"R" is for Ricochet (15 page)

We ate dinner at an Italian boutique restaurant located on one of the smaller avenues that connected the center esplanade to State Street on one side and Chapel on the other. Temperatures were still elevated, and we elected to eat on the patio outside. As the dark came down, the landscape lighting began to paint walls and vegetation in colors more vivid than their daylight shades. Details of wrought-iron fixtures were picked out in shadow, the plaster frieze along the roof outlined in black. If you squinted, you could almost believe you'd been transported to a foreign country.

While we waited for our salads, I said, “I appreciate your doing this—the clothes thing.”

“No problem. It's obvious you need help.”

“I'm not sure the word ‘obvious' should come into play.”

“Trust me.”

Later, while she was winding spaghetti on her fork, she said, “You know this is Beck's project.”

“What is?”

“The mall.”

“He did Passages?”

“Sure. I mean, not on his own—in partnership with a guy in Dallas, another developer. Beck moved his office to the far end, down by Macy's. The fourth floor runs the full block between State and Chapel.”

“I didn't realize the building covered that much ground.”

“Because you didn't bother to look up. If you did, you'd see that there are covered walkways that join the second and third levels in places above the esplanade. Technically, in the rainy season, you could move from one building to the other without getting wet.”

“You've got a better eye than I do. I missed that.”

“I have the advantage. The mall's been in development for years so I've seen the plans at just about every stage. Beck moved his office in a couple of months after I went into CIW, so I never got to see it. Turned out great, or so I hear.”

I took a sip of wine, finishing the last bite of eggplant parmigiana while I watched Reba use a chunk of bread to clean up her marinara sauce. I said, “Where are you going with this?”

She popped the bread in her mouth, smiling while she chewed. “You're the kick-ass private eye. You figure it out. In the meantime, let's go buy you some clothes and then we can make the run into Montebello.”

We shopped until the stores closed at 9:00. Reba kept up a running commentary as I tried things on. In the interests of education, she let me make my choices without reference to her opinion. At first, I tried gauging her reaction as I lifted a garment off the rack, but she looked on with the same deadpan expression she must have donned at the poker table. With no guidelines whatever, I picked out two dresses, a pantsuit, and three cotton skirts. “Okay,” I said.

Her brow went up about an eighth of an inch. “That's it?”

“Isn't this enough?”

“You like that green deal, that pantsuit thing?”

“Well, yeah. You know, it's dark and it won't show spots.”

“All riiiight,” she said, with a tone suggesting that you have to let kids make boo-boos in order for them to learn.

She trailed behind me as far as the line of dressing cubicles in the rear. She looked on idly while I opened door after door, trying to find a room not in use. When I finally found an empty cubicle, she gave every impression of following me in.

“Hold on a sec. You're coming
in
here with me?”

“What if something doesn't fit? You can't stroll around out there in your underwear.”

“I wasn't planning to. I was going to try on stuff back here and then decide.”

“Deciding is my job. You try on clothes and I'll explain how misguided you are.”

She sat on a plain wooden chair in a space that was six feet on a side with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on three. The fluorescent lighting guaranteed your skin would look sallow and every tiny body flaw would appear in bas relief.

I took my shoes off and began to strip down with the same enthusiasm I feel before a pelvic exam. “I can tell I have a better developed sense of modesty than you do,” I said.

“Oh, please. Prison knocked that out of me. The shower stalls were a quarter this size with these skimpy canvas curtains designed to keep your head and feet in view. That was to prevent the inmates from having sex in private. Little did they know. Aside from that, you might as well forget privacy altogether. It was simpler to prance around nude like everybody else.”

During these revelations, I was trying to step gracefully out of my blue jeans, but my foot caught and I nearly toppled sideways. Reba pretended not to notice. I said, “Didn't that bother you?”

“At first, but after a while, I thought, oh who gives a damn? All these naked women and pretty soon you've seen every possible body type—short, tall, skinny, fat, little tits, big ass, or big tits and no ass. Scar, moles, tattoos, birth defects. Everybody looks just about like everybody else.”

I peeled my T-shirt over my head.

“Oh, bullet holes!” she said, nearly clapping her hands as she caught sight of mine.

“Do you
mind?
”

“Well, I think they're cute. Sort of like dimples.”

I slid the first of two cotton dresses from the hanger and eased my arms up the interior and out the requisite armholes. I turned to the mirror. I looked about like I always did—not bad, but not that good. “What do you think?”

“What do
you
think?”

“Come on, Reba. Just tell me what's wrong with it.”

“Everything. The color for starters. You should wear clear tones—red, maybe navy blue, but not that pukey shade of yellow. It makes your skin tone look orange.”

“I thought that was the lighting.”

“And look how loose it's cut. You've got good legs and a great set of boobs. I mean, they're not
huge,
but they're sassy so why cover them with something that looks like a pillowcase?”

“I don't like to wear stuff too tight.”

“Clothes are supposed to
fit,
dear. That dress is one size too big and it looks—dare I say it—so matronly. Go ahead and try on the blue print skirt, but I can tell you right now it's another pass. You're not the big-ass Hawaiian palm-and-parrot type.”

“If you already hate it, why should I try it on?”

“Because otherwise you'll never get the
point.
”

And so it went. Bossy women and I get along swimmingly as I'm a masochist at heart. I bypassed the blue print skirt and didn't bother trying on the green pantsuit, knowing she'd be right about that, too. She removed the offending garments, holding the hangers at arm's length like so many dead rats. While I waited in the dressing room, she went out to the floor and flipped through the racks. She returned with six items, which she exhibited one by one, creating the illusion that she was letting me choose. I resisted one dress and one skirt, but everything else she'd selected ended up looking great on me, even if I do say so myself.

“I don't understand how you know all this stuff,” I said, getting dressed again. This is my perpetual complaint, that somehow other women have a flair for things that make me feel like a dunce. It was like thought problems in math. In high school, the minute I encountered one I'd feel like I was on the verge of blacking out.

“You'll get the hang of it eventually. It's really not that hard. At CIW, I was the resident styling maven. Hair, makeup, clothes, all of it. I could've taught a class.” She paused to check her watch. “Let's get a move on. Time to party.”

 

We sped south on the 101 with Reba at the wheel.

I said, “I'm not sure this is smart. Why go to a place where everyone's drinking?”

“I'm not going there to drink. I haven't had a drink for twenty-three months, fourteen and a half days.”

“Then why put yourself in harm's way?”

“I told you. Because that's where Onni is. She goes out every Thursday night to hustle guys.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot me a look. “You're not my mother, okay? I promise I'll call my sponsor the minute I get home. At least, I would if I had one, which I don't.”

Bubbles was a Montebello wine-and-champagne bistro that had once done a lively business in concert with the Edgewater Hotel and another high-priced piano bar called Spirits. The three were in easy driving distance of one another and formed a triangle traveled by every rich, hot, single person on the market back then. All three places were heavy on atmosphere—glitz, glitter, live music, small dance floors, and low lights. Drinks were pricey, served in oversize glasses, and food was an afterthought, meant to get you home again without a fatal accident.

In the mid-seventies, for reasons unknown, Bubbles became a magnet for escort services, girls working high-end out-call and “models” from Los Angeles, who drove to Montebello cruising for love. Eventually cocaine became prevalent and the county sheriff's department stepped in and shut the place down. I'd been there on occasion because my second husband, Daniel, was a jazz pianist who played the three night spots in rotation. Early in the relationship, I realized if I didn't make a point of being there with him, I might not see him until breakfast the next day. He claimed he was out “jamming” with the guys, which turned out to be true, in both the literal and metaphorical senses.

We pulled up to the left of the entrance. Reba handed her car keys to the valet and we went in. Men in suits and sport coats stood five and six deep at the bar, checking out our boobs and butts as we passed. Reba did a quick search from table to table while I followed in her wake. Bubbles hadn't changed. Illumination was achieved primarily by way of massive fish tanks that lined the walls and separated one seating area from the next. In the main room, there was a bar with a U-shaped border of booths and a scattering of tables big enough for two. In the second room, through a wide arch, a jazz combo—piano, saxophone, and bass—was set up on a wide deck above a dance floor the size of a trampoline. The music was mellow—haunting melodies from the forties that stuck in your head for days. This was not a place where voices were raised or raucous laughter cut through the murmur of civilized conversation. No one got drunk and tumbled backward into other patrons. Women didn't weep or fling drinks on their dates. No one upchucked in the elegant restrooms with their marble floors and baskets of tiny terrycloth towels. Customers smoked, but the ventilation system was high-tech and a roving band of busboys whisked away dirty ashtrays and replaced them with clean ones every five minutes or so.

Reba put a hand out and slowed me to a halt. Like a pointer, she stood and pinned a look on Onni, who sat at a table by herself, smoking a cigarette with an air of indifference I suspected was fake. The presence of two half-filled champagne flutes and a bottle resting in a nearby cooler suggested a companion who'd left the table moments before. The “real” Onni bore only passing resemblance to the Onni I'd seen in the grainy black-and-white photos. She was tall and slim, with a long thin face, wide nose, thin lips, and small nearly lashless eyes. Her dark hair was dead straight and spilled across her shoulders with the high silky shine you see in ads for shampoos. Silver earrings dangled from her lobes and brushed against her neck with every move of her head. The jacket of her black business suit had been shrugged aside, revealing a white silk tank top that looked more like a slip than any blouse I'd seen. Taken feature by feature, she really wasn't pretty, but she'd managed to maximize her assets. Her makeup was artful and her breasts looked as hard as croquet balls inserted inexplicably under the skimpy flesh on her chest. Nonetheless, she presented herself as though she were beautiful and that was the impression that prevailed.

Reba moved forward with trumped-up exuberance. “Onni! How perfect. I was hoping you'd be here.”

“Hello, Reba.” Onni's manner was cool, but Reba didn't seem to notice as she slid into a chair. I sat down too, fully aware Onni wasn't at all happy to see us. Beside her, Reba seemed childlike, animated, petite, with dark tousled hair, the large dark eyes, perfect nose, and delicately rounded chin, where Onni's receded slightly. What Reba lacked was that air of self-containment that passes for breeding among middle-class pretenders.

Reba said, “This is my friend Kinsey. I've been telling her about you.” Her gaze settled on the two champagne flutes as though she'd just noticed. “I hope we're not cutting in on your action. Big hot date?”

“It's actually not a date. Beck and I had to work late so he suggested stopping off for a nightcap. I don't imagine we'll stay long.”

“Beck's here? That's great. I don't see him.”

“He's chatting with a friend. I'm sorry you canceled dinner. When you said something came up, I pictured AA.”

“I did a meeting already. I'm only required to do one a week.” Reba helped herself to one of Onni's cigarettes and waggled it between her teeth. “You have a light for this?”

“Of course.” Onni reached into a small bag and came up with a pack of matches. Reba took the pack, struck one, and cupped a hand around the flame. She inhaled with satisfaction and returned the matches with a sly smile that Onni seemed to miss. I knew Reba well enough by now that I could see the icy rage sparkling in her eyes. She pulled the ashtray closer and then put an elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. “So. How are things with you? You said you'd write, but then I never heard from you.”

“I
wrote.
I sent you a card. Didn't you get it?”

Reba took a drag of her cigarette, her smile still in place.

“That's right. So you did. It had bunnies on it as I remember. One measly card in twenty-two months. Hey, don't put yourself out.”

“I'm sorry if that bothers you, but I was busy. You left the office in bad shape. It took me months to straighten it out.”

“Yeah, well, the Department of Corrections had first claim. Whisk you off to prison, you don't have the option to stop by your workplace and tidy up your desk. I'm sure you have the situation well in hand.”

“Finally. No thanks to you.” Onni's gaze shifted slightly.

Reba turned her head in time to see Beck approaching from the bar. He caught sight of her and his forward motion halted for a split second, like a few frames of film missing from a sequence. Reba's face brightened. She pushed out of the chair and moved toward him. When she reached him, her arms slid around his neck as though she meant to kiss him on the mouth.

He extracted himself gently. “Hey, hey, hey, gorgeous. We're in public. Remember?”

“I know, but I missed you.”

“Well, I missed you, too, but suppose one of Tracy's girlfriends is here.” He steered her back to her chair, sending me a smile in the process. “Good to see you again.”

“Nice seeing you,” I said, though it wasn't nice at all. Not surprisingly, my view of him had changed radically. When I'd met him in Rosie's, I'd thought he was handsome—long-limbed, loose-jointed, with that lazy half-smile. Even his eyes, which I'd thought were a rich chocolate brown, now looked as dark as volcanic stone. Seeing him with Onni, I could sense the trait they shared—both were opportunists.

Of the three of them, Reba currently occupied the power position. Onni knew the intimate details of Reba's relationship with Beck, but neither Beck nor Onni were aware that Reba had been tipped off about their affair. To further complicate the situation, I was reasonably sure Onni didn't know that Beck and Reba had reactivated their sexual connection. I felt a frisson of tension ripple up my spine, curious how Reba intended to play the hand she'd been dealt.

Beck sat down in the remaining chair and slouched on his spine, extending his legs as though he were entitled to more space than we were. In the geography of body language, he and Onni were lined up in parallel, their bodies tracing the same angle while Reba sat across the table from them, her body an upright that cut across the slant of their respective postures.

Onni's attention was fixed on her champagne flute.

Beck sipped champagne, watching Reba above the rim of his glass. The blond highlights in his hair must have been professionally applied. Certainly, the haphazard thatch effect was no accident. “So how's it going?” he asked.