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 f you're so hot for me to meet?"
"Marty Blumberg. Beck's company comptroller."
Chapter 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.
A waitress appeared. Reba asked for iced tea and I ordered a beer. I'd have ordered iced tea myself, but only to demonstrate a virtue I didn't actually possess. In the face of her sobriety, I was acutely conscious of every sip I took. I was also worried the minute I turned my head, she'd snatch up my beer and suck half of it down.