Sue Grafton - R is for Ricochet

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 sheriffs 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.