by Sue Grafton
“What if she called you?”
“That’s up to her,” he said. “I don’t mean to sound like a sad sack. I’m really fine.”
“Well, of course you’re fine, Henry. It’s not like you’re crushed because you’ve dated her for years. On the other hand, I thought you were great together and I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
“You were picturing…what?…a little trip down the aisle?”
“William got married at eighty-seven, why not you?”
“He’s impetuous by nature. I’m a stick-in-the-mud.”
I threw a handful of grass at him. “You are not.”
Reba called at 5:00, interrupting what I realized in retrospect was an award-winning nap. I’d stretched out on the bed with my favorite John le Carré spy novel. The light was soft. The temperature was mild and the sheet I’d thrown over me was the perfect weight. Outside I could hear the dim buzz of a lawn mower, followed by the pft-pft-pft of Henry’s Rain Bird, firing jets of water across the newly trimmed grass. Thanks to my sleep deprivation of the past two nights, I sank out of consciousness like a flat stone settling lazily to the bottom of a lake. I don’t know how long I might have gone on like that if the phone hadn’t rung. I put the handset to my ear and said, “Uh-huh.”
“This is Reba. Did I wake you?”
“I greatly fear you did. What’s the time?”
“Five minutes after five.”
I checked the skylight, squinting in an attempt to determine if the sun was coming up or going down. “A.M. or P.M.?”
“It’s Friday afternoon. I was just wondering what you’d heard from your guys.”
“Nothing so far. Cheney’s currently on surveillance, but I know he’s trying to reach his contact in Washington, D.C. It may take a few days to set up the meeting. With so many agencies involved, the protocol’s tricky to negotiate.”
“I wish they’d get on with it. Beck’s back Sunday night. I don’t want to have to deal with him if I’m doing this.”
“I can appreciate that. Unfortunately, Cheney’s dependent on other people and he can only push so hard. Doesn’t help we have a weekend coming up.”
“I guess. You want to go someplace later? We could have dinner.”
“That sounds good. What time?”
“Soon or right away, whichever one comes first.”
“What’d you have in mind? You want to meet me somewhere?”
“You decide. All I know is I gotta get out before I lose my mind.” I could hear her pause to light a cigarette.
“What’s making you so itchy,” I said.
“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling anxious all day. Like maybe there’s a drink or a poker parlor coming up real soon.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m already back to smoking a pack a day.”
“I could have told you not to start.”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“So you said. Personally, I don’t buy it. You either take charge of your life or you might as well give up.”
“I know, but I’ve been feeling so bad. I know Beck’s a shit, but I really love the guy—”
“You love the guy?”
“Well, not now, but I did. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Not in my opinion.”
“Also, you know, as odd as it sounds, I kind of miss being locked up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” she said. “In prison, I didn’t have to make all these decisions, so that limited my chances of screwing up. Out here, what’s the incentive to behave?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose in despair. “Where are you now, at your dad’s?”
“Yeah, and you’ll never guess who came waltzing in for a visit with him.”
“Who?”
“Lucinda.”
“That woman who hoped to marry him?”
“The very one,” she said. “She’d love to see me violate parole. I get tossed in the can again, she’ll whip back into Pop’s life before the doors slam shut.”
“Then you better pull yourself together.”
“That’d be easier to do if I could have a drink. Or maybe I could drop in at the Double Down and just watch. No harm in that.”
“Would you cut the crap? You can do anything you want, but don’t kid yourself. You’re just looking for an excuse to self-destruct.”
“Yeah, it might be a relief.”
“Look, why don’t I hop in the car and come get you?”
“I don’t know. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s not such a hot idea. If I leave Lucinda alone with him, she’ll find a way to make trouble.”
“Oh, come on. What can she do? Your father told me he was done with her.”
“She’ll manage somehow. I’ve seen her do it before. Pop’s like me, weak-willed and indecisive, only not as hell-bent. Besides, if he’s so done with her, how come she’s sitting in the other room?”
“Would you quit obsessing about her? She’s the least of your worries. Look, give me a minute to throw on some clothes and I’ll be up.”
“Are you sure you want to go out?”
“Sure I’m sure. Why don’t you start walking down the drive, and I’ll meet you at the gate.”
In the car on the way over, I tried to assess the situation. Reba was on the verge of coming unglued. Since the moment she’d fired up that first cigarette, I’d been waiting for signs of emotional decompression. After two years at CIW, she was unaccustomed to real-world conflicts and real-world consequences. Prison, while loathsome, apparently provided a form of containment that must have made her feel safe. Now there was too much to deal with and no way for her to assimilate the impact. Bad enough to find out Beck had hoodwinked her into taking the fall for him, worse still to discover he’d launched into an affair with the woman she’d thought of as her best friend. She was tough enough to acknowledge his deception, but perhaps not tough enough to make the break. I could see her ambivalence; she’d been dependent on him for years. What worried me was the fact she had so little tolerance for stress. If the meeting with Vince Turner had been scheduled right away, she might have sailed right on through, spilling everything she knew. With the delay of even three days, she was in danger of losing control. And while she wasn’t my responsibility, I was party to the push that had her teetering on the brink.
When I arrived at the estate, she was perched on a big sandstone boulder to the right of the gate. In a navy blue windbreaker, jeans, and tennis shoes, she sat with her knees drawn up, cigarette in hand. When she saw me, she took one last drag and then scrambled to the ground. The moment she got in the car, I could feel the nervous energy pouring out of her like heat. Her movements were agitated and her eyes were too bright. “What’d you do to your hair?” she asked.
“Got it cut.”
“It looks good.”
“Thanks.” I put the car in reverse and did a three-point turn.
She craned her neck and looked back at the gate. “I just hope she’s gone by the time I get back. I couldn’t believe she showed up like that unannounced.”
“How do you know she didn’t call him in advance?”
“That’s even worse. If he agreed to see her, he’s crazier than I am.”
“Hey, take a deep breath and get a grip. You’re all over the place.”
“Sorry. I feel like there’s someone inside trying to crawl out through my skin. I wish I had a guy. I’d rather have a drink, but getting laid would help.”
“Call your sponsor. Isn’t that what they’re for?”
“I haven’t found one yet.”
“Then call Priscilla Holloway.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got you,” she said, and laughed.
“Yeah, right. This is way beyond me.”
“Well, me too, you know? I’m just trying to muddle through the same as anybody else.” She was quiet for a moment, staring out the window. “F
uck it. Never mind. I can tough it out on my own.”
“As you’ve so amply demonstrated in the past,” I said.
“Well, you’re so smart, what do you suggest?”
“Find a meeting.”
“Where?”
“How do I know? We’ll go to my place and check the yellow pages. There’s bound to be a listing for AA.”
Once we reached my apartment, it took less than a minute to look up the number and make the requisite phone call. As it turned out, the closest meeting was at the city recreation center four blocks away. I drove her myself, not trusting her to make it on her own.
“I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour,” I said, as she got out of the car. The slamming of the door was as much as I received in the way of a reply. I made a point of waiting until I saw her walk in the door and then I waited another minute in case she intended to sneak out again. I could see how an alcoholic’s family became ensnared in the game. I was already battling an urge to monitor her every move. That, or wash my hands of her altogether and be done with it. If I hadn’t been intent on keeping her under wraps until she met with Vince, I might have cut her loose.
To kill time, I circled back to my neighborhood and parked outside of Rosie’s. And yes, I recognized the irony of waiting for Reba in a bar while she struggled with the urge to have a drink. Lewis was there tending bar by himself, an apron tied around his waist. Two day-drinkers had taken up residence at the far end of the room. The color television mounted in the corner was tuned to a golf tournament being played someplace green. Rosie must have been back in the kitchen doing dinner prep because the place smelled like sautéed onions. She was also doing something with fried kidneys I didn’t want to know about.
I perched on a bar stool and ordered a Coke. I honestly might have minded my own business, if Lewis hadn’t seemed so chipper and oblivious. He gave no indication that he regretted, or even recognized, the trouble he’d caused.
He set my Coke on the bar, saying, “Where’s Henry? I haven’t seen him the last couple of days.”
I studied him. “You really don’t know.”
“What? Is something wrong with him?”
I debated for half a second and then said, “Look, I know this is none of my business, but I think William was out of line when he talked you into flying out. Henry and Mattie were doing fine until you showed up.”
Lewis blinked at me as though I were speaking in tongues. “I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t have to barge in on breakfast and ask her for a date.”
“I didn’t ask her for a date. I suggested an art exhibit and a bite of lunch.”
“Out here, we call that a date. Henry was upset and rightly so,” I said.
Lewis seemed bewildered. “He was upset with me?”
“Sure he was. She was supposed to be spending time with him.”
“Why didn’t he speak up?”
“How could he? You called him a little old lady, in front of Mattie, no less. He was mortified. He couldn’t speak up without looking even more foolish than he already felt.”
“But that was just good-natured jostling. It was a joke.”
“It’s not a joke when you hustle in and try to beat him to the punch. Life’s complicated enough.”
“But we’ve always competed for the ladies. It’s all in good fun. Neither of us takes it seriously. For heaven’s sake, ask William if you doubt my word.”
“He’s never going to cop to it. He set the whole thing up. He had no business meddling, but what you did was worse. You knew Henry was interested in her.”
“Of course he is and I am, too. That was obvious on the cruise. I made my pitch and he made his. If he can’t handle the challenge, why complain to me?”
“Mattie broke it off. She said she didn’t want to see him again.”
Disconcerted, Lewis said, “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Yes, it does. You flew out to California and got right in the middle of something that was none of your concern. There’s nothing ‘good-natured’ about that. You were being hostile.”
“No, no. Not a bit of it. I can’t believe you’re saying this. I’d cut off my right arm before I’d do such a thing.”
“But you did do it, Lewis.”
“You’re completely wrong. That wasn’t my intention. Henry’s always been my favorite. He knows I’m crazy about him.”
“Then you better find a way to make amends,” I said.
It was close to 8:00 when Reba emerged from her AA meeting and headed toward my car. It was still light out. A massive fog bank hovered on the horizon and the breezes coming off the ocean laid a chill in the air. “Feel better?”
“Not especially, but I’m glad I went.”
“You still want to have dinner?”
“Shit, we have to go back to the house. I forgot the photographs.”
“Why do you need those?”
“Visual aids,” she said. “There’s a guy I want you to meet. He has dinner the same place every Friday night at nine. I did some reconnoitering this morning just to satisfy a hunch. We’ll make a run up to Pop’s for the pix, have a heart-to-heart with my pal, and then take some time to explore.”
“Isn’t a nine o’clock dinner kind of late?”
“I hope so. Prison, you eat at five in the afternoon. Talk about depressing. Makes you feel like a kid.” She turned in her seat. “Why’re you going this way? You should have taken a right back there.”
“Actually, we don’t need to go to your house. I have a set of pictures at my office. Cheney gave ’em to me.” I wondered if she’d question my having copies of the photos, but she was sidetracked by something else and gave me a speculative look.
I said, “What.”
“I notice you’re dropping Cheney’s name every chance you get. Is that where you got that?” She pointed.
“Got what?”
“That hickey on your neck.”
I put a hand against my neck self-consciously and she laughed. “Just teasing,” she said.
“Very funny.”
“Well, I’d like to think you have a sex life.”
“I’d like to think my sex life is private,” I said. “So who’s this guy you’re so hot for me to meet?”
“Marty Blumberg. Beck’s company comptroller.”
18
I drove over to my office. I left Reba in the car, the VW idling, while I ran in and grabbed the manila envelope from my desk drawer. In the car again, I passed her the envelope and watched her out of the corner of my eye as I circled the block and headed for Passages. She removed the photographs and studied them as though viewing vermin through a microscope. She put them back in the envelope without a word, her expression impossible to read.
I found what was possibly the last space in the underground parking garage, which stretched like a low-ceilinged gray cavern that ran the length of the mall. We hiked to the escalator and went up to level one, where all the shops were located. Manila envelope in hand, Reba walked two paces ahead of me, forcing me to trot to keep up with her. She didn’t seem as hyper as she had been, and for that I was glad. “Where are we going?”
“Dale’s.”
“Why Dale’s? That’s a dive.”
“Not true. It’s a Santa Teresa landmark.”
“So’s the dump,” I said.
Dale’s was strictly a no-frills bar. People went there to drink, pure and simple. I could feel the now familiar conflict arise: should I be protective and suggest we go somewhere else, or keep my mouth shut and let her take responsibility for the choices she made? In this instance, self-interest prevailed. I wanted to meet Marty Blumberg.
We entered the place, pausing in the open doorway to get our bearings. I hadn’t been in Dale’s for years, but it looked much the same—narrow room with a bar running along the left and a jukebox in back. There were six or eight small tables jammed up against the wall on the right. The lighting was
primarily of the neon beer-sign variety, blue and red. There were numerous patrons on hand, occupying half of the bar stools and most of the tables. Eighty-seven percent of those present were smoking, the air as gray as morning fog. The overhead fixture made the light seem flat, very close to the quality of waning daylight outside. The jukebox, I remembered, was stocked with old 45-rpm records. At that very moment, the Hilltoppers were crooning “P.S. I Love You” while a couple danced on a narrow expanse of floor by the unisex bathroom. The sawdust underfoot and the acoustical ceiling tiles muffled the noise level so that both music and conversation seemed to be taking place in another room.
The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs, taken in the forties, to judge by the ladies’ hairstyles and clothing. Each photo featured the same balding middle-aged man, perhaps the eponymous Dale. He had his arm slung around various minor sports figures—baseball players, professional wrestlers, and Roller Derby queens—their signatures scrawled across the bottom of the pictures.
At the far end of the room, a concession-sized machine produced a steady spill of popcorn that the bartender scooped into paper cups and set out for general consumption. At intervals along the bar, there were collections of assorted popcorn seasonings: garlic salt, lemon pepper, Cajun spices, curry powder, and Parmesan cheese in a green cardboard container. The popcorn wasn’t sufficient to keep patrons sober, but it gave them something to fiddle with between the downing of drinks. As we were taking our seats, a peevish argument flared up, the topic being politics, about which no one present seemed to have the faintest clue.
“So where is he?” I said, looking around the room.
“What’s your hurry? He’ll be here in a bit.”
“I thought we were having dinner. I didn’t know they served food in here.”
“Well, they do. Seven-way chili.” She started ticking off the choices on her fingers. “Macaroni, chopped onions, cheese, oyster crackers, sour cream, or cilantro in any combination.”
“That’s only six.”
“You can have it plain.”
“Oh.”
The next 45 selection came into play and Jerry Vale launched into his version of “It’s All in the Game”: “Many a tear has to fall…” I refused to think about Cheney lest I jinx the relationship.