Survival Of The Fittest

56

Zena was at the store when i made the confirmation call.

“How gallant of you to verify, A.”

“Just wanted to make sure you weren't too worn out from the party.”

“Me? Never. On the contrary, bursting with energy. I shall prepare comestibles- pasta with clams, Caesar salad, fruit of the vine.”

“The woman cooks, too.”

“Oh, do I.” She laughed. “I simmer and sometimes I boil over. I'll leave a key in the empty flowerpot near the door. I'll be ready.”

At 9:30 I put on an Andrew uniform: gray shirt, baggy gray pants, the same tweed sportcoat. The same cologne.

Starless night, a washed-slate sky, the air reeking of wet paper, damp around the edges.

I took La Brea to Sunset. The boulevard was rife with spandex and leather, delusions passing as hope. East of Western it changed: darkened buildings hemmed by shadow-strewn corners, everything murky, grubby, too quiet.

I drove automatically, slowly, as if riding a track, reached Lyric just after ten o'clock, and climbed the winding road, now stripped of cars.

Rondo Vista was mortuary silent. Zena's garage was closed and one car was parked in front of her house. Fifty-eight T-bird. Pink with a white top, faded and scarred.

Had to be hers.

The same faint light from her window. Setting the mood?

I parked and headed for the door. The covered pathway was dark, the dead spider plants shuddered in the night breeze. Feeling an inexplicable pang of first-date anxiety, I groped til I found the key in the pot, resting atop a mound of bone-dry planter's mix.

Music from inside.

Electric guitars played slowly.

Beautiful, dreamy music.

“Sleepwalk,” by Santo and Johnny.

Zena setting the mood. I remembered the song from my childhood. She hadn't been born when it hit the charts.

I unlocked the door, expecting to find her downstairs in the bedroom, maybe some kind of cute note directing me to the stuffed animals.

She was right there in the living room.

Lit by a single pole lamp with a weak blue bulb.

Theatrical.

Nude, on the sofa.

She reclined, one arm extended along the top of the couch, like Goya's “Naked Maja.” Wide-eyed with eagerness, her tiny white body perfectly formed, pearly in the steely light. Nipples pink and erect, oversized for the small, white breasts, black hair sprayed static. Her legs were spread just enough to offer a view of bleached-blond pubic patch. Her other arm rested on her flat, smooth belly.

I smelled clam sauce but the lights were out in the kitchen.

No preliminaries. How to get out of this-

“Hi,” I said.

She didn't speak. Or move.

I came closer, was inches away before I saw the ligature around her neck. Copper wire, biting into the slender stem, so tight it had been invisible.

Wide, wide blue eyes. Not seductiveness. Surprise, the final surprise.

I turned to run, was caught by the elbows from behind.

A knee in the small of my back sent a jolt of pain up my spine and made my legs give way.

Then hands around my neck, more pain, different- an entire new definition of pain, as the back of my head exploded.