"R" is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton Page B

they say. They’d go on these big spending sprees, stay in a bunch of fancy hotels, and charge anything they liked. Then they’d dump that card, steal another one, and mosey on down the road. Then they branched out into phony IDs. She has this artistic streak and it turns out she’s a whiz at replicating passports and driver’s licenses and shit like that. They made so much dough she bought herself a new set of tits. Before the boyfriend, she’d been working for one of those mobile-maid-type cleaning services for minimum wage. She said she’d’ve never gotten anywhere on what she made even if she worked all her life.
    â€œMy other friend, Vivian, was mixed up with this drug dealer. You don’t know how many times I heard that one. He was pulling in a thousand bucks a day, and they lived like kings until the cops showed up. That was her first offense and she swears it’s her last. She’s got another six months to serve and then I’m hoping she’ll come here. Her boyfriend’s been sent up five times and he’ll be in for years, which is just as well. She’s still crazy about the guy.”
    â€œTrue love is like that.”
    â€œYou really think?”
    â€œNo. That was meant to be tongue in cheek,” I said. “I take it you don’t have friends here in town.”
    â€œJust Onni, the woman I used to work with. I talked to her earlier, hoping I could see her this afternoon, but she was tied up.”
    â€œIsn’t she the one who took your old job?”
    â€œRight. She feels guilty about that, but I said don’t be dumb. She used to do front desk, but this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Why would I begrudge her the chance? She said she’d have driven me around today if she didn’t have to work.”
    I turned into the parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles. “If you want, you can run in and pick up a booklet and study in the car before you take the test.”
    â€œNah. I’ve been driving for years so how hard can it be?”
    â€œWell, it’s your choice. I prefer to bone up myself. Cuts the flop sweat.”
    â€œI like anxiety. It keeps me awake.”
    I waited in the car while Reba went in. She was gone forty minutes, some portion of which I spent hanging over the seat, trying to tidy all the crap that I keep back there. I generally motor around town with an overnight case stocked with toiletries and clean underpants. This, in the event I’m presented with a pressing reason to hop on a plane. In addition, I have assorted articles of clothing that I sometimes wear while pretending to be a public servant. I can do a pretty good imitation of a postal employee or meter reader from the gas-and-electric company. It pays to look like I’m doing official business when I’m standing on a front porch, idly scanning someone’s mail. I also keep several reference books in the backseat—one on crime scene investigation, Deering’s California Penal Code, a Spanish-language dictionary left over from a class I took years ago—an empty soda can, a bottle opener, an old pair of running shoes, a pair of badly snagged panty hose, and a lightweight jacket. While my apartment is tidy, I’m a slob when it comes to my car.
    I glanced up in time to catch Reba’s emergence from the DMV office. She half-skipped across the lot, waving a piece of paper that turned out to be her temporary license. “Aced it,” she said, as she got into the car.
    â€œGood for you,” I said. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the space. “Where now?”
    â€œI know it’s only ten forty-five, but I wouldn’t object to another QP with Cheese.”
    We ordered from the drive-through window, found a space in the parking lot, and ate in the car. We’d opted for two large Cokes, two Quarter Pounders apiece, and a large order of