"I prefer plain."
"I'm bring lemon on the side in little diaper so you squeeze in your tea with no seeds come out."
"Thanks."
Once Rosie left, Reba said, "I would have turned that down. It really doesn't bother me to see you drink."
"I wasn't sure. I don't want to be a bad influence."
"You? Not possible. Don't worry about it." She set the menu aside and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. "You have other questions. I can tell."
"I do. What were they in for, the mean ones?"
"Murder, manslaughter. A lot for selling drugs. The lifers were the worst because what did they have to lose? They'd get thrown in detention? Whoopee-do. Big deal."
"I couldn't stand having all those people around. Didn't that drive you nuts?"
"It was terrible. Really bad. Women living in close proximity always end up on the same monthly cycle. I guess there must be primitive survival advantages – females fertile at the same time. Talk about PMS. You tack a full moon on top of that and the place turned into a loony bin. Moodiness, quarrels, crying jags, suicide attempts."
"You think being among hardened criminals corrupted you?" "Corrupted me? Like how?"
"Didn't you pick up new and better ways to break the law?" She laughed. "Are you kidding? All of us were in there because we got caught. Why would I take instruction from a bunch of fuckups? Besides which, women don't sit around trying to teach other women how to rob banks or fence stolen property. They talk about what lousy attorneys they had and how their case is going on appeal. They talk about their kids and their boyfriends and what they want to do when they get out, which usually involves food and sex – not necessarily in that order."
"Was there an upside?"
"Oh, sure. I'm clean and sober. The drunks and druggies are the ones who end up back in the can. They go out on parole and the next thing you know, they're on the bus again, coming through Reception. Half the time they can't even remember what they did while they were out."
"How'd you survive?"
"I walked the yard or read books, sometimes as many as five a week. I did tutoring. Some of the girls barely knew how to read. They weren't dumb; they'd just never been taught. I did their hair and looked at pictures of their kids. That was hard, watching them try to maintain contact. The phones were a source of conflict. You wanted to make an afternoon call, you had to get your name on a list first thing in the morning. Then when your turn came, you had twenty minutes max. The big beefy dykes took as long as they liked and if you had objections, tough patooties to you. I was a shrimp compared to most. Five-two, a hundred and four pounds. That's why I learned to be devious. Nothing sweeter than revenge, but you don't want to leave your fingerprints all over the deed. Take my advice: never do anything that points back to you."
"I'll remember that," I said.
Rosie returned with a tray bearing Reba's iced tea, the lemon swaddled in cheesecloth, and an order of Krumpli Paprikas for each of us. She set down rye bread, butter, and sour pickles, and disappeared again.
Reba leaned close to her bowl. "Oh. Caraway seeds. For a minute, I thought I saw something move."
The potato stew was tasty, served in big porcelain bowls flecked with caraway seeds. I was using my last piece of buttered rye bread to sop up the remaining traces of gravy when I saw Reba glance over my left shoulder toward the front of the restaurant, her eyes widening. "Oh my goodness! Look who's here."
I leaned left, peering around the edge of the booth so I could follow her gaze. The front door had opened and a guy had come in. "You know him?"
"That's Beck," she said as though that explained everything. She pushed herself out of the booth. "I'll be right back."
Chapter 7
I waited a decent interval and then peered at the two of them standing near the door. The guy was tall, lean, and rangy in jeans and a supple black suede jacket. He had his hands in his jacket pockets and his collar turned up, which didn't look as thuglike as it sounds. His hair was a tawny mix of blond and brown, and his half-smile created a deep crease on either side of his mouth. Beside him, Reba was diminutive, a full head shorter than he, which forced him to lean toward her attentively as the two of them talked. I went back to cleaning my bowl – food, in this instance, taking precedence over idle speculation.
A moment later they appeared and Reba gestured at him. "Alan Beckwith. I used to work for him. This is Kinsey Millhone."
He held his hand out, his wrist thin, his fingers long and slim. "Nice to meet you. I'm Beck to most."
I put him in his thirties – fine lines on his face, but no pouches anywhere. "Nice meeting you, too," I said, shaking hands with him. "Are you joining us?"
"If you don't mind. I don't want to butt in."
"We're just chatting," I said. "Have a seat."
On their side of the booth, Reba slid in first, scooting over to make room for him. He sat down, half-slouching, his long legs outstretched. He was clean shaven, but I could see the shadow of a beard. His eyes were the dark, rich brown of Hershey's Kisses. I picked up the scent of cologne, something spicy and light. I'd seen him before… not here, but somewhere in town, though I couldn't imagine why our paths would have crossed.
He tapped on the back of Reba's hand. "So. How've you been?"
"Fine. It feels great to be home."
I tuned them out, watching as the two exchanged pleasantries. For people who'd once worked together, both seemed ill at ease, but that might have been because he'd turned her over to the cops, a move that would put a damper on most relationships.
"You look good," he said.
"Thanks. I could use a decent haircut. I did this myself. What about you? What have you been up to?"
"Not much. Traveling a lot on business. I just got back from Panama last week and I may be heading out again. We're in the new building, part of the mall that was finished last spring. Restaurants and shops. It's really slick."
"That was in the works when I left and I know what a pain in the ass it was. Congratulations."
"Have you seen it?"
"Not yet. Must be convenient for you, working right downtown."
"Dynamite," he said.
She smiled. "How's the office gang? I hear Onni took my old job. Is she doing okay?"
"She's fine. It took her a while to learn the system, but she's doing great. Everyone else is pretty much the same."
What did I sense? I tested the air with my little feelers, trying to identify the nature of the tension between them.
Idly, I listened while Beck continued. "I got a new deal in the works. Commercial property up near Merced. I just met with some guys who have capital to invest so we may pull something together. I stopped in here for a good-luck drink before I headed home." His attention shifted in an effort to include me in the conversation. A smooth move, I thought. He wagged a finger between Reba and me, like a windshield wiper. "How do you two know each other?"
I'd opened my mouth to speak, but Reba got in first. "We don't. We just met this morning when she picked me up and brought me home. I was going nuts, stuck at the house. Pop went to bed early and I was too hyper to sit still. The silence was really creeping me out so I called her."
His gaze settled on mine. "You live around here?"
"Half a block down. I rent a studio apartment. Matter of fact, that's my landlord over there," I said, gesturing toward Henry at his table near the front. "The bartender's his older brother William, who's married to Rosie, the gal who owns this place, just to fill you in."
Beck smiled. "A family affair." He was one of those guys who understands the power of being totally focused on the person he's talking to. No barely disguised glances at his watch, no surreptitious shift in his gaze to see who's coming in the door. Now he seemed as patient as a cat staring at a crack in a rock where a lizard has disappeared. "You live in the area?" I asked.