by Sue Grafton
Covertly, I watched the interplay between the two of them. Rosie became more girlish as the exchange went on. Beck was too slick for my taste, but I had to give him credit for making the effort. Most people find Rosie difficult, which she is.
As soon as she went off to fetch his drink, Beck turned to Reba. “How’s your dad? I saw him a couple months ago and he wasn’t looking good.”
“He’s not doing well. I really had no idea. I was shocked to see how much weight he’s lost. You know he had surgery for a thyroid tumor. Then it turned out he had polyps on his vocal cords so he had to have those removed. He’s still shaky on his feet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s always seemed so vigorous.”
“Yeah, well, he’s eighty-seven years old. He’s bound to slow down at some point.”
Rosie returned, bringing Beck a hefty glass of Scotch over ice with a small carafe of water on the side. She set his drink on a cardboard coaster and handed him a dainty paper cocktail napkin. I noticed she’d found a doily to put on her tray. If the guy had been with me, she’d have been measuring the inseam for his wedding tuxedo.
He picked up his drink and took a measured sip, sending her a smile of approval. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”
Rosie departed reluctantly, at a loss for any other service to perform.
Beck turned back to me. “Are you a local as well?”
“Yep.”
“Where’d you go to high school?”
“S.T.”
“Me, too. Maybe that’s where we knew each other. What year did you graduate?”
“1967. What about you?”
“A year ahead of you—1966. Odd I don’t remember you. I’m usually good about those things.”
I upgraded his age to thirty-eight. “I was a low-waller,” I said, indicating my association with the badass kids who sat on the low wall at the rear of the school property where the hillside sloped down to meet the street behind. We smoked cigarettes and dope and occasionally mixed vodka in our bottles of orangeade. Tame by later standards, but considered wicked in our day.
“Really,” he said. He gave me a brief searching look and then reached for the menu. “How’s the food?”
“Not bad. Are you really fond of Hungarian cooking, or were you making that up?”
“Why would I lie about something like that?” He delivered the line lightly, but he could have meant anything—perhaps that he’d never bother to lie about the trivial or mundane in life. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t been in before.”
“I’ve seen the place in passing, but frankly, it always looked like such a dive I never had the nerve. I had a meeting with some guys and thought I’d give it a try since I was in the neighborhood. Nicer inside than out, I’ll say that.”
My antennae went up with a little whining sound. That was the second time he’d explained how he happened to come in. I picked up my glass and took a sip of bad wine. Really, it tasted like a product you’d use to clean tar off your feet after a day at the beach. Reba was playing with the straw in her iced tea.
Looking from her face to his, I realized what a dunce I’d been. She’d arranged this in advance. Dinner with me was just a cover for her meeting with him, but why the subterfuge? I rearranged myself so I was sitting with my back against the side wall, my feet on the seat, keeping my demeanor casual while I watched the scenario play out. “You’re in real estate?” I asked.
He downed half the whiskey remaining in his glass, adding water to the residue. He swirled the glass, rattling his ice cubes. “That’s right. I have an investment company. Development, mostly. I do property management on occasion, though not a lot these days. And you?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
He smiled, bemused. “Not bad for someone who started her career loitering behind the school.”
“Hey, the training was good. Hang out with a bunch of budding crooks, you get to know how they think.” I made a display of looking at my watch. “Ah. I don’t know about you, Reba, but it’s time for me to head out. My car’s just half a block down. Give me a minute to go get it and I can drive you home.”
Beck looked at Reba with feigned surprise. “You don’t have wheels?”
“I’ve got a car, but no license. Mine expired.”
“Why don’t I give you a lift and save her the drive?”
I said, “I don’t mind doing it. I’ve got my car keys right here.”
“No, no. I’ll be happy to take her. No point in your having to go out of your way.”
Reba said, “Really. It’d be easier for him than it would be for you.”
“You’re sure?”
Beck said, “Absolutely. It’s right on my way.”
“Okay with me. You two stay if you like and I’ll take care of the bill. It’s my treat,” I said, as I slid out of the booth.
“Thanks. I’ll take care of the tip.”
“Nice meeting you.” I shook hands with Beck again and then glanced at Reba. “I’ll see you in the morning at nine. You want me to call first?”
“No need. Just come up to the house whenever you like,” she said. “Actually, I ought to be heading home myself. It’s been a long day and I’m bushed. You mind?”
“Anything you want.” Beck finished his drink, swallowing the watered-down whiskey that remained in his glass.
I moved over to the bar and paid the bill. Glancing back, I saw that Beck was already on his feet, fishing in his pocket for his money clip. I watched him peel off two bills for the tip, probably fives since he was so eager to impress. They waited for me to join them so we could walk out together. Henry had disappeared by then, but the shank-of-the-evening drinkers were straggling in.
Outside it was dark, the moon not yet visible. The air was clear and still except for the chirping of crickets. Even the sound of the surf seemed diminished. The three of us ambled toward the intersection, chatting about nothing in particular.
“I’m down there,” Beck said, pointing toward the shadowy side street to our right.
“What do you drive?” I asked.
“’87 Mercedes. The sedan. And you?”
“’74 Volkswagen. The bug. See you later.”
I waved and continued walking while the two of them turned off. Fifteen seconds later, I heard the double report of their respective car doors slamming shut. I paused, waiting for the sound of an engine turning over. Nothing. Maybe they’d decided to sit and talk. When I reached my gate I pushed through, listening to the familiar squeaking of its hinges. I followed the walk around to the rear. Once I reached my front door, I hesitated, debating about Reba and Beck. Maybe I was wrong about them. Curiosity got the better of me. I left my shoulder bag on the porch and took off across the grass, crossing Henry’s flagstone patio to the chicken-wire fence that ran along the rear property line. I felt my way from post to post, tracing the length until I reached his garage. I stooped and pushed the fencing aside, slipping through the gap where the fittings had come loose.
My heart was thumping merrily and I could feel my gut contract with anticipation. I love these nighttime adventures, easing in silence across darkened backyards. Fortunately, none of the neighborhood mutts caught wind of me, so my passage was completed without a chorus of shrill warning barks. At the mouth of the alley, I veered right, emerging onto the side street. I moved forward, scanning the shapes and sizes of the cars parked on either side. A single streetlight cast only the faintest illumination, but once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I had no trouble identifying Beck’s Mercedes. Every other vehicle was a compact, a minivan, or a pickup truck.
I could discern his profile where he slouched in the driver’s seat half-turned so that he was facing Reba. I stood there for ten minutes and when nothing transpired, I backed up with caution and retraced my steps.
I let myself into my place and set my bag on a kitchen stool. It was 8:05. I flipped on the TV and watched the front end of a movie that actually seemed amu
sing, despite all the annoying commercial interruptions. I kept notes so I wouldn’t buy anything I saw. At 9:00 I muted the set and went into the kitchenette, where I opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured myself a glass. On impulse, I pulled out a saucepan, the lid, and a bottle of corn oil. I turned on the front burner, set the pan in place, and added a puddle of oil to the bottom of the pan. I scrounged through my cupboard for the bag of popcorn I’d bought months before. I knew it would be stale, but it was chewier that way. I measured out a jigger of kernels and tossed them in the pan. I kept an eye on the TV screen while the sound of the popcorn accelerated like the finale to a fireworks show. Happily for me, the size of my studio is such that I can cook, watch TV, start a load of laundry, or use the john without moving more than eight or ten feet.
I returned to the couch with my wine and the bowl of hot popcorn, propped my feet on the coffee table, and watched the remainder of the movie. At 11:00, when the news came on, I left the apartment and followed the same circuitous route through the alley until I reached the shadowy street where I’d hovered before. Beck’s Mercedes was still visible, parked at the curb. The rear window was fogged over with condensation as pale as gauze. Instead of Beck in silhouette, I saw Reba’s legs. Her head was apparently down near the steering wheel, one foot propped on the dashboard, the other on the passenger-side door, thus providing her leverage while Beck labored in the confines of the leather-bound front seat. I went back to my place, and when I checked again at midnight, the car was gone.
8
The gates to the Lafferty estate were open, and when I cruised up the drive, I saw Reba waiting on the porch step, the cat at her feet. She had a brush in her hand and she groomed the cat while he strutted back and forth, arching his back against the bristles. When she caught sight of me, she kissed him and set the brush aside. She crossed to the front door, opened the screen, and leaned in to tell her father or the housekeeper she was on her way out. I couldn’t help but smile as she bounded down the walk. She was happy, in high spirits, and I remember thinking, That’s what sex will do for you, kid. She wore desert boots, jeans, and a nubby dark blue sweater with a large cowl neck. She looked as giddy as a young girl. Her father had said she was difficult—“reckless” was his word—but I’d seen no hint of it in my dealings with her. She possessed a natural exuberance and it was hard to picture her drunk or stoned. She opened the car door and slid onto the passenger seat, smiling and out of breath.
“What’s the cat’s name?”
“Rags. He’s a love. Seventeen years old and he weighs in at eighteen pounds. The vet wants him on a diet, but pooh on that.” She put her head back. “You don’t know how good it feels to be out. Like coming back from the dead.”
I pulled away from the house, shifting gears as I headed down the drive and through the gates. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did. Talk about a treat. Prison mattresses are about this thick, like lawn-chair pads, and all the sheets are gross. The pillow was so flat I had to roll it up and wad it under my head like a towel. I’d get in bed at night and my body heat would activate this strange smell in the bedding.” She wrinkled her nose.
“What about the food?”
“Not too bad. I’d say the food ranged from passable to gross. What saved us was they let us have these electric coils in our cells. You know the ones you use to heat up a single cup of tea? We figured out all kinds of things to make with ours—Top Ramen, soups, stewed tomatoes in a can. I never even liked stewed tomatoes until I got down there. Some days, the cells stank; scorched coffee or bean sludge crusted on the bottom of the pan. Most of the time I disconnected and blocked everything out. I created this invisible force field that I kept between me and the rest of the world. Otherwise, I’d’ve gone bonkers.”
“Did you have friends?”
“A couple and that helped. My best friend was Misty Raine, with an e on the end. She’s a stripper—big surprise with a name like that—but she’s an absolute hoot. Before California, she lived in Vegas, but after she was released and got off parole, she moved to Reno. She says the action there is better than Vegas. She’s been good about keeping in touch. God, I miss her.”
“What was she in for?”
“She had a boyfriend who taught her how to lift credit cards and forge checks—‘hanging paper’ as they say. They’d go on these big spending sprees, stay in a bunch of fancy hotels, and charge anything they liked. Then they’d dump that card, steal another one, and mosey on down the road. Then they branched out into phony IDs. She has this artistic streak and it turns out she’s a whiz at replicating passports and driver’s licenses and shit like that. They made so much dough she bought herself a new set of tits. Before the boyfriend, she’d been working for one of those mobile-maid-type cleaning services for minimum wage. She said she’d’ve never gotten anywhere on what she made even if she worked all her life.
“My other friend, Vivian, was mixed up with this drug dealer. You don’t know how many times I heard that one. He was pulling in a thousand bucks a day, and they lived like kings until the cops showed up. That was her first offense and she swears it’s her last. She’s got another six months to serve and then I’m hoping she’ll come here. Her boyfriend’s been sent up five times and he’ll be in for years, which is just as well. She’s still crazy about the guy.”
“True love is like that.”
“You really think?”
“No. That was meant to be tongue in cheek,” I said. “I take it you don’t have friends here in town.”
“Just Onni, the woman I used to work with. I talked to her earlier, hoping I could see her this afternoon, but she was tied up.”
“Isn’t she the one who took your old job?”
“Right. She feels guilty about that, but I said don’t be dumb. She used to do front desk, but this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Why would I begrudge her the chance? She said she’d have driven me around today if she didn’t have to work.”
I turned into the parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles. “If you want, you can run in and pick up a booklet and study in the car before you take the test.”
“Nah. I’ve been driving for years so how hard can it be?”
“Well, it’s your choice. I prefer to bone up myself. Cuts the flop sweat.”
“I like anxiety. It keeps me awake.”
I waited in the car while Reba went in. She was gone forty minutes, some portion of which I spent hanging over the seat, trying to tidy all the crap that I keep back there. I generally motor around town with an overnight case stocked with toiletries and clean underpants. This, in the event I’m presented with a pressing reason to hop on a plane. In addition, I have assorted articles of clothing that I sometimes wear while pretending to be a public servant. I can do a pretty good imitation of a postal employee or meter reader from the gas-and-electric company. It pays to look like I’m doing official business when I’m standing on a front porch, idly scanning someone’s mail. I also keep several reference books in the backseat—one on crime scene investigation, Deering’s California Penal Code, a Spanish-language dictionary left over from a class I took years ago—an empty soda can, a bottle opener, an old pair of running shoes, a pair of badly snagged panty hose, and a lightweight jacket. While my apartment is tidy, I’m a slob when it comes to my car.
I glanced up in time to catch Reba’s emergence from the DMV office. She half-skipped across the lot, waving a piece of paper that turned out to be her temporary license. “Aced it,” she said, as she got into the car.
“Good for you,” I said. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the space. “Where now?”
“I know it’s only ten forty-five, but I wouldn’t object to another QP with Cheese.”
We ordered from the drive-through window, found a space in the parking lot, and ate in the car. We’d opted for two large Cokes, two Quarter Pounders apiece, and a large order of fries, which we doused in ketchup and ate as fast as we
could. I said, “I had a friend regained his health eating shit like this.”
“I’m not surprised. I like how flat the pickles are, all mooshed in there. Pop’s got a personal chef who’s really great, but she’s never been able to duplicate this. I can’t figure it out, how they do it. Doesn’t matter where you are, a QP with Cheese tastes exactly the same and so does everything else. Big Macs, fries.”
“Nice to have something you can count on,” I said.
After lunch we drove out to the La Cuesta shopping mall, where Reba worked her way from store to store, flashing her father’s credit card and trying on clothes. Like other women I’ve known, she seemed to have an inborn sense of what would look good on her. In most stores, I made a point of finding the nearest chair from which I watched her like a good mom while she moved from rack to rack. Sometimes she’d take out a garment, study it critically, and put it back. Other times, she’d lay the item on top of those she’d draped over her arm. At intervals, she’d head off to the dressing room and then appear twenty minutes later with her choices made. Some pieces she’d leave behind and the rest she’d pile on the counter while she looked for something else. In the course of two hours, she bought pants, skirts, jackets, underwear, knit tops, two dresses, and six pairs of shoes.
Once in the car again, she put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I used to take so many things for granted, but never again. Where next?”
“Up to you. Where do you want to go?”
“The beach. Let’s take our shoes off and walk in the sand.”
We ended up at Ludlow Beach, not far from my house. Santa Teresa City College was perched on the bluffs above us. The sky was gray as far as the eye could see, and wind was whipping the waves, blowing spray toward the beach. We left our shoes locked in the car, along with my shoulder bag and Reba’s purchases. The picnic tables in the grassy area had been abandoned except for a foursome of gulls squabbling over a bread bag that had been tied shut and left on the edge of a trash bin. Reba picked up the bag, tore through the cellophane, and tossed the crumbs across the grass. Gulls began to wheel in, shrieking, from all directions.
