the Supreme Court.
“Jefferson hated him,” she said. “America was formed as much or more by Marshall than Washington or Jefferson. Great man. Read it. Tell me what you think. No hurry.”
There was a couple sitting in the outer office when I left holding my article. They looked embarrassed and familiar. The woman looked down, pretending to read a recent office copy of People. The man smiled and adjusted his glasses.
Ann told them to go into her office. Before she followed them, she whispered to me, “Someday you will be able to say her name and we can really begin.”
“I thought we began months ago,” I said.
“No, I’ve just been softening you up.”
She followed the couple through the office door and closed it behind her.
The wife’s voice came through to the reception room. I couldn’t make out the words, didn’t want to, but there was immediate pain, immediate anger.
I went in search of someone who might know how to find Adele Tree. I had someone in mind. My bicycle was locked to a No Parking sign. I had made up my mind. I had to rent a car. Carl Sebastian had to pay for it.
The EZ Economy Car Rental Agency was six doors north of Dave’s Dairy Queen on 301. EZ was located in a former gas station. There were cars parked in front, cars behind the lot. The bigger rental agencies were out at the airport. EZ claimed that they offered lower rates by being in a low-rent neighborhood and catering to those who wanted anything from a banged-up semi-wreck with 80,000 miles on it to a new Jaguar with a few thousand miles on it.
I had rented from EZ before when I had a job that required it. I preferred the bicycle.
The two men in rumpled suits inside the office of EZ were leaning back against the desk, arms folded, waiting for the phone to ring or me to walk in.
“The detective,” said the younger one with a smile that seemed sincere. He was no more than thirty and quickly growing as round as his older partner.
“Process server,” I corrected.
We had gone through this routine the last four or five times I had rented a car. It seemed to amuse both of the men.
“What can we do ya for?” said the older man.
They had introduced themselves when I first met them. One was Alan. The other was Fred. I couldn’t remember which was which.
“Compact.”
“We’ve got a Corolla,” said the young one.
“A Geo Prizm,” said the older one.
“Same difference,” said the younger.
The older man chuckled.
“How long?” asked the young one.
“What’s the weekly rate now?” I asked.
“For you?” asked the older man. “A hundred and eight-five plus insurance. The usual. You get it gas full. You return it gas full.”
“What have you got for a hundred and forty including insurance?”
“An Amish three-wheel bicycle,” said the young one.
They both laughed. The older one turned red and started to choke. The younger one patted him on the back till he returned to semi-normal.
“Oh God,” said the older one, wiping away tears.
“Geo Metro,” said the young one. “It’s clean. It’s this year. It’s white. It’s small and it runs. You just have to play the radio a little loud if you want to hear it. Air conditioner is great. We’ll throw in an air freshener, a green one shaped like a pine tree.”
“Will I need it?” I asked.
Alan and Fred shrugged.
“One thirty, and we’re losing money,” the older said.
“We like you,” said the younger one.
“You’re a regular. You send us business.”
This amused the hell out of the younger one.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
“You want to give him the keys and papers, Fred?” asked the young one.
I had them now. Fred was the older one. He had stopped crying.
I not only had their names straight, I also had a car that smelled as if a heavy smoker had lived in it. The car also had thirty-four thousand miles on it. I could have probably negotiated a deal to buy it from them for about three weeks’ worth of rental fees, but I didn’t want a car. I tore open the plastic bag, took out the pine tree, set it on the dashboard, turned on the air-conditioning and opened the windows.
I drove the half-block to the DQ parking lot, which was less than half full-not bad for late afternoon. There was a line and people were seated at the two umbrella-covered tables, eating and laughing. At least the three teenaged boys at one table were laughing. A pair of thin women in their fifties wearing thin sweaters, which they didn’t need, sat at the other table eating silently.
I was suddenly hungry, very hungry. I got in line, ordered two burgers and a Coke from Dave and gave him the article on John Marshall. He thanked me and said he would read it as soon as he had a break.
The teens were laughing louder and throwing bread from their burgers at each other. One of the boys heaved a chunk of sandwich. It sailed into the back of one of the two women.
“Sorry,” said the kid who had thrown the burger. He was grinning.
The thin woman didn’t turn.
“Give me a second, Lew,” Dave said when I got to the window.
He moved back into the DQ, past the sink and out the side door, throwing his white apron on a table as the door closed. He appeared in front of the table where the teens were still hurling food. At first they didn’t see him. The boys were big. Football types.
“Pick up what you threw and give the lady a real good apology,” Dave said. “Then leave and don’t come back for at least a week. And if you come back, come back docile. You know what that means?”
All three boys stood up. Dave didn’t back down.
The boys were no longer laughing.
“We didn’t mean nothing,” the biggest boy said.
There was defiance in his chunky face.
Another boy stepped in front of his friend and put a hand on his chest.
“We’re sorry,” said the second boy with some sincerity. “We was just celebrating. My friend Jason here, he just found out that he doesn’t have HIV. Just got the report from the hospital. He was sure he-”
“None of this guy’s business,” said Jason.
“Let’s just go, Jace,” said the mediator, looking at the third boy, who nodded in agreement.
“Clean up first and apologize,” said Dave.
“No way,” said Jason, looking my way to be sure it would be three against one if it came to throwing punches.
“Any of you know a girl named Adele Tree?” I asked.
“No,” said the mediator. The answer was wary. Something about the name had hit home.
“How about Adele Handford?”
All three of them turned toward me. The name Adele had hit home. They looked at each other. The thin women got up and left, carrying what remained of their meal.
“Her friend Ellen. I almost got the HIV from Ellen,” said Jason.
“Easy Adele,” said the mediator. “Must be talkin’ about Easy Adele.”
“Where can I find her?”
They looked at each other again.
