"R" is for Ricochet (17 page)

I said, “Most of the time I do this myself with a pair of nail scissors.”

“So I see.” He worked with ease and concentration, taking off very little hair, but somehow making the whole of it fall together in tidy layers.

I watched his reflection in the mirror. So serious. “Where'd you learn to cut hair?”

“I have an uncle who does this for a living. Salon on Melrose, ‘Hair Cutter to the Stars.' Four hundred bucks a pop. I figured if I washed out of police academy I could do this instead. I'm not sure which option was more horrifying to my parents, my becoming a cop or a guy who does women's hair. They're otherwise decent folks, barring the inherent snobbery.”

“Last time I had a really good cut, you know who did it?”

“Danielle Rivers. I remember that.” Cheney's attention had shifted to the nape of my neck, where he was busy snipping away, trying to even out the line.

Danielle Rivers was a seventeen-year-old hooker he'd introduced me to. He'd recently been transferred to vice, part of the regular rotation system at the police department, while I'd been hired to track down the killer of Lorna Kepler, a beautiful young woman who was caught up in porno films and sex for hire. He'd put me together with Danielle because she and the victim had been cohorts.

I said, “Danielle was appalled when she heard how little I earned—half of what she made. You should have heard her riff on investment strategies, all of which she picked up from Lorna. I wish I'd taken her advice. Maybe I'd be rich.”

“Easy come, easy go.”

“Remember the sandwiches you bought in the hospital cafeteria the night she was admitted?”

He smiled. “Man, those were bad. Ham and cheese from a vending machine.”

“But you added all the stuff that made them edible.”

He gave me a hand mirror and kissed me on the top of the head, saying, “All done.”

I turned, holding the mirror so I could check the cut in the back. “Oh, wow. It looks good. Thanks.” I glanced down at his towel, the two ends of which had parted in front. “I like your friend. Must be showtime and he's popped his head out to check the audience.”

Cheney glanced down. “Why don't we go in the other room and see if we can catch his act?”

Eventually we slept, curled together like cats.

Friday morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed at 10:00. We showered and dressed, and then walked over to Cabana Boulevard, where we had breakfast at a little beachside café. Cheney didn't have to go to work until later in the day, having been scheduled for another shift in the surveillance van. Back from breakfast, we stood and chatted at the curb until we ran out of things to say. We parted company at noon. He had errands to run and I was ready to be alone. I watched until his little red Mercedes disappeared from sight and then I followed the walkway around to the backyard.

Henry was kneeling in one of his flower beds, where nutgrass was popping up. He was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a tank top, his flip-flops lying on the lawn nearby. Eliminating nutgrass requires patience. The weed multiplies by way of threadlike roots and tiny black rhizomes that spread underground, so simply yanking the stems free does nothing to the plant's underlying structure, which goes on merrily reproducing. The small pile of weeds Henry had successfully uprooted resembled nothing so much as a cluster of spiders with frail legs and bodies the size of blackened match heads.

“You need help?”

“No, but you can keep me company if you like. There's something satisfying about going after these things. Ugly-looking little buggers, aren't they?”

“Disgusting. I thought you got rid of all the nutgrass this spring.”

“Ongoing process. You never really win.” He sat back on his heels briefly, then shifted so he could tackle the next section.

I kicked off my tennis shoes and settled in the grass, letting the sunshine wash across my legs. Henry's dark mood had lifted, and while he was still subdued, he seemed almost himself again.

“I see you had company last night,” he remarked, without looking at me.

I laughed, feeling the blush begin to mount in my cheeks. “That was Cheney Phillips. STPD. He's a friend of Lieutenant Dolan's,” I said, as though that were relevant.

“Nice?”

“Very. We've known each other for years.”

“I thought it must be something of the sort. I've never known you to be impulsive.”

“Actually, I am. It just sometimes takes me a while to work up to it.”

There was a companionable quiet, broken only by the sound of Henry's trowel chunking in the ground.

Finally, I said, “Is Lewis still in town?”

“He flies home tomorrow. I feel better about him, in case you're wondering. I don't want to see him just yet, but we'll work it out in due course.”

“What about Mattie?”

“Oh, that's probably for the best. I never expected the relationship to turn into anything serious.”

“But it might have.”

“‘Might' doesn't count for much. I generally find it wiser to deal with what is than with what might have been. Having made it to the ripe old age of eighty-seven without a long-term romance, there's no reason to suppose I'm even capable of such a thing.”

“Couldn't you at least call?”

“I could, though I'm not sure what that would accomplish. She made her feelings clear. I have nothing else to offer and nothing much to add.”

“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 realworld 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. “Fuck 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?
”