R Is for Ricochet

– 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.
    As there was nothing else on the menu, we ordered seven-way chili, electing all six options. The chili arrived hot, spicy, and rich. The recipe, I noticed, was printed on our paper place mats. I was tempted to snitch mine, but the note at the bottom said "Serves 40," which seemed excessive for someone who usually eats alone standing over the sink. "You never finished telling me about Passages and Beck's participation," I said.
    "Glad you asked. I didn't think you'd pursue the subject."
    "Here I am," I said. "Care to fill me in?"
    She paused to light a cigarette. "It's simple enough. A developer in Dallas bought the land in 1969 and submitted all the plans. He thought it'd be a Cakewalk. The guy was so optimistic, he was already putting up signs: 'Passages Shopping Plaza. Coming in the fall of 1973.' The city planners had a ball, running him ragged with all the codes and requirements. He revised the plans sixteen times, but nothing ever seemed to suit. Twelve years later, when the developer still hadn't managed to get approval, he put the word out on the street and someone introduced him to Beck. That was 1981. The project was finished in ' 85, a speedy three years after construction began."
    I waited for the rest.
    "I can tell by the look on your face you're not getting it," she said.
    "Just tell me, okay? Guessing slows us down and makes me cranky."
    "Well, think about it. How do you think Beck got all those approvals and permits? Because he's nice?"
    I stared, feeling dense.
    Reba rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal gesture denoting money changing hands.
    "Payoffs?"
    "Exactly. That's where the money went – the three hundred and fifty thou I was accused of snitching. I delivered most of it myself, though I didn't realize what it was until later. All I knew was he had me driving to hell and gone with these bulky manila envelopes. Granted, some of it was earmarked for the boys in Sacramento – Beck is forever greasing palms on behalf of pending legislation – but most was for local guys who had the power to say no. Once they pocketed the dough, they were more than happy to be of help."
    "But that's political money laundering."
    "Wow, you are
quick,"
she said, rolling her eyes. "Isn't that why you're setting up this meeting with the feds, to get the goods on him?"
    "I wasn't sure how far you meant to go."
    "Right to the bitter end."
    "But when we first talked, didn't you say he was depositing the money offshore so he could hide it from his wife?"
    "That's the story he gave me. I didn't figure out what he was really doing until the audit came up. I'm sure he's still funneling cash out of the country as fast as he can, but at least I get it now; his efforts were never meant to benefit me."
    "I'm sorry. I know that's