Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  “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 pass
ing 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.

  Reba said, “Not bad. I was actually thinking of coming back to work.”

  Onni’s expression was incredulous, as though Reba had farted in the presence of Elizabeth II.

  Reba ignored her reaction, addressing her remarks to Beck. “Yeah, I mentioned it to my parole officer and she was all for it as long as my ‘prospective employer’ knew about my past,” she said, forming quote marks with her fingers. “I figured who better than you?”

  Smoothly, he said, “Reeb, I’d love to help, but it doesn’t seem smart.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Onni snapped. “You robbed him blind.”

  Reba shifted her gaze. “Onni, I’m sorry, but you don’t get it. Beck trusts me. He knows I’d do anything for him.” She looked back at him. “Right?”

  Beck rearranged his legs, pulling himself into an upright position, his tone mild. “It’s not a question of trust. There’s no position. It’s as simple as that. I wish we had an opening, but we don’t.”

  “You could make one, couldn’t you? I remember you did that for Abner.”

  “Different situation. Marty was overloaded and needed the help. I had no choice in that case.”

  “But you have one with me, is that it? You could choose to help me, but you won’t?”

  He reached out and grabbed one of her fingers, giving it a shake. “Hey, babe, remember? I’m on your team.”

  Reba studied him with care, the lean, handsome face, the hand touching hers. “You said you’d take care of me. You owe me.”

  “Hey, anything you want.”

  “Except work.”

  Onni snorted and rolled her eyes. “What gall! How do you have the fucking nerve to sit there and argue the point after what you did?”

  Beck said, “Cool it, Onni. This is between her and me.”

  “Well, pardon the hell out of me. I just think someone should set this girl straight. She wreaked havoc on the company and for what? So she could go on indulging herself, blowing every nickel she could get her hands on at the poker table? My god!”

  I half-expected Beck to belt her in the mouth, but he focused on Reba’s face. He took her hand, placing her index finger against his lip. The effect was erotic, some intensely private communication taking place between them. “Forget about work. Take a little time for yourself. Do something nice, like that spa in Floral Beach. I can have Ed set it up. You’ve been through tough times, I understand that, but talk about work is premature.”

  “I have to do something with my life,” she said, her eyes pinned on his.

  “I know, babe. I hear you. All I’m saying is you need to take it slow. I don’t want you rushing into anything you might regret.”


  Reba smiled. “Like what? Coming back to work for you?”

  “Like getting stressed out, upset, when there’s no reason to. You need to keep it low-key. Kick back and relax while you have the chance.”

  Onni said something under her breath. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of her jacket and shrugged herself into it, straightening her lapels. She reached for her cigarettes and tucked them in her bag, then stood, saying, “Night, folks. I’m out of here.” Her manner seemed to be matter-of-fact unless you knew what was going on.

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll drive you home,” Beck said to her.

  Onni’s smile was brittle. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather walk.”

  “You won’t make it a block in those heels.”

  “Not your problem, champ. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Cut the crap, Onni. Have Jack call you a cab. I’ll square the fare with him on my way out.”

  “Not to worry. I’m a big girl. I think I can manage to call a cab on my own. Meantime, enjoy Panama. And thanks for the drink. It was really swell, you fucking jerk.”

  Reba turned her head, watching as Onni walked away. “What’s her problem?”

  “Forget it. She gets bored anytime the topic of conversation moves to something other than her,” Beck said.

  Reba said, “What’s the deal with Panama? When did that come up?”

  “It’s just a quick trip. Couple of days.”

  “Why couldn’t you take me with you? Like a minivacation. You could take care of business while I sit by the pool and get some sun. It’d be great.”

  “Baby, this is strictly solo. I’ve got wall-to-wall meetings. You’d be bored to tears.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I can amuse myself. Come on, Beck. We’ve hardly had a minute together. We could have a ball. Please, please, please?”

  He smiled. “You nut. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I thought we could get it past your PO. Trust me, if you’re not allowed to leave the state, you sure as hell wouldn’t be allowed to leave the continental U.S.A.”

  Reba made a face. “Oh, shit. You’re right. I forgot about that. I don’t even have a passport. It expired in June.”