Authors: Robert Masello
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers
Bestiary (17 page)
“Do what?” he said, waving the smoke toward the open window.
“I can smell it out here. You know I’m allergic.”
He stubbed out the cigarette and logged off. It was almost time to leave, anyway; he had a date in Westwood, with his physical therapist.
He’d been sort of considering it for a long time, but he hadn’t gotten up his nerve to ask her until the last session. And he couldn’t tell whether she was really interested or just being nice to a gimp. She’d said she’d meet him there, at the California Pizza Kitchen, a place he’d never set foot in. He was more of a Carl’s Jr. kind of guy. But he hadn’t been on what you’d call a date for a very long time, so maybe that was what you did these days.
In Westwood, he circled the area several times until he found a spot on the street—no way was he going to pay those parking garage fees—so by the time he got to the restaurant, Indira was already waiting outside. It was the first time he’d ever seen her when she wasn’t wearing her white coat. She had on a pair of black slacks and a striped blouse; her hips were bigger than he thought they’d be—that white coat was pretty good camouflage—but she looked good. He walked toward her slowly, so his limp would be less pronounced.
“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.”
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 Spanish 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.
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