R Is for Ricochet

yourself."
    There was a moment of quiet.
    I said, "Hello?"
    "I'm here. I was wondering how you'd feel about company."
    "Right now?"
    "Yes."
    I thought about exhaustion, both his and mine. "Good. I'd feel good – assuming it's yourself we're discussing and not someone else."
    "Give me ten minutes."
    "Make it fifteen. That'll give me time to change."
    I took the spiral stairs two at a time, whipped off my clothes, jammed everything in the hamper, showered, shaved my legs, washed my hair, flossed and brushed my teeth, all in the space of eight minutes, which gave me plenty of time to pull on clean sweats (minus underwear) and change the sheets. Downstairs again, I was in the process of refolding sections of the newspaper when I heard his tap at the door.
    I tossed the
Dispatch
in the wastebasket and let him in. His hair was curly and damp and he smelled like soap. He was holding a pizza box that smelled heavenly. He closed the door behind him. "I never ate dinner. The guy just delivered this. You hungry?"
    "Of course. You want to take it up with us?"
    He smiled, shaking his head fondly. "Always in a hurry. We have time."

    At 1:00 A.M., he gave me the promised haircut, me sitting on a stool in the loft bathroom with a towel draped across my shoulders, Cheney with a second towel wrapped around his waist.
    I said, "Most of the time I do this myself with a pair of nail scissors."
    "So I see." He worked with ease and concentration, taking off very little hair, but somehow making the whole of it fall together in tidy layers.
    I watched his reflection in the mirror. So serious. "Where'd you learn to cut hair?"
    "I have an uncle who does this for a living. Salon on Melrose, 'Hair Cutter to the Stars.' Four hundred bucks a pop. I figured if I washed out of police academy I could do this instead. I'm not sure which option was more horrifying to my parents, my becoming a cop or a guy who does women's hair. They're otherwise decent folks, barring the inherent snobbery."
    "Last time I had a really good cut, you know who did it?"
    "Danielle Rivers. I remember that." Cheney's attention had shifted to the nape of my neck, where he was busy snipping away, trying to even out the line.
    Danielle Rivers was a seventeen-year-old hooker he'd introduced me to. He'd recently been transferred to vice, part of the regular rotation system at the police department, while I'd been hired to track down the killer of Lorna Kepler, a beautiful young woman who was caught up in porno films and sex for hire. He'd put me together with Danielle because she and the victim had been cohorts.
    I said, "Danielle was appalled when she heard how little I earned – half of what she made. You should have heard her riff on investment strategies, all of which she picked up from Lorna. I wish I'd taken her advice. Maybe I'd be rich."
    "Easy come, easy go."
    "Remember the sandwiches you bought in the hospital cafeteria the night she was admitted?"
    He smiled. "Man, those were bad. Ham and cheese from a vending machine."
    "But you added all the stuff that made them edible."
    He gave me a hand mirror and kissed me on the top of the head, saying, "All done."
    I turned, holding the mirror so I could check the cut in the back. "Oh, wow. It looks good. Thanks." I glanced down at his towel, the two ends of which had parted in front. "I like your friend. Must be showtime and he's popped his head out to check the audience."
    Cheney glanced down. "Why don't we go in the other room and see if we can catch his act?"
    Eventually we slept, curled together like cats.

Chapter 17
    Friday morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed at 10:00. We showered and dressed, and then walked over to Cabana Boulevard, where we had breakfast at a little beachside cafe. Cheney didn't have to go to work until later in the day, having been scheduled for another shift in the surveillance van. Back from breakfast, we stood and chatted at the curb until we ran out of things to say. We parted company at noon. He had errands to run and I was ready to be alone. I watched until his little red Mercedes disappeared from sight and then I followed the walkway around to the backyard.
    Henry was kneeling in one of his flower beds, where nutgrass was popping up. He was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a tank top, his flip-flops lying on the lawn nearby. Eliminating nutgrass requires patience. The weed multiplies by way of threadlike roots and tiny black rhizomes that spread underground, so simply yanking the stems