Survival of the Fittest (44 page)

Then again, these were
smart
people.

We made it to the drinks. The white paper was a butcher’s roll cut unevenly. Soda, beer, bottled water, off-brands of scotch, vodka, bourbon, corn chips and pretzels, salsa and guacamole and shrimp dip still in plastic containers.

Zena used a chip to excavate the avocado paste, came up with a healthy green blob, ate, scooped again, and aimed the construction at my mouth.

“Good?” she mouthed.

“Excellent.”

Grinning and fluffing her bangs, she blew me a kiss, reached out and took hold of my belt buckle and tilted her head at the glass doors. Her eyes were the brightest thing in the room.

She led me out to the balcony and closed the doors. “A dull roar. So the neighbors don’t shit themselves.”

It was quieter out here, but we weren’t alone. About a dozen people shared the balcony, but no turning heads or vigilant eyes.

Lots of conversation; I tried to make out words, heard “economy,” “texture,” “bifurcation,” “mode of deconstruction.”

Zena maneuvered me into the left-hand corner and I felt the railing press into my back. Not much of a railing, thin iron, top and bottom pieces connected by widely spaced diagonal pickets. A large man would have had trouble slipping through, but anyone else would have found it easy.

Zena pushed up against me and the metal bit deeper. The air was warm, the view stunning.

Maybe that made it the party’s romance zone, because right next to us, another couple made out feverishly. The man was beefy, balding, middle-aged, wore a tweed jacket too small around the shoulders; it rode up over corduroy slacks. His playmate was a few years younger, fair-haired, bespectacled, with a thin face but thick arms that jiggled in a sleeveless white dress as she masturbated her boyfriend’s lapel. He said something, her hands flew around his neck, and they kissed again.

Next to them three men argued heatedly   .   .   . about modems, software, morons on the Internet, how the meaning of cyber had been distorted from Norbert Wiener’s original conception   .   .   .

Zena turned my head and jammed her mouth against mine.

No one noticed.

The apathy was comforting. But also disappointing, because what did it say about my conspiracy ruminations?

A murder club? What I was seeing were some folk who craved sex and chitchat, checkmate, triple-word scores, whatever you aimed for in three-dimensional chess.

Sixty, seventy people.

How many killers?

If any.

The lovebirds next to us continued to go at it, even as the debating trio raised the volume, one man nearly shouting.

Zena’s tongue continued to explore my palate.

My hands were on her shoulders; when had I placed them there?

Her tongue withdrew, regrouping for another attack, and I pulled away and massaged the back of her neck, such a small, delicate neck, then her shoulder. I could feel the bumps on her collarbone.

Smiling to camouflage the retreat, I said, “Nice party. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming, sir.”

“What, exactly, is the occasion?”

“Who needs an occasion?”

“Okay,” I said. “What’s the organizing criterion?”

She laughed merrily, guided my hand downward, across crepe, wedging it between her legs.

I felt heat, the butter of upper thigh, then a crinkly patch that puckered the silk.

No panties—no, there was something there, a waistband. But very sheer, very low. Bikini pants—why the hell was I conjecturing?

She tightened her muscles, capturing my fingers.

Her eyes were closed. Her mouth had parted and I smelled gin. One pink-nailed hand had gathered the fabric of my sportcoat as the other began moving down.   .   .   .

Not again.   .   .   . I played a frantic mental slide show: dead faces, bloody shoes, filthy alleys, grieving parents   .   .   . I stayed soft.

She looked up at me. On her smooth, white face was that same flash of narcissistic rage.

I removed her hand, took hold of
her
face, kissed
her.

When we stopped for breath, her confusion was gratifying.

“All these people,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not into displays.”

I glanced at the passionate couple, now edging toward the glass doors.

Her lower lip twitched. She nodded. “I understand, A.”

I turned, placed my hands on the railing and pretended to study the view. Lots of black between the house and the twinkles. Anything could be out there.

She moved next to me, put her head against my arm and I slipped my arm around her and touched her cheek. The necking couple had left but the three-man debate was still raging. Two women came out, holding plastic cups, laughing, and moved to the opposite end of the balcony.

“I repeat my original question, Z.: What’s the occasion? Not simply a collection of friends.”

I felt her tense up. “Why do you say that?”

“Because these people don’t act like your friends.” I rubbed her neck harder, slower, and she shivered. “No one’s paying you any attention, and you’re rather hard to ignore. So they must have their own agendas.”

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.

And now I knew where I’d seen the bearded man.

Chapter

51

I was out the door now, breath stuck somewhere down in my chest, walking down the black street as fast as I could on ice-cold legs. Forcing myself to take slow, deep lungfuls of the sweet, dirty air.

I drove the hell out of there.

At Sunset and Vine, I called Milo’s cell phone with the one Daniel had given me.

“Where are you?”

“Fifty feet behind you,” he said. “You didn’t stay long.”

I told him why.

“Baker,” he said, and I knew he was remembering.

Baker’s love of games. The porn-stuffed locker.

“Sure he didn’t see you, Alex?”

“I can’t be sure but I don’t think so. It makes some other things fall into place—let’s talk somewhere private.”

“Go home, I’ll meet you.”

“Which home?”

“Which do you want?”

“Andrew’s place,” I said. “This could take time and there are things Robin doesn’t need to hear.”