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.

I thought of Robin's good-bye, two hours ago.

How far was I willing to go?

I tried to put it in perspective by picturing Irit's body among the trees, Latvinia hanging in the schoolyard, Raymond's bloody shoes, the pain Melvin Myers had felt. But what if this creature hadn't been part of that- nutty but not dangerous-

“Lyric's the next corner,” she said. “Make a left.”

As I turned, I allowed myself another look-around for Milo. Once again, moderate traffic, but no one followed me up the steep, shady road.

Lyric offered barely enough room for one car and I drove slowly, trying to sort out my thoughts. Zena began to drum her fingers on my thigh.

“Keep going to the top.”

I checked out the neighborhood. Houses to the right, dry embankment to the left. Draped with cactus, of all things. Between the homes was an eastern view that would have been stunning but for a saucer-shaped suspension of airborne filth hovering over the skyline.

“All the way up,” she repeated, sounding impatient. “Right here- okay, now turn left over there- that's Rondo Vista. I'm a block up- pull in right here.”

The Karmann Ghia came to rest on a cracked cement pad. It could have been any L.A. hilltop neighborhood, silent, hot, precarious, houses of all sizes and designs, unevenly tended.

Facing the pad was a closed double garage, next to that, a flat-roofed white box with blue wood trim in need of touch-up. Leading to the blue door was a short walkway topped with corrugated fiberglass panels and lined with hanging spider plants, most of them dead. Pink geraniums in a window box set on the ground weren't doing well, either. A rusting hibachi sat near the front steps, leaking orange onto the cement.

“Ma maison,” she said. “French is the language of physicality.”

She kissed my cheek, waited for me to open the passenger door, then jumped out and marched ahead, as she had in the restaurant, bare arms swinging, narrow hips swaying, pink heels clacking.

She got to the door when I was ten feet behind and opened it. Then she stopped, stared inside, gave a small wave- greeting someone- and closed it.

“Merde, Andrew. We are stymied.”

“What's going on?”

She touched my face gently. “Tsk-tsk, the poor lad is suffused with lust and nowhere to spend… Guests, Andrew. Friends staying over. They were supposed to be gone all day, they've changed their plans. Le grand dragorama, but such is our reality.”

I frowned. “So much for spontaneity.”

“So soddy, my dear.”

I kept the frown going. She put a finger to her lip and looked at her watch.

“I suppose,” she said, glancing at the garage, “I could take you in there and give you a nice quick suck… but, such a shame to reduce our first collision to that- where's your place?”

“The Fairfax district.”

She studied me. “A taste for bagels?”

“A taste for cheap.”

“Do you live alone- of course you do- but, no, it would take too long to get all the way to Semite-town and back, and I really must return to the shop.”

The shop. As if she were selling dainty things.

I said, “Great.”

She stood higher and pulled me down at the same time. Kissed my nose.

“Oh, Andrew, I've done you wrong. Obviously, it just wasn't meant to be. Thanks for lunch.”

“My pleasure.”

“Was it?”

Another kiss, softer, on my chin.

“Yes,” I said. “Very much so.”

“That's nice, Andrew. You're being so gallant about this- look at us, standing here being so civil. Aren't we both being wonderfully decent?”

I laughed and she joined in.

“I tell you, dear,” she said, placing a hand on my chest. “If the erotic moment hadn't passed, I would have dragged you into the garage, laid you across my friends' car, and sucked you to the root. Alas.”

I drove her back to the store and this time she opened the door herself and jumped out.

“Bye, Andrew,” she said, through the open window.

“Shall we meet again?”

“Shall we, shan't we… that depends upon whether or not you'll settle for less than all of me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, in the very immediate future all I can offer you is social contact, dear. Meaning, the closest you'll get to my precious parts might be a surreptitious grab punctuating the chitchat.”

“Chitchat with your houseguests?”

“And others.” She gave a happy-kid grin. “I've scheduled a soiree, Andrew. Tomorrow night. Cocktails at nine o'clock, casual dress. And you are now invited.”

“What's the occasion?”

“No occasion, Andrew. A carpe-diem kind of thing- good fellowship and social intercourse. Fun. Surely you remember fun?”

“With the top one-third of a percent? Are you sure I qualify?”

“Oh, Andrew, is this all too diffuse for you?”

“Diffuse?”

“Sharing me, after we've worked ourselves up.”