#001: And Death Smiled 

He looked about two-eighty of solid beef and had a lot of mean energy in the eyes. Kind of guy you'd rather give a sweet smile and wish a nice day or else disregard entirely. From where I stood at the moment, I had neither option. He was coming at me with apparent felonious intent, moving swiftly along my side of the net like a linebacker sniffing blood. Mine. I had one of those inane thoughts—Wrong game, guy—but I didn't voice it, nor did I consider it prudent to inquire as to the name of it. I learned a few games ago that he who gets there first with the most is usually the one who walks away smiling. So I let the ball sail on past me to meet the gorilla instead, with my best backhand, the tennis racket angled edgewise and moving toward maximum effect.

He grunted and went slowly to his knees, mean energy dissolving instantly into sick passivity and maybe a bit of bewilderment. I wanted to say, "Oops, sorry, wrong ball," but I decided it was no time for humor. Besides, a gorgeous redhead had run onto the court, and I had the impression that she was mad as hell with me—maybe because she called me a dumb bitch.

So I went to the net and thanked the flustered tennis pro, then went to the sideline for a towel while the irate lady fussed over the stricken giant. I put the towel around my neck, casually lit a cigarette, and headed for the locker room. The redhead intercepted me about halfway there, fire in the eye and ready to storm all over me. I tried to disarm her with my patented girlish smile but it didn't work.

"You did that on purpose!" she cried. And, yeah, furious.

I didn't try to deny it. I just said "Yep," and kept moving.

"You're an animal!" she yelled after me.

That was my first meeting with Karen Highland. And Bruno. That was a Wednesday. I didn't see them again until Friday, early afternoon, Malibu. This time they came to my office—or to what passes for an office. Bruno held the door for the lady, then came on in behind her and very quietly took a chair at the back wall without once looking me in the eye. I figured, okay, now we understand each other. She was in an easier frame of mind, too, though obviously quite nervous.

I stood up and offered her my hand. She took it, murmured her name, gave me an appraising look as I gave the appropriate reply, then dropped my hand and took herself to the window. Nice view from that window. Pacific Ocean surf, Santa Monica skyline curving into the distance, lots of blue sky. I had the feeling she was seeing none of it.

I was really struck by her beauty. The hair about shoulder length and lying in a soft up-flip, sort of piled a bit at the top and falling into waves at the forehead; velvet cream skin that invited contact; wide-spaced oval eyes of a shade I can only compare with wild violets—but fear there, yeah, fear or desperation or maybe both. She had the long, clean lines you see on showgirls, draped very fashionably in a simple cotton dress that somehow nevertheless managed to look very expensive.

I was struck, yeah—which is probably why I blew this meeting too. I tend to be a bit defensive when I respond this way to a prospective client.

"Let's try this again," she said softly from the window. I had her in profile, feet planted wide apart, hands clasped behind her, shoulders sort of tight, lovely head tilted downward.

I had one of my flashes at that moment. I'll tell you more about those later. For now just believe me when I say that I did not see Karen Highland in that flash; what I saw was another person, older—sick, maybe, or otherwise burdened to the breaking point with some terrible problem, very frightened and very much in need of help.

It flashed on me, then dissolved before I could really inspect the apparition. I shot a look toward Bruno. He was staring at the ceiling. I had been thinking about it since she called me that Wednesday night for the appointment, and I'd decided to tell Miss Highland that I had too many things going right now, and would she call me again next month or next year if she couldn't find another counselor.

All that changed in that flash. I went to the window and put my hands on her shoulders from behind in a light massage—she was carrying a lot of tension there—and suggested that she make herself comfortable.

She had told me, that night on the phone, "Bruno is mute. He was just trying to attract your attention."

And I had told her that he looked like a head-hunter to me, that he invaded my tennis game, that I'd felt it only prudent to sit him down before inquiring as to his intentions.

"He was flustered," she explained. "We'd been trying to catch your attention for several minutes. He's just very direct. And you wouldn't look toward us."

I could have explained to her, but did not, that my concentration on a game of tennis approaches that achieved by a Zen master, so I could buy her apology.

"Does he read lips?" I asked her, present time, with a glance at Bruno as I escorted her to a chair.

"He's not deaf," she replied, "—just mute."

"Then he is not going to sit here during this consultation," I said flatly.

"Wait in the car, Bruno, please," she said without hesitation and without raising her voice.

The big guy was up and out of there almost before she finished speaking, as though he had received those orders before they came in there and he was just awaiting his cue.

I let the door close behind him before I retreated to my desk—well, it's sort of a desk—more of a table with a couple of small drawers, really—acrylic, transparent. Serves the purpose without getting stuffy.

There was a long, almost tense silence while the lady and I exchanged smiles. Finally I asked her, "So how can I help you, Karen?"

She dropped those amazing eyes, brushed nervously at her lap with scarlet-tipped fingers, waited a moment as though trying to construct a sentence, then replied, "I was referred to you by someone at Zodiac."

Zodiac is a metaphysical retreat up the coast near Santa Barbara. I kept on smiling and said, "Someone?"

"I don't know her name. Well, I—actually—I wasn't actually referred. I just overheard this conversation." She swept me with those great eyes. "And I figured—maybe—you're the one."

"The one for what?"

"To—to help me."

"To help you do what?"

She was staring at her lap again. It was like pulling teeth, opening this one up. I told her, "I'm not a medical doctor, you know."

"Don't need one," she murmured.

"Nor a shrink."

She showed me a small smile. "Well, maybe I do need one of those. But that's not what—that is not why I am here. They said you're into all this stuff."

"All what stuff?"

"The stuff they do up there. And that you'd written this paper about—well, on uh, against asceticism."

"I did do one of those," I agreed, remembering, and remembering also the furor at Zodiac over that paper. It was actually a treatise on cosmic sex and the way it really ought to be, the way it could be if people's heads were on straight. The people at Zodiac—or a good number of them, it seemed—were trying to leave the carnal plane behind without dying first—some, without living first. I thought it was bullshit and I said so in the paper.

"I read it," she said quietly.

It was my turn for the lap-inspection bit. After several seconds of high-voltage silence I lifted a direct gaze her way and said, "And ... ?"

"I'd like to try that."

"You'd like to try that what?"

"What you said in the paper."

I'm sure my smile was a bit forced as I replied to that. "Okay. Why not? Can't hurt you, I guess, with the right partner. But I would not recommend Bruno."

That amused her. "I inherited Bruno when my parents died. He's like an uncle. No, uh—I was thinking of you."

I already knew that—but was hoping like hell, still, that she would not say it.

I told the beautiful lady, with all the professional aplomb I could muster, "Doesn't work that way. I don't work that way. Fall in love. Try it on your honeymoon."

That seemed to sting her. A nostril flared. I could

feel the self-consciousness oozing away. When she spoke it was gone entirely. "Three cheers for old- fashioned morality." Stung, yeah. "You disappoint me, Naru."

I was rather disappointed in myself, to tell the truth. But I did not tell her that truth. What I did tell her was, "I am not a professional anything, you know. I have... certain insights. People have found me out. Sometimes I agree to help them with specific problems. But I do not rent myself out for sex. There's a name for that. I'm not it. But what is your real problem?"

"What?"

"Why are you really here?"

"I told you."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

"Bullshit. I saw her, when you were at the window." I described the apparition. "Anyone you know?"

She had become very pale and her hands were shaking as she struggled with a cigarette. "Then you're really for real," she said quietly, giving up on the cigarette.

I did not respond to that.

After another long moment of silence the lady said, "I've seen her too. It's spooky. I think, maybe ..."

I lit the cigarette for her—one for myself too—gave her another moment to get it back together, then prodded. "You were thinking, maybe ..."

"I don't know, it sounds crazy, I never talk to anyone about this. I have been seeing her since I was a little girl. Not—I don't mean—not all the time, nothing like that. But ... now and then ... special times."

"Such as?"

"Oh, if I'm sick, or upset about something or ... well, and since I've grown up she seems to appear more frequently and now she's ..."

"What?"

"I think she's trying to communicate."

"How does this manifest?"

"What?"

"In what way does she attempt communication?"

"Nothing ... physical. I just get this ... awful feeling that she's trying to tell me something."

"Something important."

"Yes. It seems very important. But then she ... wisps away."

"Wisps?"

"Like smoke dispersing."

I said, "Uh huh. Who is she, Karen?"

The reply was whispered. "I don't know."

"No idea at all?"

"None." This reinforced with a decisive shake of the head. "But I think she ... wanted me to ... to find you."

"Why do you think that?"

"I just do. Don't ask me to explain something I don't understand myself." A bit of fire again. "She wanted me to."

I mulled it for a moment, then: "What exactly do you want from me? No bullshit. What do you want?"

"Maybe I want two things."

"By the numbers, then. One?"

She took a deep breath. "One, help me get rid of her. No, that's number two."

I supplied the necessary prompt without blinking an eye. "And one?"

"Teach me cosmic sex," unblinkingly came right back.

"Because?"

"Because I just might kill myself if you don't."

"It's that bad?"

"Believe me, it's that bad." The fire was back, full blaze. "Look, to hell with pride. I have tried everything there is to try. I am not a frigid woman, believe me, I'm not. I am very responsive, highly responsive. To a point."

I did not have to feign sympathy. One of the awareness kicks I had tried involved a process of sexual arousal right to the cresting point and then backing off, over and over. I tried it for about a month. I developed a stammer, and could think of absolutely nothing but sex all the time.

So I did not have to feign sympathy, no. "One point below bliss, eh?"

"Always one point below."

"Nonorgasmic."

Getting edgy again, almost hostile: "That's the dirty word."

"Since when?"

"Since forever."

"What does your ethereal companion have to do with it?"

"Oh shit!" She was on her feet, moving toward the door. "I knew you'd get to that! Forget it, huh? Just forget it!"

"Sit down!" I commanded loudly.

From the door: "Go to hell!" Out, then back in again, furious: "This must have been a great treat to your ego! Well, forget it! Temporary insanity! Do you think I have to pay an another woman to fuck me?"

She was gone before I could have replied to that, if I'd had a mind to, which I didn't. I'd handled it very badly. I knew that. And I was already formulating a plan to telephone her as soon as she'd had a chance to cool down.

But I did not have to do that.

She was back again within seconds, standing in my doorway all pale and shaking. "Help me," she moaned. "Something is wrong with Bruno."

But I could not help her all that much. A lot was wrong with Bruno. All was wrong with Bruno.

He was seated behind the wheel of a shiny new Mercedes, not a mark on the body, but also no pulse and no heartbeat. There was no response whatever to twenty minutes of CPR. The paramedics took over and tried for another ten minutes or so, then they simply covered him and transported him to wherever lifeless bodies are taken.

"Did you see her?" Karen asked me in a stricken voice as the ambulance rounded the corner onto Coast Highway.

Yeah, I saw her. She'd moved into the ambulance behind Bruno and was staring at us through the rear window as it pulled away from the house. And I am certain that she was smiling.