Survival Of The Fittest

not!' ”

Her arms floated down slowly.

“Bracing,” I said. “High school?”

“Where else? The great crucible of cruelty. Pretty lame material but those were the days before you could get away with, “Block that kick, block that pass, if that doesn't work, just fuck 'em in the ass!' ”

“Didn't know things had gotten that loose.”

“Oh, they have, they have. A complete lack of standards. Ergo the slippery slope. We're talking a return of the medieval age, Andrew, the only difference being the new nobility's that which earns it.”

“How?”

“Intellectually.”

I pretended to think about that.

She snapped her fingers at a busboy and demanded a mai tai. I watched her suck it slowly through a straw. “One thing will never change: The vast majority are relegated to serfdom. Serfs think they want freedom, Andrew, but they're incapable of dealing with it. Serfs need structure, predictability, someone to show them how to wipe their glutei.”

“How vast is the vast majority?”

“At least ninety-nine percent.”

“And they get regulated by the remaining one percent.”

“You don't agree?”

“I guess that would depend upon which group I ended up in.”

She laughed. “Do you doubt your own abilities?”

More feigned deliberation. “No,” I said. “And I agree with your assessment. In principle. Things have deteriorated beyond belief. I just hadn't come up with a number.”

“I thought that's what you psychologists were all about.”

“ABD,” I said. “All but dogmatism.”

She touched my hand briefly, pulled away, played with a black curl. “One percent is generous. Probably less than one-half percent are qualified to make choices.”

The maitre d' came over and asked if everything was acceptable.

She waved him off and said, “Maybe a third. And even in that range some individuals wouldn't qualify. Because they lack conviction. I've known people perceived to be geniuses who turned out to have all the backbone of an oyster.”

“Is that so.”

“Oh, quite. The requisite gray matter but no spine.”

A tightening of her lips and I knew she meant Malcolm Ponsico. Keeping my voice even, I said, “Ideologically weak?”

“Ideologically mushy.” She put her hand on my sleeve. “Cher Andrew, a brain without a spine is only half a central nervous system- but no matter, we're not here to fix society's problems.”

“True. We'd need lunch and dinner for that.”

The faintest smile. The mai tai was nearly gone and she sucked foam noisily, then leaned over suddenly, placed a frigid tongue tip on my cheek, and traced a wet trail to my earlobe.

“What are we here for, Andrew?” she whispered.

“You tell me.”

Another cold tongue-dart, then a small, painful bite of the lobe. She snuggled closer, nibbled. I could hear her breathing, rapid and shallow, smell the alcohol on her breath. She put her hand on my chin, swiveled my face, bit my lower lip, pulled away, pinched my thigh, touched my knee. She was arrogant, disturbed, pathetic, quite possibly evil, but dammit, all of it had its effect and when she reached under the table and groped me again, she found exactly what she wanted and it brought a triumphant grin to the plump, pink lips.

Then she pulled away, took a gold lipstick tube and matching compact out of her purse, made them pinker.

“Well, you're an eager boy. Which creates a moral dilemma for me.”

“Oh?”

She smiled for the mirror. “The issue at hand is: Do I fuck the hell out of you today and risk having you think me a slattern, or shall I let you simmer until your balls turn turquoise and then- just maybe, if you behave- fuck the hell out of you and leave you begging for more?”

Her hand returned to my groin. “Hello, Mr. Gander.”

“Such problems,” I said. “Call in the ethicists.” Gently, I removed her fingers and placed them on the seat. “Take some time to figure it out, then call me.”

She stared at me, outraged, grabbed her glass, nearly threw herself halfway down the booth and showed me her back.

I saw her neck muscles tighten and loosen.

I was dealing with something fragile, easily bruised, maybe more dangerous because of it.

“Take me back, asshole.”

“Zena-”

“Fuck off!”

“Suit yourself.” I stood, hot-faced, teeth clenched, not having to fake it. She started to slide out of the booth but I blocked her exit, leaning over the table, glaring down at her.

“Get the hell out of my-”

“Ms. Third-of-a-Percent,” I whisper-growled. “Because I don't feel like creaming my slacks right here, I've failed you? Shouldn't the elite be a little more secure?”

My tone made her flinch. She was trying to outstare me but little things gave her away- nostrils flexing, spots of color sprouting on her face.

Pink spots, like a mild case of eczema. Her mouth trembled. Her nipples were bigger than ever, poking at the pink fabric.

I threw cash on the table. “It's been an experience. Let's go.”

“I'll leave when I'm ready.”

“Suit yourself.” I began walking out.

“Where the fuck do you think you're going?”

“Somewhere without pressure, Z.”

“Can't handle pressure?”

“Can but prefer not to.” I kept going. Suddenly, she was at my side, grabbing my bicep with both hands, clawing through tweed.

“Hold on, dammit, or I'll rip your shirt off right here!”

I stopped.

She moved around and faced me, reached up and cupped my chin in one hand. When Robin stands on tiptoe she barely brings herself to eye level with me. Zena missed by several inches and her breasts were up against my abdomen, our faces nearly touching. Someone watching might have thought it affectionate but she was squeezing my face too hard for affection and as I felt her nails graze my jawline, I prepared to bleed.

“Such a tough boy,” she said. “Such a tough, tough boy- when's the last time you were laid?”

“I don't keep records.”

She laughed. “Exactly as I thought. Okay, I'll attribute your lack of manners to drive level. You deserve release. My place. I'll show you how to get there.”

I drove back to Apollo with her sitting as close as the gearshift would allow, one hand around my neck, caressing idly as she hummed along with the Bartok she'd found on the radio. Her singing voice was coarse, off-key. I wanted to tell her to shut up.

“Tough boy,” she said. “Obviously, I need to be tender with you.”

I smiled. Thinking, what the hell am I going to do?

For all Milo's and Daniel's cautiousness, nothing had prepared me for this.