Survival of the Fittest (39 page)

The organizing criterion seemed to be Stuff Other Stores Won’t Carry.

Nothing on DVLL.

On the last rack was a collection of solemn-looking hardcovers from a well-respected scientific publishing house: forensic pathology, homicide and rape investigation, gunshot wounds, crime-scene techniques, toxicology.

Densely worded manuals for police detectives, eighty bucks each.

Had someone considered them primers, as well?

I pictured Wilson Tenney or some other cruel loner up here, browsing, maybe even buying.

I opened the book on homicide procedure.

The usual cop mix of detached writing and close-up views of the destruction visited upon human flesh by shotgun, blade, blunt instrument, strangulation. Toxicology and lividity charts. Rates of putrefaction. Victims, sexually posed, mutilated; the blank, helpless face of death.

The
modus operandi
section said that while some serial killers traveled the highways, most tended to work within circumscribed areas.

Patterns to be broken?

Replacing the book, I returned downstairs. The clerk had switched to a cigar and was trying to create his own toxic cloud.

He stared at me for a second, leaned forward, twisted something, and Stravinsky blared well above the ear-bleed range.

Not into user-friendly.

I used, anyway.

The first floor started off as more of the same brutal eclecticism and I skimmed, trying to look casual.

Then I found the eugenics books and slowed down.

The Collected Essays of Galton.
Desktop publishing by New Dominion Press—why did that sound familiar?

The publisher’s address, St. Croix. The Virgin Islands.

Another Loomis venture?

The book was nothing more than what it claimed to be.

Next came Dr. Charles Davenport’s 1919 report to the Cold Springs Eugenics Society. Hereditary charts of patients whose “degenerative spawn” had been curtailed by sterilization.

Annotations at the bottom by Dr. Arthur Haldane, resident scholar at the Loomis Institute.

I checked this one out carefully.

Published five years before
The Brain Drain.
Haldane’s pre-best-seller days.

In it, Haldane remarked upon the relative unsophistication of turn-of-the-century science but reaffirmed Davenport’s thesis: society was doomed unless “genetic restructuring utilizing advanced technology” became public policy.

I flipped to the index.

Still no DVLL.

Nothing on Meta, either.

I found six more books on selective breeding and quality-of-life issues, one by the Australian ethnicist who’d recommended killing retarded babies. Same old crap, nothing new.

The stench of the clerk’s cigar had enveloped me and I looked up and realized I was fifteen feet from the register. No insights, no Zena Lambert. Mr. Tattoo was reading something called
Wet Bandage.

Then, just as I was about to give up, I found one more nugget: a fifty-page pamphlet, that same laser-printer look under brown paper covers.

Humanness: New Perspectives
by Farley Sanger, attorney-at-law

An expanded version of the article from
The Pathfinder,
supplemented by charts and graphs, government statistics on crime, race, unemployment, out-of-wedlock births, DNA testing, the Human Genome Project and how it could be used to “cleanse the dross.”

Dry as a legal brief.

Lawsuit against the disadvantaged   .   .   .

Sanger ended with a call for “the brutally efficient elimination of mind-set censorship of indisputably valid areas of research simply because certain elements with vested interests are offended or justifiably frightened of what can only be regarded as the logical conclusions of carefully tested hypotheses.”

Golden prose. Pity the poor judges who had to read his work-product.

Twenty-two-dollar price tag. I tucked the book under my arm, returned to the Galton book, and took that, too.

The door at the back of the store opened and Zena Lambert came out.

Chapter

46

She’d dyed her hair black and grown it to shoulder length, with thick bangs that covered her brow and a Doris Day flip. But the face was the same, narrow and pale. The same black eyeliner. In real life, less Kabuki than bone china. Clean, balanced features, the nose small and straight, the lips narrow but full, glossed pink. Prettier than in the photo.

The kind of guileless, all-American face favored by casting directors for detergent commercials.

Sally Branch had said she was small but that was an understatement. Maybe five feet, no more than ninety pounds, she was a child-woman with small, sharp breasts and thin but supple-looking arms exposed by a sleeveless pink polyester top.

Tight black jeans covered trim hips. Tiny waist. Proportionately long legs for someone so small.

She wore black plastic earrings and pink high-heeled sandals with clear plastic bows on the instep.

Even with the lift, she was tiny. Twenty-eight years old but she could have passed for a college sophomore.

Hips-swiveling walk. Black, pink, black, pink.

Both of us in costume?

Hers appeared to be fifties retro. Nostalgia for the good old days when men were men and women were women and defectives knew their place?

She’d assembled herself to attract attention, might very well be looking for stares. I hid my face behind a book on dwarfs, trying to observe inconspicuously.

She noticed.

“Hi,” she said in a high, bright voice. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

I gave her Andrew’s best surly headshake, put the book back, and returned my attention to the rack.

“Happy browsing.” She swayed up to the register. Before she got there, Mr. Cigar left the booth without comment and exited the store.

“Stinky!” she called after him as the door closed. Climbing atop the stool, she lowered Stravinsky to a tolerable level, made her own twisting motion, and switched to a harpsichord fugue.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Welcome,” she chirped. “Being a reader means never having to herniate your tympanic membranes.”

I turned back to the book I’d selected randomly—a quarterly called
Earthquake Sex,
and stole glances at her. She picked up the copy of
Wet Bandage
left on the counter, put it aside, and took out what looked like an accounting ledger. Holding it on her lap, she began writing.

I brought Sanger’s pamphlet and the Galton book up to the booth.

Columns of figures; definitely a ledger. She slid it out of sight and smiled. “Cash or charge?”

“Charge.”

Before I got my hand on my wallet, she said, “Thirty-two sixty-four.”

My surprised look was genuine.

She laughed. White teeth, one frontal incisor chipped. A speck of lipstick on another. “Don’t trust my addition?”

I shrugged. “I’m sure you’re right but that was rather quick.”

“Mental arithmetic,” she said. “Intellectual calisthenics. Use it or lose it. But if you’re skeptical   .   .   .”

Laughing again, she snatched both books off the counter and punched the register.

Ding. Thirty-two sixty-four.

She licked her lips with a tiny pink tongue.

“A-plus,” I said. I gave her Andrew’s new MasterCard.

She glanced at it and said, “Are you a teacher?”

“No. Why?”

“Teachers love to grade.”

“I seldom grade.”

She put the books in an unmarked paper bag and handed them to me. “The nonjudgmental type?”

I shrugged.

“Well, enjoy the books, A. Desmond.”

I started for the door.

“Not looking forward to it?” she said.

I stopped. “To what?”

“Reading what you just bought. You look positively sullen. It’s not for pleasure?”

I stopped and gave her my best downbeat smile. “Until I read, I won’t know that, will I?”

Her smile freeze-framed, then widened. She tugged a wave of black hair and let it bounce back. Elastic; I’d seen hair like that as a child. Black-and-white TV commercials for Tonette do-it-yourself permanents.

“On top of being a skeptic, he’s an empiricist,” she said.

“Is there an alternative?”

“There are alternatives to everything,” she said. Then she waved a small, delicate hand. The nails were long, tapered, and—what else—bright pink. “Ta-ta, go on your way, A. Desmond. Didn’t mean to intrude but the topic caught my eye.”

“Oh?” I looked into the bag. “You’ve read them? Have I made good choices?”

She lowered her eyes from my face to my chest to my belt. Lingering. Continuing to my shoes then swooping upward for an eye-lock. “Quite good ones. Galton was the progenitor of it all. And yes, I have read them. It happens to be something I’m interested in.”

“Eugenics?”

“Societal improvements of all kinds.”

I conceded a miserly smile. “Well, we’ve got common ground, there.”

“Do we?”

“I think society sorely needs fixing.”

“A misanthrope.”

“That depends on what day you catch me.”

She leaned on the counter, small breasts spreading on the wood. “A Swift or a Pope?”

“Pardon?”

“The Swift-Pope dichotomy on the Great Yardstick of Misanthropy. Not familiar, A.?”

I shook my head. “Must have missed that one.”

She examined a pink thumbnail. “It’s really quite simple: Jonathan Swift hated humanity as a structural unit but managed to muster affection for individuals. Alexander Pope professed a love for humanity but couldn’t countenance interpersonal relationships.”

“Is that so.”

“Quite so.”

I put a finger to my mouth. “Then I suppose I’m both a Swift and a Pope—again, depending upon which day you catch me. There are also times I’m an equal-opportunity despiser. Such as when I read the paper too early in the day.”

She laughed. “A sourpuss.”

“So I’ve been told.” I slouched forward, put my hand out. “Andrew Desmond.”

She stared at the hand, finally touched my fingertips very lightly. “How sociable of you to actually grant me a greeting, Andrew Desmond. I’m Zena.”

“A to Z,” I said.

She turned off the music. “How cute. We traverse the alphabet in one fell swoop.”

I stepped closer and she moved back, sitting higher on the stool. She took another look at her nails.

“Interesting location you’ve got,” I said. “Have you been here long?”

“A few months.”

“I only noticed it because I was picking my car up from the tow yard and saw the sign.”

“Our customers know us.”

I looked around the empty room. She watched me but didn’t react.

“Anywhere to get lunch around here?” I said.

“Not really. The Mexican place across the street is closed because the owner’s son got shot last week—gang morons, the usual ethnic entropy.”

Waiting for my reaction.

“That’s the only place?” I said.

“There are a few others just like it farther down Apollo. If you like that kind of thing.”

“I like good.”

“Then, no. We’re talking roacharama.” Another pull of her hair. “Lard-encrusted pinto beans and shredded pork elevated to palatability only by abject starvation. Are you starving, Andrew?”

“Never,” I said. “Nothing’s worth that kind of self-debasement.”

“Precisement.”
A corner of the ledger was visible on the shelf beneath the register and she pushed it in.

“I’d rather dine than eat,” I said. “Where do you go?”

She bunched her lips, creating a mocking rosebud. “Is that a come-on?”

I removed the tinted glasses. Rubbed my beard.

“If you accept, it was an invitation. If you don’t, it was a factual inquiry.”

“Guarding the old self-esteem, eh?”

“Honor bound to,” I said. “I’m a psychologist.”

“Are you?” She looked away, as if trying not to show interest. “Clinical or experimental?”

“Clinical.”

“Do you practice around here?”

“I don’t practice anywhere at the moment. Actually, I’m ABD. All but degree.”

“All but degradation,” she said. “A quitter?”

“You bet.”

“Proud of it, are you?”

“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.”