“Ha! Don't go getting ideas, A. Desmond. I'm empowered to shop without buying.”
“I'm sure you shop and return.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“That you're a selective woman,” I said. “At least that would be my assumption.”
“Why's that?”
“Just a guess.”
She wiggled her toes some more. “This could get interesting- turn here.”
No further conversation. She kept staring out the passenger window, sticking her head out from time to time to breathe in smoggy wind. The rearview mirror remained askew. I straightened it and took the opportunity to glance back.
Lots of cars behind me but no way to know if Milo was in any of them.
“Right here,” said Zena. She arched her back and I saw the outline of her nipples, sharp and defined against pink polyester.
I hadn't noticed that in the store. Had she removed her bra?
I had a pretty good idea how she'd captured Malcolm Ponsico from Sally Branch.
“Here,” she said.
La Petite was misnamed- a big mock chateau on a generous property- more old L.A.- the only business in sight without a Spanish sign. The parking lot was nearly empty but the cars I saw were expensive. Red-vested valets lounged near the porte cochere. One of them held Zena's door open and eyed the Karmann Ghia as if it were contagious.
The restaurant's interior was a couple of lumens above pitch-dark. Oak tables and ceiling beams, leather booths, Impressionist copies, dessert carts heaped with sculptural pastries on doilies. Suddenly I remembered the place. I'd eaten there once, fifteen years ago. A hospital administrator with an expense account explaining why surgery was heroic and psychology wasn't but that I was expected to speak to the volunteer luncheon anyway because genteel women didn't want to know about scalpels and retractors.
Up front was a trio of worried-looking Frenchmen in tuxedos. They aimed cold looks of recognition at Zena. She walked ahead of me and announced, “Two.”
The baldest and oldest of the three stiffened, said, “Mademoiselle,” and snatched up a pair of huge tasseled menus before hurrying after Zena as she headed for a remote corner booth.
Her usual trysting place?
The maitre d's chilly expression congealed as he watched her snap her napkin open. When I caught his attention, he gave me the same appraisal. “Bon apetit.”
“Do you have cassoulet today?” she said.
“No, mademoiselle, I'm afrai-”
“What's decent?”
His smile was so pained it could have used anesthesia. “What did you have last time, mademoiselle?”
“Sole VÉronique but it was mushy.”
“Mushy?”
“Mushy, soft, flabby, pulpous. In need of another minute in the skillet. Which I saw to.”
He grabbed his bow tie and entertained homicide. “Very well. I will inform the chef.”
She smiled. “Two ice waters with lemon while we decide, and bring a bottle of a decent white wine.”
“Decent,” he muttered.
“A California wine,” she added. “Chardonnay, whatever year was decent.”
When he was gone, she said, “The French are such pompous fucks. Pomposity in the face of substance is one thing, but they're so fucking socially and intellectually bankrupt, that it's reduced to pathetic posturing. Obsessed with their moribund culture, their snot-nosed language, in pathological denial of the fact that no one speaks it anymore because it's linguistically anorexic.”
“How do you really feel about it?”
She giggled.
“By anorexic,” I said, “you mean not enough words?”
“Oh, there're enough words to order pressed duck,” she said, “but insufficient for anything serious. As in technology. When's the last time computer software originated in French?”
“It's a beautiful language,” I said.
She laughed. A Mexican busboy brought water.
“The chef,” she said. “More like a short-order cook with no green card- probably that one's uncle.”
We were two feet apart in the booth and I could smell her perfume- light, floral, old-fashioned. Probably French. I smiled at her and she began to scoot farther away, changed her mind and stayed put. Licking a finger, she traced a vertical path down the frost on her water glass. Then another. Two lines. She crossed them twice, made a tic-tac-toe board, erased it.
“As you can see,” she said, “I have my Swift-plus-Pope days, as well.”
“Common ground.”
“If you're lucky.”
I laughed.
“What?” she said.
“You don't lack confidence.”
She arched her back again. “Should I?”
Before I could answer, a tiny hand clamped around my wrist. Small fingers, all bones, but soft at the tips. Hot, like those of a child with a fever or too much enthusiasm.
“Should I lack confidence, Andrew?”
“I'd say no,” I said. “You're obviously endowed on many levels.”
The hand tightened and I felt her nails digging into my arm.
“Am I?”
“Intellectually and physically,” I said. The hand loosened and her index finger began massaging the space between my thumb and forefinger. Small, circular motions. Annoying, but I didn't resist.
Abruptly, she pulled away.
“Maybe it's psychological,” she said, grinning. “My confidence, that is. All through my childhood, my parents told me how wonderful I was.”
“Good child-rearing,” I said.
“I didn't say they were good. Just free with the praise.”
Her voice had hardened. I looked into her eyes. In the weak light, the blue irises were deep gray.
“Actually,” she said, “they were excellent. Brilliant, educated people who taught me standards. What about yours?”
I shook my head. “Wish I could say the same.”
“Abused child, tsk-tsk?”
“No,” I said. “But far short of excellent.”
“Poor snookums,” she said. “His mummy didn't nurture him- is that why you chose psychology?”
“Probably.”
“Probably? You don't know?”
“I'm not much for self-analysis.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“The point,” I said, “is to try to understand as much as you can of this psychotic world so you can do what you feel like. I get into other people's heads but stay away from my own crap. If that's inconsistent, so be it.”
“Grumpy, grumpy, cher A. I'm getting the feeling that you get off on conflict. When things get too easy you lose interest, correct?”
I didn't answer.
“True?” she said, elbowing my arm hard.
“As I said, self-analysis chafes, Z.” I picked up a menu. “What do you suggest?”
Refusing to play. Her lean face was rigid with anger. Then she smiled.
“Well,” she said merrily, “I'd go for the sole VÉronique.”
I turned and stared at her. “Not mushy today?”
“If it is, we throw it in their fucking faces.”
It was firm.
Presented by the maitre d' with a hateful flourish. He studied me as I tasted, then Zena. I nodded, she kept eating. He turned on his heel.
I watched her dissect the fish, examining every forkful, chewing slowly but steadily, never pausing. She finished and moved through the side dishes with silent drive, and by the time I'd had enough, she'd cleaned her plate. Even the parsley.
“Another talent,” I said.
“Are you one of those men who thinks women shouldn't eat?”
“Heaven forfend.”
“Good. I like to eat.” She sat back and wiped her lips. “And not an ounce ends up here.” Patting a flat tummy. “I just burn calories. A surfeit of energy.”
“You would have made a good cheerleader.”
A flash of dentition spread across her face. “I was a great cheerleader.” Snapping her fingers, she began moving her head from side to side, threw her arms up, shaking imaginary pom-poms. A few more people had come into the restaurant but all had been seated in the adjoining room. Zena earning her privacy with past displays?