Given Santa Teresa's resistance to new construction, the project had taken years to push through. The city-planning commission and the architectural board of review, plus the city council, plus the county board of supervisors, plus the building and safety commission, all at odds with one another, had to be soothed, pacified, and reassured. Citizens' groups protested the razing of buildings five and six decades old, though most were otherwise unremarkable. Many were already slated for mandatory earthquake retrofitting, which would have cost the owners more than they were worth. Environmental impact studies had to be approved. Numerous small merchants were evicted and displaced, with only one holdout, a funky little bar called Dale's that was still moored in the middle of the plaza like a tugboat in a harbor full of yachts.
We ate dinner at an Italian boutique restaurant located on one of the smaller avenues that connected the center esplanade to State Street on one side and Chapel on the other. Temperatures were still elevated, and we elected to eat on the patio outside. As the dark came down, the landscape lighting began to paint walls and vegetation in colors more vivid than their daylight shades. Details of wrought-iron fixtures were picked out in shadow, the plaster frieze along the roof outlined in black. If you squinted, you could almost believe you'd been transported to a foreign country.
While we waited for our salads, I said, "I appreciate your doing this – the clothes thing."
"No problem. It's obvious you need help."
"I'm not sure the word 'obvious' should come into play."
"Trust me."
Later, while she was winding spaghetti on her fork, she said, "You know this is Beck's project."
"What is?"
"The mall."
"He did Passages?"
"Sure. I mean, not on his own – in partnership with a guy in Dallas, another developer. Beck moved his office to the far end, down by Macy's. The fourth floor runs the full block between State and Chapel."
"I didn't realize the building covered that much ground."
"Because you didn't bother to look up. If you did, you'd see that there are covered walkways that join the second and third levels in places above the esplanade. Technically, in the rainy season, you could move from one building to the other without getting wet."
"You've got a better eye than I do. I missed that."
"I have the advantage. The mall's been in development for years so I've seen the plans at just about every stage. Beck moved his office in a couple of months after I went into CIW, so I never got to see it. Turned out great, or so I hear."
I took a sip of wine, finishing the last bite of eggplant parmigiana while I watched Reba use a chunk of bread to clean up her marinara sauce. I said, "Where are you going with this?"
She popped the bread in her mouth, smiling while she chewed. "You're the kick-ass private eye. You figure it out. In the meantime, let's go buy you some clothes and then we can make the run into Montebello."
Chapter 15
We shopped until the stores closed at 9:00. Reba kept up a running commentary as I tried things on. In the interests of education, she let me make my choices without reference to her opinion. At first, I tried gauging her reaction as I lifted a garment off the rack, but she looked on with the same deadpan expression she must have donned at the poker table. With no guidelines whatever, I picked out two dresses, a pantsuit, and three cotton skirts. "Okay," I said.
Her brow went up about an eighth of an inch. "That's it?"
"Isn't this enough?"
"You like that green deal, that pantsuit thing?"
"Well, yeah. You know, it's dark and it won't show spots."
"All riiiight," she said, with a tone suggesting that you have to let kids make boo-boos in order for them to learn.
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.