Bestiary

by Robert Masello

  “You look hot,” he said.

  Indira looked confused, touching her face to see if she was perspiring. “I’m not,” she said.

  “No, I meant you look . . . sexy.”

  “Oh. Thank you,” she said, but it didn’t sound to Greer like she meant it.

  Maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to say to her.

  “You want to go in?” he said, holding open the door to the restaurant. Indira went in, and Greer quickly checked out her ass. Ample, but he was okay with that. They were shown to a table pretty near the door.

  The waiter came by, took their drink orders—a beer for Greer, and a white wine spritzer for Indira—then left them to what should have been their own conversation. It’s just that there wasn’t one. Indira sat silent, pretending to study her menu, while Greer searched for something to say. How come it was no big deal at the clinic? There, he’d talk about what he’d seen on TV the night before, or the Lakers game, or what his mother had done to piss him off. True, Indira never said much in return, just sort of smiled and nodded from time to time, but he was sure she was paying attention and wanted to hear more. Now, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Parking was a bitch,” he finally said.

  Indira nodded. “Yes, in Westwood it’s very hard.”

  “Where’d you park?”

  “I didn’t. I took the bus.”

  Huh. Maybe physical therapists made even less money than he thought.

  “They’re very convenient, the buses in L.A.”

  “Never knew that.”

  The waiter brought their drinks, and Greer started in on his before thinking that maybe he should have clinked her glass or something. Indira didn’t seem to mind.

  The waiter came back to take their order, and Greer had to tell him to come back; he hadn’t even looked at the menu yet.

  “The Thai Crunch Salad is very good here,” Indira volunteered.

  Greer knew that the salad was at least one thing he wouldn’t be ordering. The place was called a pizza kitchen, so he was expecting to get a pizza or maybe a sausage calzone. He glanced over at a couple of college kids sitting at the next table; the girl was eating a mound of greens and sprouts and the guy had what Greer guessed they called a pizza here—it was a delicate-looking thing, with all kinds of shit on top but nothing that looked like green peppers or pepperoni. And the guy was actually eating it with a fork and knife.

  The waiter returned; Indira asked for her salad, and Greer ordered a grilled chicken sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. What could they do to fuck up a chicken sandwich?

  “How is your leg feeling?” Indira asked, and he was sorry she had. The whole point of this was that it was supposed to be like a date; she wasn’t supposed to act like his PT and he wasn’t supposed to have to act like a patient.

  “It’s okay,” he said. He had it sticking out kind of straight, under the table.

  “Are you doing your home exercises?”

  Christ. “You bet.”

  Another uncomfortable silence fell. Indira looked around the restaurant, and Greer followed her gaze. The place was filled with UCLA students and tables occupied by young women laughing and gabbing away. He knew he wasn’t actually much older than they were, but he felt like there was a canyon about a mile wide between him and them. They all looked so damn happy and young and, well, not exactly rich, but like money was no problem at all. They looked like they’d never seen anything all that bad happen . . . and, though he knew this was the kind of thought that would land him right back in psychiatric counseling, it made Greer want to show them something . . . something like the shit he’d seen on the “Highway to Hell,” as they’d called it, between Baghdad and the main airport.

  “So, what have you been up to?” Indira asked, smoothing her napkin in her lap.

  “This and that,” Greer replied. “Went to the shooting range the other day.” While he told her a little about the firing range and his pal Sadowski, his thoughts kept returning to what he’d really just been up to—trying to compose a blackmail note. He really needed some solid advice here—how did you turn a profit on this whole al-Kalli connection?—but for obvious reasons it wasn’t the kind of thing he could bring up to Indira. At least not now. But maybe if they got something going . . . later on . . .

  Things got a little bit better while they ate—Indira told him about growing up in Bombay, and how she went back there every other year to see her grandparents—and Greer had two more beers, which definitely helped his mood. He’d actually started to feel halfway friendly toward all the other customers trooping in and out of the place—maybe he didn’t stand out the way he thought he did—when some chick in high heels tripped over his foot.

  “Sorry,” she said, but in an exaggerated way, to prove that she really wasn’t.

  Greer’s leg had twisted against the base of the table, and now it felt like his toe had been jammed in a light socket. He didn’t say anything, but Indira could tell from his face that he’d really felt it.

  “Are you alright?” she asked him.

  “You really shouldn’t stick your feet out into the aisle,” the woman said. “I could have killed myself.”

  “If you don’t get your ass out of here,” Greer muttered, without looking up, “I will fucking kill you myself.”

  The woman looked stunned. One of her friends, also leaving, took her by the arm and said, “Come on, Emily—the guy’s a nut job, let him be.”

  “He’s not a nut job,” Indira shot back, whirling around on them. “He is a United States Army veteran and you should show him some respect.”

  The women were speechless now; other people were watching.

  “You should be giving him your apology,” Indira said. “Now get out.”

  And they did: One of them turned to throw a defiant glance back, but Indira froze her out with a glare.

  Greer could hardly believe it; it was like a mother lion rearing up to defend one of her cubs.

  “I’m alright,” he said, to calm the waters. “No harm done.”

  Indira turned back to him, her eyes down, and busied herself with her drink and her salad. The show over, the other diners went back to their meals.

  Greer gently massaged his leg under the table until it no longer felt like an electrical conduit. Man, he would never have expected that outburst from Indira; she was always so under control. But there was fire under that hood; he could see it now.

  When she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, he quickly dug down deep in his pocket and took out the little foil packet with his private stash of OxyContin. There were only two left; he’d need to hit up Zeke at the Blue Bayou for some more. He swallowed them both quickly with the last of his beer.

  Indira came back, and Greer threw some bills on the table.

  “No, no, I’ll pay for myself,” Indira insisted.

  “Come on,” Greer said, “it’s the least I can do for my public defender.”

  “No, you should not have to pay,” Indira said.

  But Greer simply levered himself up and out of the chair, and Indira let it go.

  “Thank you very much.”

  Greer nodded and started for the door. Outside, the streets were crowded; it was a hot night, and the Bruin and the Fox—two of the old, big-screen theaters in Westwood—had long lines snaking down the sidewalks.

  “You want to see a movie?” Greer asked, already starting to feel the numbing effect of the drugs.

  “No, thank you. I can catch the bus over on Gayley.”

  “What bus?” Greer said. “I’ll drive you home.”

  Indira started to protest again, but Greer just turned and headed back toward his car. He was hoping he hadn’t left anything incriminating out on the seat in plain sight. But when he got there, the worst of it was some burger wrappers and a few flyers from some strip clubs, all of which he tossed into the backseat.

  Indira lived with her family way over on the west side of L.A., in what turned out to be a S
panish bungalow on a narrow lot; a white van, with ELECTRICAL REPAIR AND INSTALLATION written on its side, was parked on the concrete patch where a lawn had probably once been.

  “Your dad an electrician?”

  “In Bombay, he was a civil engineer.”

  All the lights in the house were on, and he could hear somebody’s radio playing.

  What, he wondered, was he supposed to do now? Even when he was a teenager, he hadn’t done a lot of this stuff—the girls he knew then just met you down at the beach, and you screwed around under the lifeguard stand at night. Since then, he had largely been in the company of professionals; if he’d been with one of them now, he’d be halfway done already.

  He put the car in park, and started to lean across the seat. But Indira, reading his intentions, backed away with her hand on the door handle.

  “Thank you very much for dinner, Captain.”

  Captain? That was a bad sign.

  “But I must go in now.”

  Greer pulled back; fortunately, the OxyContin was making him feel nice and mellow right now. “You don’t want to . . . ?” he asked, without even finishing the sentence. He shrugged, like it was of no consequence. “That’s okay.”

  “But I will see you next week, for your regular appointment.”

  All of a sudden, it seemed to Greer that she was all business. It was as if she were wearing her lab coat again.

  She got out of the car, and he watched as she opened the door of the house. The radio got louder; it was playing 50 Cent. What the hell, he thought. Maybe that’s all this had been, after all; a PT being nice to a crip. Letting him practice his social skills.

  Fine. No problem. He had places to go.

  He put the car back in gear, let the engine roar once or twice to signal his departure, then took off for the Blue Bayou.

  By the time he arrived, all the spots out front were taken, but Greer took his handicapped placard out of the glove compartment, hung it from the rearview mirror, and parked the car under a Permit Only sign. When he was just driving around, he didn’t like to leave the sign out, advertising his condition, but at times like this it came in real handy.

  Inside, the lights were shining on the runway, and a woman with black hair, cut short and straight across, was swinging around the pole in a G-string. It took a second for Greer’s eyes to adjust, then he saw that it was Ginger Lee, Sadowski’s girlfriend. She was half-Chinese or Korean or something, and Greer had always wondered how that jibed with Sadowski’s general attitude toward anybody who wasn’t white.

  At the bar, Zeke was pulling a beer, but spotted Greer, nodded, and made him his next stop.

  “What can I do you for?” he asked.

  “Make it a Jack Daniel’s, a double,” Greer said, “and a taste of what we did last time.”

  “How big a taste?”

  Greer peered into his wallet, and said, “Make it a hundred.”

  Zeke poured the drink, palmed a tinfoil packet into Greer’s hand, and said, “My team won the semis last week.”

  “That so.” Zeke was a tall blond volleyball player, who was only bartending—and dealing—until the big volleyball money started to roll in.

  “Yeah, you ought to come to the finals. We play down on the beach in Santa Monica.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Seriously, you ought to—you got to get some sun. You need sunlight to make vitamin D, and vitamin D is good for your bones.”

  This was some night, Greer thought; everybody was looking out for his welfare. “Sadowski here?”

  “Haven’t seen him.” Somebody called out for a Black Russian, and Zeke went back to work. Greer turned on his stool so he could see the runway. Ginger was upside down now, with her feet, in black spiked heels, wrapped around the pole. How’d she do that? The music was blasting Prince, “1999,” and the stage was littered with tightly crumpled bills. Greer knew that routine; you wanted to look like a sport, but you didn’t want to spend too much, so you crumpled up your bills—ones, maybe a five now and then—and tossed ’em to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t notice what they were until she’d already given you a little personalized attention.

  He had a nice buzz on just now, and maybe that was just what he needed. Personalized attention.

  He sipped his drink, and thought about Indira—that was going nowhere, what had he been smoking?—and then he thought about Ginger, bending down now to scoop up the bills lying around, and then, after she left the stage and another girl, dressed in a red, white, and blue bikini, came out, he thought about al-Kalli again. And how he could make that pay.

  “Hey, Derek,” Ginger said, popping onto the next barstool. He hadn’t seen her coming.

  “You catch my set?” she asked.

  “Most of it.” She was wearing a sequined tube top and high-cut black panties.

  “What’d you think of the new music?”

  “Prince is old.”

  “I mean, it’s new music for my act. I think a lot of these guys like the oldies.”

  Greer wondered how old Ginger was—nineteen, twenty? “You could be on to something.” And she looked good in what there was of the outfit. What was she doing with Sadowski?

  “You want to buy me a drink?”

  Greer snorted. “Why don’t you use some of that cash you just picked up?”

  She raised a finger toward Zeke, and he brought her a glass of something green.

  “Stan’s not here,” she said.

  “So I noticed.”

  “He doesn’t come in till later. After his shift.”

  If only Sadowski weren’t so stupid, Greer thought, he’d be somebody he could discuss the al-Kalli angles with. But knowing Sadowski, he’d just recommend that Greer kidnap the guy and hold him for ransom.

  “You want a dance?” she said, tilting her head toward the Blue Room in back, where the lap dancing went on.

  Greer gave her a look. “What about Stan?”

  “What about him? He doesn’t care.” She licked the rim of her glass. “Only rule he’s got is, you got to be white.”

  “How’s management feel about that?” Greer asked, looking around. Maybe half the men in the room fell something short of that high standard.

  “Who cares? I do what I want anyway.”

  Maybe she and Sadowski did deserve each other. She put a hand suggestively on his knee.

  “I’ll make it special for you,” she said. “Other guys can’t touch, but I’ll let you.”

  Her hand slid up his thigh. “What about it?”

  What about it indeed. For the first time in ages, Greer felt something in his thigh that wasn’t an ache or a pain. He swallowed the last of his drink. She spread her fingers, letting them fall between his legs.

  She didn’t say another word—maybe she knew she didn’t have to. Instead, she slid off the stool, taking Greer by one hand, and without looking back led him, the way you’d lead a horse by the reins, toward the Blue Room. A burly guy with a clipboard stood in front of the silver Mylar strips that made up the entryway, reeled off the prices, and checked them in. Then Ginger guided him to a big, plush wing chair in the corner. Another guy was already being serviced on a love seat. The music in here was slower, lower. You were paying for the privacy, of sorts, and the romantic mood.

  Ginger playfully pushed Greer back into the chair—he could tell she was already going into her regular act—and ran her hands across his chest and onto his shoulders. She unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, while Greer, who knew the usual rules, sat back passively, with his hands resting on the arms of the chair.

  “Oooh,” she cooed, as if she’d never laid eyes on him before. “You are so . . . sexy. You make me want to come, and we haven’t even got started yet.”

  Greer put his head back against the chair; the fabric was still warm from the last guy’s head.

  “Do I make you want to come?” she whispered, leaning in so close her lips actually brushed his. Was that, Greer wondered, part of the special service
he was going to get? He could taste something sweet—left over from that green stuff she was drinking—on his own mouth.

  “Yeah,” he said, just to keep things rolling along, “you sure do.”

  “That’s good, ’cause what I want is for us to come together.”

  Greer wondered if anybody ever fell for this nonsense. Even in his present state—with a few drinks in him and several pharmaceutical products still percolating through his veins—he was well aware that he was being played. Ginger rubbed her cheek against his—“oh, it’s rough,” she said, “I like rough”—and then she playfully nipped at his ear. Only she really got it between her teeth and gave the lobe a sharp little tug.

  “I call that my Mike Tyson,” she said, giggling.

  Greer had to smile. Despite himself, he was starting to get into it. She had a very tight little body, and she knew how to use it. Her fingernails, painted different colors, were a few inches long, and she used them to rake his forearms and his pecs. Her breath was warm and her lips were sticky; she planted another little kiss on his chest, in the space where she’d opened his shirt. “You really do turn me on, Derek,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  He was momentarily confused. The use of his name wasn’t supposed to be part of the game; he had just gotten used to the fact that she was playing him—and he was okay with that—and now she had to go and make things personal. He wished she hadn’t.

  “I’ve wanted to do this,” she said, “ever since Stan brought you in here that first time.”

  She kissed him again, lower down, then whipped herself around. Her ass, straining against the black panties, gyrated in front of him. His hands wanted to reach out and grab her, but he knew the rules.

  She was doubled over at the waist, moving her ass, and looking back at him now. “You want to touch it?” she said.

  Greer didn’t have to answer.