Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

“Death threats,” I said. “Sweet guy.”

“I’m sure he mans the velvet rope with tact and diplomacy. Other than that one incident, he’s kept his nose clean. Here’s something juicier: Bennett Hacker, our probably errant PO, did circulate through some of the satellites, including the one where Flora Newsome temped, but he was only there two weeks.”

“That’s long enough,” I said. “How’s your schedule tonight- say in an hour?”

I told him about Albin Larsen’s appearance at the bookstore. “We could drop by to observe, have a chance to see Larsen in another context. Unless you think that would alarm Larsen.”

“Another context,” he said. “Not a bad idea. In terms of alarming Larsen, we’ve got a cover story. We wanted to talk to him about Mary Lou and Gull and with his being such a busy little shrink and our not wanting to disrupt his practice, we figured this would be the best way.”

“In addition to being a cover, it would make him think the focus is still on his partner. Is Binchy still watching Gull?”

“Yes. Gull’s keeping a low profile… little bookstore jaunt tonight… sure, let’s do it.”

I gave him the address.

He said, “Let’s meet, say half a block east, corner of Sixth. Arrive a little early- seven-fifteen.”

“Scoping out the scene?”

“Hey,” he said, “no cheap seats for us.”

Igot to Broadway and Sixth at 7:10. Traffic was lazy. The sky was hammered tin.

Evenings are inevitably cool in Santa Monica; tonight marine winds whipped the June air frigid. Winds rich with kelp and rot, the metallic-sweet promise of rain. A couple of homeless guys pushed shopping carts up the boulevard. One muttered and sped past me. The other took the dollar I offered, and said, “Hey, man. You have a better year, okay?”

“You, too,” I said.

“Me? I had a great year,” he said, indignant. He wore a salmon-colored cashmere sport coat, stained and frayed, that had once belonged to a large, rich man. “I beat the shit out of Mike Tyson in Vegas. Took his woman and made her my bitch.”

“Good for you.”

“It was reeeel good.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin, leaned into the breeze, and shoved on.

A moment later, Milo rounded Sixth and strode toward me. He’d changed at the station, wore baggy jeans and an old, oatmeal-colored turtleneck that added unneeded bulk. Desert boots clopped the sidewalk. He’d folded something stiff and shiny into his hair, and it spiked in places.

“Kind of authorial,” I said. “One of those Irish poets.” To me he still looked like a cop.

“Now all I need is to write a damn book. So, who wrote the one tonight?”

“A Harvard professor. George Issa something, the Middle East.”

We began walking toward the store. “Issa Qumdis.”

“You know him?” I said.

“Heard the name.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Hey,” he said. “I read the papers. Even when they don’t run photos of dead girls. Speaking of which, I hit the clubs, trying to locate Christa/Crystal. But tonight, we intellectualize- here we are. Looks like college days, huh?”

His college had been Indiana U. Most of what I knew about his student years had to do with being in the closet.

We stood outside the bookstore as he inspected the facade. The Pen Is Mightier was a half-width storefront, glass above salt-eaten brick, with signage reminiscent of a Grateful Dead poster. Most of the blackened window was papered with flyers and announcements. Tonight’s reading was heralded by a sheet of paper headlined “Prof. George I. Qumdis Reveals The Truth Behind Zionist Imperialism.” Next to that was the sticker of a boutique coffee brand, the legend “Java Inside!” and a B rating from the health department.

“B,” said Milo, “means a permissible level of rodent droppings. I’d stay away from the muffins.”

No coffee or muffin smells inside, just the must of old, wet news pulp. Where the walls weren’t hidden by rough pine bookshelves, they were exposed block. Bookcases on wheels were arranged haphazardly at the center. Pocked vinyl floors were the color of too-old custard. A twenty-foot ceiling was spaghettied by ductwork and ladders- not library rollers on rails, just foldable, aluminum ladders- supplied for those willing to climb their way to erudition.

A heavyset, long-haired Asian kid sat behind the register, nose buried in something bound in plain brown wrappers. A sign behind him said NO SMOKING, but he puffed on an Indian herbal stick. Another sign said READING IN BACK over a pointing hand. The clerk ignored us as we filed past and began squeezing through the choppy maze created by the portable cases.

The book spines I could make out covered a host of isms. Titles shouted back in the hoarse adolescence of dime-store revolution. Milo scanned and frowned a lot. We ended up in a small, dark clearing at the rear of the store, set with thirty or so red plastic folding chairs that faced a lectern. Empty chairs. On the rear wall was a sign that said BATHROOMS (UNISEX).

No one but us.

For all his talk of good seats, Milo remained on his feet, retreating until he was back in the bookcase maze, positioning himself at a slant.

Perfect vantage spot. We could watch and remain out of view.

“It’s good we’re early,” I whispered. “Big crush and all that.”

He glanced over at the seats. “All those folding chairs. You could do group therapy.”

For the next ten minutes no one showed up, and we passed the time browsing. Milo seemed distracted, then his face loosened and took on a meditative cast. I browsed and by the time the first people began trickling in, I’d received a quick education on 1. How to build homemade bombs, 2. How to farm hydroponically, 3. Vandalism in the service of the greater good, and 4. The ethical virtues of Leon Trotsky.

The audience dispersed itself among the chairs. A dozen or so people, divided into what seemed to be two groups: twentyish, pierced-and-branded, dreadlocked rage hobbyists in expensive shredded duds, and sixtyish couples swathed in earth tones, the women helmeted by severe gray bobs, the men frizzy-bearded and shadowed by cloth caps.

The exception was a thickset, wavy-haired guy in his fifties, wearing a navy pea coat buttoned to the neck and crumpled houndstooth pants, who positioned himself front row center. His jaw was a stubbled shelf. He wore black-rimmed glasses, had wide shoulders and serious thighs, and looked as if he’d just finished organizing dockworkers. He sat stiffly, folded his arms across a barrel chest, scowled at the lectern.

Milo studied him, and his eyes slitted.

“What?” I whispered.

“Angry fellow up in front.”

“Probably not unusual for this crowd.”

“Sure,” he said. “Lots to be angry about. It’s comfier and cozier in fucking North Korea.”

Seven-forty, forty-five, fifty. No sign of Albin Larsen or the speaker or a bookstore staffer. Quiet audience. Everyone just sitting and waiting.

Just before eight, Larsen entered the room with a tall, dignified-looking man wearing a glen plaid, suede-elbowed hacking jacket, brown flannel trousers, and shiny peanut-butter-colored demiboots. I’d expected someone Mideastern, but Professor George Issa Qumdis had the ruddy complexion and magesterial bearing of an Oxford don. I put him at fifty-five to sixty, a comfortably lived middle age. His longish salt-and-pepper hair curled over the collar of a crisp white shirt. His rep tie probably meant something. Haughty nose, hollow cheeks, thin lips. He half turned his back on the audience and glanced at an index card.

Albin Larsen stepped up to the lectern and began talking in a low voice. No niceties, no thanking the audience. Right into the topic.