Dating Is Murder

“No,” I said. “I barely took any in high school. But I’ve been studying the course-sequence chart in the catalog, in itself pretty challenging, as some course numbers go backward, meaning that Math 81 precedes Math 20-but anyway. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Pi

Mr. Pi

My heart sank. “And I have to take these courses one at a time, in sequence.”

“Unless you test out.”

“You mean the math-assessment test. I did that, remember? You have the results.”

Mr. Pi

“No. But after that test, I got a math tutor.”

“Good. How’s that going?”

A vision popped into my head of A

Mr. Pi

“-done long division since the Reagan administration. I know. But I can’t afford to stay here taking math, one class at a time, for the rest of my natural life. I’m hoping to transfer to UCLA.” UCLA had a beautiful campus. Equally important, it offered the graphic arts degree I was seeking. It would not admit me, though, until Santa Monica College had certified me, according to the terms of the Intersegmental General Education Transfer Curriculum.

“Okay,” he said. “Take the assessment test anytime before your registration date, which is”-he typed into his computer-“two weeks. You get one more shot, then you have to wait three months to retest. Meanwhile, might as well do the math. Without math, you won’t do squat in science. Good luck, Wollie.”

I walked out into the sunshine, squinting. The campus no longer seemed the symbol of possibility it had been a half hour earlier. I felt old, stupid, and poor. But I had to make this work, because my other dreams weren’t pa

They hadn’t fazed A

She’d done this. A

I missed her.

An hour later I was at Westside Pavilion, replaying my conversation with the blue-eyed guy. “The more I think about it,” I said to Fredreeq, “the more I’m sure he was talking about A

“No,” she said, leading me past the food court. “I’ve been thinking too, and I’m thinking industrial sabotage.”

“Industrial-? What industry?”

“How many industries are you involved in?” She took a left, heading to a boutique called Plastique, which was having a going-out-of-business sale. “Television, you nut. This isn’t just a show we’re doing, it’s a contest. People bet money on contests, which means other people are making money on the people betting money on this contest. Vegas people.”

“What people? Fredreeq, I’m not going to find anything in here.” I stopped in front of a Plastique Boutique ma

“Never mind that. It’s a big bad world out there, with scams going down you’ve never even- Hello,” she said to a girl at a sale table, stacking sweaters in a desultory ma

The girl didn’t look up from her sweaters. “No.”

“No, you can’t tell me, or no, she’s not working?” Fredreeq asked. A salesclerk at the register, I noticed, stared at us as she picked up a phone.

“I don’t know her schedule,” the sweater stacker said.

“Well, who might know her schedule?” Fredreeq asked. When the girl gave a world-weary sigh, Fredreeq grew frighteningly polite. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you? I’m not asking you to go out on a limb here and make eye contact-”

“What am I, a Web site?” The girl blinked spiderlike eyelashes. “You people come in wanting to know all this stuff, you could at least buy some clothes.”

Fredreeq put her hand on her heart. “Oh, are these clothes? I thought they were something that fell off the space shuttle. You know, sweetie, frown lines are not as sexy as you probably think. Another ten years and a laser’s going to have to remove those.”

I pulled Fredreeq to the door. “Why do you want to meet Kim Karmer?” I asked. “Is it even kosher for me to talk to another contestant?”

Fredreeq pointed at Robinson-May and made a beeline for the cosmetic counter. “The question is, Who else wants to know about Kim Karmer? What did that twit mean by ‘you people’? This fits my saboteur theory. Vegas is backing Sava

I pondered this at the Clinique counter, while Fredreeq tried out lip crayons. It seemed so unlikely that the tall enigmatic man from Hot Aloo was haunting the mall, questioning surly salespeople. He was too… what?

What was it about him that so intrigued me? Aside from our odd conversation.

I was still pondering this when Fredreeq, now trying out powder blush on my face, looked back out at the mall. “Let’s go,” she said, eyes wide. I turned to see two men in leather jackets walking purposefully toward us from Plastique Boutique. They were not smiling.

“Come on.” Fredreeq took my arm and led me farther into Robinson-May, steering us behind a clothes rack. We watched the men go past, then we doubled back and out into the mall. Fredreeq’s fear was infectious, and I was tempted to break into a run.

We hurried past the movie theater and a seemingly endless number of stores devoted to children and babies, looking over our shoulders every fifteen seconds. We were nearing Nordstrom’s when I saw them, gaining on us. We did run then. Fredreeq, who does in heels things I couldn’t do barefoot, set a good pace. We flew through Nordstrom’s and down a passageway that overlooked Pico Boulevard. I was utterly lost now, but Fredreeq knows her malls. Eventually we were in a bookstore, racing down an escalator. A café within the bookstore was to our right, and on impulse I took Fredreeq’s hand and led her through the waist-high gate that separated customers from café workers.

We crouched behind a glass bakery case, face to face with soft pretzels, cheesecake, and Rice Krispies Treats. A green-aproned man came through a swinging door from the back room, but we were more concerned with our pursuers, rushing down the escalator. When they reached our level, they paused. Then, with teamlike precision, one took off into the book aisles, the other circling to another down escalator.