R Is for Ricochet

direct and unwavering as a heat-seeking missile. When she reached the table, she made a point of directing all her comments to me, a minor eccentricity of hers. She seldom looks a stranger in the eye. Male or female, it doesn't matter to her. Any new acquaintance is treated like an odd appendage of mine. The effect, in this instance, was coquettish, which I thought was unbecoming in a woman her age. "Your friend would like something to drink?"
    I said, "Beck?"
    "You have single-malt Scotch?"
    She fairly wriggled with pleasure, shooting an approving look at him out of the corner of her eye. "Special for him, I hev MaCallum's. Is twenty-four years old. You want neat or wit ice?"
    "Ice. A double with a water back. Thanks."
    "Of course." She cleared the table, loading our dinner plates and silverware onto her tray. "He's want supper, perhaps?"
    He smiled. "No, thanks. It smells wonderful, but I just ate. Maybe next time. Are you Rosie?"
    "Yes, I em."
    He rose to his feet and offered his hand. "An honor to meet you. Alan Beckwith," he said. "This is quite a place."
    In lieu of an actual handshake, Rosie allowed him temporary possession of her fingertips. "Next time, I'm fix something special for you. Hungarian like what you've never had until I give."
    "You got a deal. I adore Hungarian cuisine," he said.
    "You hev been to Hungary?"
    "Budapest, once, about six years ago…"
    Covertly, I watched the interplay between the two of them. Rosie became more girlish as the exchange went on. Beck was too slick for my taste, but I had to give him credit for making the effort. Most people find Rosie difficult, which she is.
    As soon as she went off to fetch his drink, Beck turned to Reba. '"How's your dad? I saw him a couple months ago and he wasn't looking good."
    "He's not doing well. I really had no idea. I was shocked to see how much weight he's lost. You know he had surgery for a thyroid tumor. Then it turned out he had polyps on his vocal cords so he had to have those removed. He's still shaky on his feet."
    "I'm sorry to hear that. He's always seemed so vigorous."
    "Yeah, well, he's eighty-seven years old. He's bound to slow down at some point."
    Rosie returned, bringing Beck a hefty glass of Scotch over ice with a small carafe of water on the side. She set his drink on a cardboard coaster and handed him a dainty paper cocktail napkin. I noticed she'd found a doily to put on her tray. If the guy had been with me. she'd have been measuring the inseam for his wedding tuxedo.
    He picked up his drink and took a measured sip, sending her a smile of approval. "That's perfect. Thanks."
    Rosie departed reluctantly, at a loss for any other service to perform.
    Beck turned back to me. "Are you a local as well?"
    "Yep."
    "Where'd you go to high school?"

"S.T."
    "Me, too. Maybe that's where we knew each other. What year did you graduate?"
    "1967. What about you?"
    "A year ahead of you – 1966. Odd I don't remember you. I'm usually good about those things."
    I upgraded his age to thirty-eight. "I was a low-waller," I said, indicating my association with the badass kids who sat on the low wall at the rear of the school property where the hillside sloped down to meet the street behind. We smoked cigarettes and dope and occasionally mixed vodka in our bottles of orangeade. Tame by later standards, but considered wicked in our day.
    "Really," he said. He gave me a brief searching look and then reached for the menu. "How's the food?"
    "Not bad. Are you really fond of Hungarian cooking, or were you making that up?"
    "Why would I lie about something like that?" He delivered the line lightly, but he could have meant anything – perhaps that he'd never bother to lie about the trivial or mundane in life. "Why do you ask?"
    "I'm surprised you haven't been in before."
    "I've seen the place in passing, but frankly, it always looked like such a dive I never had the nerve. I had a meeting with some guys and thought I'd give it a try since I was in the neighborhood. Nicer inside than out, I'll say that."
    My antennae went up with a little whining sound. That was the second time he'd explained how he happened to come in. I picked up my glass and took a sip of bad wine. Really, it tasted like a product you'd use to clean tar off your feet after a day at the beach. Reba was playing with the straw in her iced tea.
    Looking from her face to his, I realized what a dunce I'd been. She'd arranged this in advance. Dinner with me was just a cover for her