Free "R" is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton Page B

assorted stucco and frame houses, most of them small, dating back to the early forties.
    By the time I reached the jogging path, I was sufficiently warmed up to break into a trot. After that, I only had to cope with my protesting body parts, which gradually melded into the smooth rhythms of the run. I was home again forty minutes later, winded, sweating, but feeling virtuous. I let myself into the apartment, stripped off my sweats, and took a short hot shower. I was out and drying myself when the telephone rang. I took the call while turning the towel into a makeshift sarong.
    â€œKinsey? This is Reba. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
    â€œWell, I’m standing here soaking wet, but I should be good for a minute until the chill sets in. What’s up?”
    â€œNot much. Pop was feeling bad so he’s gone to bed. The housekeeper just left and the home-care nurse called to say she’d be a little late. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner?”
    â€œSure. I could do that. What’d you have in mind?”
    â€œDidn’t you mention a place in your neighborhood?”
    â€œRosie’s. That’s where I was headed. I wouldn’t call it fancy, but at least it’s close.”
    â€œI just need to get out. I’d love to join you but only if it doesn’t interfere with your plans.”
    â€œWhat plans? I don’t mind a bit. You have transportation?”
    â€œDon’t worry about that. As soon as the nurse arrives, I’ll meet you down there. About seven?”
    â€œThat should work.”
    â€œGood. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
    â€œI’ll grab a good table and see you there,” I said, and then gave her the address.
    After she hung up, I finished my routine, putting on fresh jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. I went downstairs and spent a few minutes tidying my already tidy kitchen. Then I flipped on the lights and sat in the living room with the local paper, catching up on the obituaries and other current events.
    At 6:56, I walked the half block to Rosie’s through the lingering daylight. Two sets of neighbors were having cocktails outside, enjoying conversation from porch to porch. A cat crossed the street and eased its slim body through the palings in a picket fence. I could smell jasmine.
    Rosie’s is one of six small businesses on my block, including a laundromat, an appliance-repair shop, and an automobile mechanic, who always has clunkers lined up along his drive. I’ve been having supper at Rosie’s three to four nights a week for the past seven years. The exterior is shabby, a building that might have served as the neighborhood market once upon a time. The windows are plate glass, but the light is obscured by sputtering neon beer signs, posters, announcements, and faded placards from the health department. As nearly as I can remember, Rosie’s has never been awarded a rating higher than a C.
    Inside, the space is long and narrow, with a high, darkly painted ceiling that looks like it was made of pressed tin. Crudely constructed plywood booths form an L on the right. There’s a long mahogany bar on the left, with two swinging kitchen doors and a short corridor leading to the restrooms located at the rear. The remaining floor space is occupied by a number of Formica dinette tables. The accompanying chairs have chrome legs and upholstered marbleized gray plastic seats, variously split and subsequently mended with duct tape. The air always smells of spilled beer, popcorn, ancient cigarette smoke, and Pine-Sol.
    Monday nights are generally quiet, allowing the day-drinkers and the usual sports rowdies to recover from their weekend excesses. My favorite booth was empty, as were most of the others, as a matter of fact. I slid in on one side so I could watch the front door for Reba’s arrival. I checked the menu, a mimeographed sheet inserted in a plastic sleeve. Rosie runs these off on