Survival Of The Fittest

“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.

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.”

At Genesee, I put the Karmann Ghia in the garage and was inside the apartment just before midnight. Past Robin's bedtime but I called her anyway, certain the conversation would be monitored by who-knew-how-many people at the Israeli Consulate.

“Hullo.”

“Hi, hon. Were you asleep?”

“No, waiting,” she said, stifling a yawn. “ 'Scuse me. Where are you, Alex?”

“The apartment. I may be here for a while. If things stretch too late I may just stay here. By the way, this is a high-tech party line.”

“Oh,” she said. “So when will you know? If you're coming home?”

“Why don't you just assume I won't be. I'll call you as soon as I can. Just wanted to say I love you.”

“Love you, too. If you can make it home, please do, Alex.”

“I will.”

“The main thing is you're safe.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

I made instant coffee in the kitchen and sat on the dusty couch.

Baker. The bearded man. Houseguests. How many others?

Had Farley Sanger been at the party?

Vehicle in the garage.

Chevy van?

Because I remembered Wilson Tenney's driver's-license photo.

Mid-thirties, mid-sized, clean-shaven, long, light brown hair.

Cut the hair, grow a beard. Someone besides me had been aiming for disguise.

Baker and Tenney and Zena.

Maybe others.