R is for Ricochet (Kinsey Millhone 18)

Inside the entrance, a modest-size casino was hazy with cigarette smoke, the air aglow with the ambient light from a hundred slot machines lined up back-to-back. In passing, I picked up the soft, goofy flute-and-bell music that accompanies play. The acoustical-tile ceiling was low, dotted with can lights, cameras, smoke alarms, and sprinkler heads. Scarcely anyone was seated at the slots, but farther in, beyond the blackjack tables, I could see a darkened bar with a wide apron built along one side. On three hotly lighted platforms nude dancers undulated, strutted, and otherwise exhibited body parts. Nothing they did seemed particularly lewd or crude. I found a table toward the rear, feeling ill at ease. Most of the customers were men. All were drinking and most paid little or no attention to the breasts and buttocks on parade in front of them.

There was no sign of Misty, but a waitress named Joy arrived at my table and placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. Sequined pasties the size of dinner mints chastely shielded her nipples from public scrutiny, and she wore a glittering fig leaf over what my aunt Gin would call her "privates." I ordered a bottle of Bass ale, theorizing there was no way the management could water it down. When Joy returned with my beer and a basket of tinted yellow popcorn, I paid the fifteen-dollar tab and tipped her an extra five bucks. "I'm looking for Misty. Is she here?"

"She just went to change. She'll be out in a bit. You're a friend of hers?"

"Not quite, but close enough," I said.

"Give me your name and I'll tell her you're here."

"She won't know me by name. A friend of a friend said I should look her up if I was ever passing through."

"What's the friend's name?"

"Reba Lafferty."

"Lafferty. I'll tell her."

I sipped my beer and picked at the cold, chewy popcorn, glad for the distraction as I didn't really favor watching nude women shaking their booties at me even from a distance. I'd imagined voluptuous, showgirl-style bodies, but only one of the three had the requisite football-size knockers. I figured the other two were saving up.

As it turned out, Misty hadn't gone to change clothes so much as to strip off the garments she was wearing when she got to work. Her legs were bare and only a thong and her high heels remained. She was tall and lanky, with pitch-black hair, a prominent collarbone, and long, thin arms. By way of contrast, she had breasts of burdensome dimensions, the kind that give you back problems and require a bra with straps so fierce they create permanent tracks across your shoulder blades like ruts worn in rock. Not that I've ever suffered from such a fate, but I've heard women complain. I couldn't imagine choosing to haul those things around. Her eyes were large and green with dark circles underneath that even heavy makeup couldn't hide. I placed her in her forties though I wasn't sure quite where.

"Joy says you're a friend of Reba's."

I didn't know stripper-greeting etiquette, but I stood and shook her hand. "Kinsey Millhone. I'm from Santa Teresa."

"Same as Reba," she remarked. "How's she doing these days?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

"Can't help you there. I haven't seen her in years. Are you in town on vacation or what's the deal?"

"I'm here looking for her."

One of Misty's shoulders went up in what passed for a shrug. "Last I heard she's in prison. California Institution for Women."

"Not anymore. She was released on the twentieth of this month."

"No fooling. Well, good for her! I'll have to drop her a line. The real world's a shock when you're not used to it," she said. "Hope she makes it."

"The prospects of that are dim. She did well at first, but lately things haven't been so hot."

"Sorry to hear that, but why come to me?"

"Just a long shot," I said.

"Must have been awful long. I've worked here a week. I don't get how you managed to track me down."

"Process of elimination. Reba told me you worked as an exotic dancer. With a name like yours, it wasn't difficult."

"Get off it. You know how many strip joints there are in this town?"

"Thirty-five. This is the thirteenth I've tried. Must be my lucky number. Can we chat?"

"About what? I start work in two minutes. I need time to get centered. Gig like this is tough unless you have your head on straight."

"I won't keep you long."

Gingerly she perched and I wondered if the wooden chair seat felt cold on her bare butt. The sensation couldn't be that keen, but she didn't yelp or otherwise vocalize dismay. She said, "Is this a fishing expedition or did you want something in particular?"