Seldom did anything in life go that smoothly for Brenner. You should know, Knoll made exactly the same mistake that Brenner did at the gas station and went to the bathroom at the betting parlor without his cell phone. And maybe Brenner only really took it because of that, in order to even the score for his own disgrace. But that’s how people are, and if a person’s solved the most spectacular murder case, then he’s absolutely got to be a magician with the little things, too.
But, right now, something much more important. Because believe it or not, Bank Director Reinhard was calling Brenner back.
CHAPTER 9
Now why is Brenner back at the gas station? Are his pangs of guilt pulling him there? Does he want to take another look at the surveillance video? Or is he hoping that the gas station’s drunks will adopt him, i.e., third musketeer?
Pay attention. Brenner was thinking to himself, Milan will definitely know someone who can unlock Knoll’s phone for me, the sort of thing someone at a gas station knows. But no luck on that front, because instead of Milan there was another attendant behind the cash register. The two drunks were there, of course-should I say “again” or “still,” I don’t know, they might have lived there. In any case, they shot him a smirk but didn’t say a word.
Brenner asked the new guy about Milan. The guy didn’t want to say anything at first, but then he came out with it. Milan got fired. Picture this: he’d been keeping a case of beer up at the counter and selling it on the sly. And the whole thing got exposed in the police raid because the cops turned everything over and scrutinized it three times, of course, and what did they find? Just Milan’s backdoor beer. In other words, Milan: second Brenner-victim of the day.
The new attendant just looked irritated by the question of whether he could unlock a cell phone because after the incident with his predecessor, he thought the company had sent a hired goon into the shop to test him. Nevertheless, he sold the test-goon a nonalcoholic beer, was even particularly friendly about it. Brenner stationed himself right back at the counter and briefly contemplated whether the answer might lie in Milan’s dismissal. Maybe the case of beer was just a front and was actually a connection to the kidnapping because the attendant had seen something, and now was being made to keep his mouth shut due to the intrigue surrounding the case of beer.
Brenner was so captivated by this theory that he ordered an espresso and a second nonalcoholic beer.
So you see, contemplating nonsense: often very useful. Because without the contemplating he wouldn’t have stayed as long as he did at the gas station. And then he wouldn’t have been standing there with his second nonalcoholic beer when the woman from the surveillance video came in. He recognized her right away from her curls, which were so fiery red that, in all fairness, they had no business being at a gas station. She got a newspaper and a carton of milk, and asked for a pack of Marlboro Lights at the cash register. Interesting, though. She didn’t stress the “a” in “Marlboro,” but the middle instead, like this: “Marl boo ro.” Brenner tried to make eye contact with the witness, but paying and pocketing the change and turning around and traipsing out were a single fluid movement with her, as if she were still being fast-forwarded on the video, and she walked past Brenner without even noticing him.
“South Tyrol!” Brenner yelled out, when she was closer to the exit than the cash register. Or actually, it was more of a murmur-no, too loud for a murmur, but too quiet for a yell, more of a medium middling volume. From the moment she asked for a pack of Marl boo ros, he’d been coming up with ways to take his guess that she was South Tyrolean and turn it into a line. But unfortunately, the new gas station attendant was incredibly nimble. He gave her back her change so fast, and she’d put it away so fast, that Brenner didn’t have enough time to develop a good line.
As the woman walked past the drunks, with the milk and newspaper in one hand and the pack of Marl boo ros in the other, Brenner got morose. My God, he cursed to himself, silently, I used to be able to come up with a line in a tenth of a second, I didn’t even have to think about it. And now I have this trump in my hand, I can identify where she’s from based on her cigarette pronunciation, and can you believe what I come up with?
He knew from experience that in a situation like this you simply have to lean as far out the window as possible, put yourself in a dangerous situation, and then a good line will come swimming in on the adrenaline. Which is why-as the woman flew past the potato chip rack in the direction of the newspaper rack, and then past the newspaper rack in the direction of the impulse-item rack, and past the impulse-item rack in the direction of the door-he called out to her in a way that sounded like he was murmuring, but was indeed clear and unmistakably audible: “South Tyrol!”
And the line shall follow. That was the calculation, with the meal comes the appetite, it’s the conversation that brings people together, stick your nose in other people’s business and an irresistible line will follow. Calculated error, as it were. Because no line, near or far. The two-word line echoed through the gas station, enough to make Brenner sick. South Tyrol! Nothing embarrassing had happened to him in a while. Before, he would have at least said as she walked by: “Do they believe in love at first sight in South Tyrol-or were you planning to walk by a second time?” Or a thousand possibilities. But now, either on account of the pills or the nonalcoholic beer or quite simply from age, or a rusty brain, or withering hormones-in all events, no line.
Now, I don’t know whether you know that the South Tyroleans are the most beautiful women in the world. Well, I’ve never been to Australia, but otherwise I can personally vouch that worldwide the South Tyroleans come in first, and then there’s nothing for a while, because genetically it might just be the ideal mating: half Italian meets half Geierwally. Just so you understand what kind of pressure Brenner was under.
“That was a long time ago,” the back of the South Tyrolean said. But turn around, not a chance. She stamped on toward the exit, without missing a step, because that was the Italian half that fueled the arrogant stamping.
“Could I have a Marl boo ro?” Brenner yelled out fast, just as the automatic doors were opening before her.
And believe it or not, she turned around and walked right up to Brenner. “You have good ears,” she said, tearing open the pack and holding it out to him.
“It was the Marl boo ro,” Brenner explained proudly, as he waved a dismissive hand at the pack of cigarettes. “Since I don’t drink anymore, I don’t smoke anymore either.” And he pointed to the nonalcoholic label because he wanted to make himself a little interesting.
The South Tyrolean immediately took it upon herself to perform that twin feminine task, i.e., simultaneously rolling her eyes and twisting her mouth, arrogantly and in opposite directions.
Now before she turned away entirely, Brenner quickly added, “I need to ask you something important.”
And then, of course, whether she’d seen anything thirty-three hours earlier.
It really just wasn’t his day, though. Or the gas station just wasn’t his place, maybe something wasn’t right with the water. Because the woman was completely clueless. She didn’t even know what he was referring to.
“But surely you saw something on TV or in the newspaper about-”
“I don’t read the paper.”
When a thing like that gets said by somebody who’s just bought a newspaper, naturally you have to say: suspicious. There she was, standing in front of him with a carton of milk, a pack of Marl boo ros, and a newspaper, and explaining in her South Tyrolean accent: “The newspaper’s too depresshing for me.”
“So you just bought it because-”
My god, before he would have said, because of the love horoscope, because of the personal ads, anything, it doesn’t even matter, just some slight suggestion-not too much subtext, well, okay, just a little-because these days if you make a woman laugh, you’re already on the right path in the direction of, let’s say, philosophical conversations.
“-because of the TV lishtings,” the South Tyrolean claimed in her South Tyrolean accent. “Because the TV lishtings are always in the Friday paper. The news I throw away the minute I get home.”
“And you don’t watch TV, either,” Brenner said. “You just read the listings.”
You can see how he was already getting back into the swing a bit. Nothing compared to the old days, of course. Long gone are the days when he would have lay in wait for her by the recycling bins in front of her house- full throttle, as it were. Although, to be honest, he’d often idealized his past a little. Because in truth Brenner had
