R Is for Ricochet

tough on you."
    "Tough, but true," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
    At 9:00, just about on the dot, Marty Blumberg appeared. Reba had been watching for him, and she gave him a big wave and motioned him over the minute he walked in. He paused at the bar to light a cigarette. The bartender was already setting up his usual drink, whiskey so dark it looked like Coke. Glass in hand, he ambled over to our table. He was probably in his fifties, a good-looking guy once upon a time. Now he was overweight by a good hundred pounds, his wardrobe lagging one size behind. His trouser pockets bulged open like a set of ears and the buttons on his shirt were straining against his bulk. He was baby-faced and florid, with sorrowful-looking blue eyes, a pug nose, and a full head of dark frizzy hair. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Reba invited him to join us, hooking a thumb in my direction by way of introduction. "This is Kinsey Millhone. Marty Blumberg," she said.
    I said, "Hi, Marty. Nice to meet you," and the two of us shook hands.
    Marty gave Reba a quick visual appraisal. "You're none the worse for wear. When'd you get back?"
    "Monday. Kinsey drove down and brought me back. The whole experience was an education… in what, I don't know."
    "I'll bet."
    "I hear you're in the new offices. Nice to be so close. Dale's was always your favorite."
    Marty smiled. "I've only been coming in the past fourteen years. I could be part owner with all the money I've spent."
    Reba took out a cigarette and Marty picked up her Dunhill and extended a light. Reba tucked a strand of hair behind one ear as she bent to the flame, her hand resting casually on his. She inhaled, her eyes closing briefly. Smoking was like prayer, something you approached with reverence. "Beck says the offices are awesome."
    "Pretty slick," he said.
    "Coming from you, that's high praise. How about a tour? Beck said he'd show me around, but he's in Panama."
    "A tour? Sure, why not? Give me a call and we'll set it up."
    "How about tonight? As long as we're down here, it would be a hoot." He hesitated. "I could do that, I guess. I need to pick up my briefcase anyway and clean off my desk."
    "You're cleaning your desk on a Friday night? That's devotion." "Beck's new dictum – no files or papers on any of the surfaces overnight. Place looks like a showroom. I'm mostly playing catch-up, taking care of stuff I've let slide. I'll probably work tomorrow, too."
    "The guy's a workaholic," she said to me as an aside and then turned back to him. "Kinsey's a PI… a pri-vate de-tec-tive," she said, separating each syllable for emphasis. She turned to me. "You have a business card on you?"
    "Let me look," I said. I fumbled in my shoulder bag until I found my wallet, where I kept a stash of cards. Reba had her hand out so I passed one to her and she handed it on to Marty, who studied it, pretending it mattered when he couldn't have cared less.
    He tucked it in his shirt pocket. "Guess I better watch my backside." Reba smiled. "That is so so true. You have no idea." He shook a cigarette from the pack, placing it directly between his lips. Smoking didn't seem like a good idea as he was already wheezing. Reba said, "Allow me," as she picked up her Dunhill, flicked it, and offered him a light. "Such service."
    "You bet. Tit for tat," she said. She propped her chin on one hand. "Aren't you curious what she's doing here?"
    Marty looked from Reba to me. "A drug bust?"
    "Don't be dumb," she said, giving him a smack on the arm. She leaned forward flirtatiously and murmured, "She's part of a task force – federal and local dicks – looking into Beck's finances. All very hush-hush. Promise you won't tell." She put a finger to her lips and I could feel myself blanch. I couldn't believe she'd laid it out like that, without a word to me. Not that I'd have agreed. I checked his reaction.
    His smile was tentative as he waited for the punch line. "No, seriously."
    "Seriously," she said. I could see she enjoyed doling it out to him bit by bit.
    "I don't get it."
    "What's to get? I'm telling you the truth."
    "Why tell me?"
    "Fair warning. I like you. You're right in the line of fire."
    He must have been one of those men who operated with his body thermostat cranked up into the red zone because his face now bore a sheen of perspiration. Without seeming to be aware of it, he took the flap of his tie and blotted the beads of sweat from his cheek. "What do you mean, I'm right in the line of fire? How do