the gray sweatshirt, still grim.

He shot me another stare. I pretended not to notice.

Had we met…? There was something familiar-

Then I saw the man behind him and turned my back, heart racing. Trying not to show the fear I felt, heading at a normal, but steady, pace toward the front door.

A split second had been long enough to register the details.

Older man in a white silk sportcoat. Short brown hair, silver temples. Tan face, gold eyeglasses, athletic gait, solid build.

Drinks at the marina. Calamari and a fine cigar.

Sergeant Wesley Baker, Nolan Dahl's training officer.