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
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?”
