Sue Grafton - R is for Ricochet

On the road, Reba fiddled with the radio until she found a station that didn't sound like it was broadcasting from Mars. We listened to country-western tunes while I played bumper tag with the same three cars: a pickup with a camper shell, an RV, and a couple of college students in a U-Haul truck. One would pass me and then the next and then I'd pass one of them, a form of vehicular leapfrog that had us hopping over one another at irregular intervals. At the back of my mind, I wondered if we were being followed, but I couldn't imagine how Beck or Salustio could manage to get a bead on us.

Where the 395 and Highway 14 intersected, the kids in the U-Haul went straight while we stayed on Highway 14, angling south and west. Eventually we connected to the San Diego Freeway and drove south. By then the RV had disappeared and I saw no sign of the pickup with the camper shell. Nervous-making nonetheless.

It was close to 3:00 when I got off the freeway at Sunset Boulevard, took a left, and followed the road east again through Bel Air and into Beverly Hills. Reba played navigator, tracking street addresses though it really wasn't necessary. A few blocks beyond Doheny, the Hotel Neptune loomed into view, an Art Deco wonder that vaguely mimicked the Empire State Building, its shoulders narrowing to a point. I'd read an article about the place in a copy of Los Angeles Magazine. The property had recently been expanded to encompass a large parcel of land on each side, which allowed the creation of a sweeping entrance and additional guest parking. A name change and the multimillion-dollar renovation had propelled the old hotel into prominence again. Now it was the hot new destination for rock stars, actors, and wide-eyed tourists hoping to be considered hip.

I pulled into the sweeping semicircular drive, taking my place sixth in line behind two stretch limousines, a Rolls, a Mercedes, and a Bentley. This was clearly check-in time. A car-park valet and two to three uniformed bellhops hovered around each vehicle, assisting the guests as they emerged, unloading bag after bag from open trunks onto rolling brass luggage carts. A doorman in livery and white gloves whistled up a taxicab that cut around me on the left and pulled up in front. Two hotel guests dressed like tramps ducked into the cab and I watched it pull away.

Reba said, "This is nuts. Why don't I just run in?"

"Forget it. I don't want you out of my sight."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said. "What do you think, I'm going to duck out the back and leave you here by yourself?"

As that was exactly what I thought, I didn't bother to reply. When our turn came, I handed the keys to the parking valet while Reba dazzled him with a smile and pressed a folded bill against his palm. "Hey, how're you? We'll be back in two minutes."

"We'll have it ready for you."

"Thanks." She moved on into the hotel, boobs jiggling, her slim legs flashing in her red shorts. The guy was so busy ogling her, he nearly dropped the car keys.

The interior of the hotel was a pastiche of dark green marble and mirrors, wall sconces, torcheres, and potted palms. The carpet was done in shades of green and blue, stylized waves, which were part of the nautical motif. Not surprisingly, the Roman god Neptune was depicted in a series of massive gilt-and-stucco bas-relief panels, driving his chariot across the waters, shaking his trident to bring down floods, saving a damsel from a satyr. Artificial light glowed from a five-tiered fountain of glass. The chairs were blond wood, the occasional tables lacquered in black. A wide marble staircase curved up to the mezzanine, where I could see black pedestals set in green fluted niches, each bearing an urn filled with fresh flowers.

The lobby walls were curved, with banquettes covered in a fabric that mimicked undulating sea grasses. Swing tunes playing at almost subliminal levels. Two lines had formed in front of the marble-sheathed reception desk – guests checking in, picking up messages, conversing with the staff.

Reba paused to get her bearings and then said, "Wait here."

I took a seat in a curved-back chair, one of four arranged around an etched-glass coffee table. In the center was a crystal bowl in which gardenias floated. I watched as she crossed to the concierge, a middle-aged man in a tuxedo. His desk was a sinuous curve of inlaid woods, banded in chrome and topped with a green glass counter, subtly lighted from below. She removed a manila mailing pouch from her purse, wrote something on the front, and handed it to him. After a brief conversation, he placed the manila envelope on a credenza against the wall behind his desk. She asked him a question. He consulted his files and extracted a white envelope, which he handed to her. She put it in her purse and then crossed to the house phone and picked up the handset. She had a conversation with someone and then returned. "We're meeting in the cocktail lounge."

"Oh, happy day. Can I join you?"

"Don't be a smartass. Of course."

The cocktail lounge was located on the far side of the lobby, across from the elevators. The bar itself was a streamlined curve, sheathed in glass panels that were etched with coral reefs, sea creatures, and goddesses in various states of undress. The space was large and dark, the indirect lighting augmented by a votive candle in the center of each table. The place was almost empty, but I was guessing that within the hour the bar would start filling up with hotel guests, starlets, hookers, and local business types.

Reba snagged a table close to the door. It was only 3:10, but knowing Reba, she'd be ready for a drink. A cocktail waitress wearing a snug gold satin vest, matching shorts, and gold mesh hose, delivered an order of drinks to a nearby table and then approached ours.

Reba said, "We're expecting someone else."

"You want to order now or wait?"

"Now is fine."

The waitress looked to me.

"I'll have coffee," I said, already focused on the drive ahead. This was Saturday so at least we wouldn't have to deal with rush-hour traffic, but it would still be a hard couple of hours, given the seven and a half we'd done.

"And for you?"

"Vodka martini with three olives and a double whiskey for my friend."

The waitress moved toward the bar.

"I don't get it," I said. "You know drinking's a parole violation. If Holloway finds out, she'll come down on you like a ton of bricks."

"Oh, please. It's not like I'm doing drugs."

"But you're doing everything else. Don't you want to hang on to your freedom?"

"Hey, you know what? I was free when I was in. I didn't drink or smoke or do drugs or screw around with any dumb-ass guys. You know what I did? I picked up computer skills. I learned to upholster a chair, which I'll bet you sure as shit can't do. I read books and made the kind of friends who'd give their lives for me. I didn't know how happy I was till I got out in this kiss-ass world. I don't give a shit about Holloway. She can do anything she wants."

"Okay by me. It's your lookout," I said.

Reba's sullen gaze was fixed on the bank of elevators directly across from us. Above each elevator there was an old-fashioned half-moon of brass, with a moving brass arrow indicating the progress of the elevators going up or coming down. I watched as the last elevator in line paused at the eighth floor and then worked its way down. The doors slid open and Marty Blumberg emerged. Reba waved and he headed in our direction. When he reached our table, she tilted her head so he could kiss her cheek. "You're lookin' good," he said.

"Thanks. So are you."

Marty pulled out a chair with a glance at me. "Nice seeing you again," he said. His attention shifted back to her. "Everything okay?"

"We're cool. I left something for you at the desk. Thanks for this," she said, patting her bag.