C is for Corpse (Kinsey Millhone 3)

Her establishment has the same crude but cranky appeal. The bar extends along the left wall with a stuffed mar-lin arched above it that I suspect was never really alive. A big color TV sits on the far end of the bar, sound off, images dancing about like transmissions from another planet where life is vibrant and lunatic. The place always smells of beer, cigarette smoke, and cooking grease that should have been thrown out last week. There are six or seven tables in the center of the room surrounded by chrome-and-plastic chairs out of somebody's 1940s dinette set. The eight booths along the right wall have been fashioned out of plywood and stained the color of walnut, complete with tasteless suggestions carved in by ruffians who apparently had had a go at the ladies' room, too. It's possible that Rosie doesn't read English well enough to divine the true meaning of these primitive slogans. It's also possible that they express her sentiments exactly. Hard to know with her.

I glanced over at her and discovered that she was sitting bolt upright and very still, squinting narrowly at the front door. I followed her gaze. Henry had just come in with his new lady friend, Lila Sams. Rosie's antennae had apparently gone up automatically, like My Favorite Martian in drag. Henry found a table that seemed reasonably clean and pulled out a chair. Lila sat down and settled her big plastic bag on her lap like a small dog. She was wearing a bright cotton dress in a snazzy print, bold red poppies on a ground of blue, and her hair looked as if it had been poufed at the beauty parlor that very afternoon. Henry sat down, glancing back at the booth, where he knows I usually sit. I gave a little finger wave and he waved back. Lila's head swiveled in my direction and her smile took on a look of false delight.

Rosie, meanwhile, had set her evening paper aside and had left her stool, gliding through the bar like a shark. I could only surmise that she and Lila had met before. I looked on with interest. This might be almost as entertaining as Godzilla Meets Bambi, at my local cinema. From my vantage point, of course, the whole encounter took place in pantomime.

Rosie had her order pad out. She stood and stared at Henry, behaving as though he were alone, which is exactly how she treats me when I come in with a friend. Rosie doesn't speak to strangers. She doesn't make eye contact with anyone she hasn't known for some time. This is especially true when the "anyones" are women. Lila was all aflutter. Henry conferred with her and ordered for them both. Much discussion ensued. I gathered that Lila had made some request that didn't suit Rosie's notion of gourmet Hungarian cuisine. Maybe Lila wanted the peppers left out or something roasted instead of fried. Lila looked like the sort of woman who'd have lots of dietary taboos. Rosie only had the one. You ate it the way she served it or you went somewhere else. Lila apparently couldn't believe that she couldn't be catered to. Shrill and quarrelsome noises arose, all Lila's. Rosie didn't say a word. It was her place. She could do anything she wanted to. The two men at the bar who'd been arguing about politics turned to watch the show. The couple eating the sonkas palacsinta paused simultaneously, forks in midair.

Lila flounced her chair back. I thought for a minute she meant to hit Rosie with her purse. Instead, she delivered what looked like a scathing remark and marched toward the door with Henry scrambling after her. Rosie remained unruffled, smiling secretly as cats do in the midst of mouse dreams. The customers in the place, all five of us, got very quiet, tending studiously to our own private thoughts lest Rosie turn on us inexplicably and eighty-six us for life.

Twenty minutes passed before Rosie found an excuse to head my way. My wineglass was empty and she was bringing me a refill with unheard-of good grace. She set the second glass on the table and then folded her hands in front of her, wiggling slightly in place. She does this when she wants your attention or feels you haven't lauded her with quite enough praise for some culinary accomplishment.

"Looks like you took care of her," I remarked.

"Is vulgar woman. Terrible creature. She was in once before and I don't like her a bit. Henry must be crazy nuts to come in my place with a hussy like that. Who is she?"

I shrugged. "Listen, all I know is her name is Lila Sams. She's renting a room from Mrs. Lowenstein and Henry seems to be smitten."

"I'm gonna smitten her if she comes in here again! She got something funny with her eyes." Rosie screwed her face up and did an imitation of Lila that made me laugh. Rosie's generally a humorless person and I had no idea her powers of observation were so keen, let alone her ability to mimic. She was dead serious, of course. She drew herself together. "What's she want with him anyway?"