“Maybe I do. I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s how I see it. There’s no secret here; there’s no cover-up or conspiracy or whatever you want to call it. There’s just a guy who gets tired of it all one day, so he tidies up his life and gets himself a gun. And he does it in private, away from family and friends, and doesn’t leave a note. It’s a tidy way to go.”
“Unless you’re the hire company with a car that needs cleaning.”
“Yeah, agreed, but those fuckers can afford it.”
“All right, McCluskey. Thanks for listening.”
“Name’s Mike. Let’s talk again before you leave, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t go buying Mr. Cantona too many more drinks, not if he’s driving.”
Detective Mike McCluskey put down the receiver and finished his pastry, washing it down as best he could with the scalding liquid that passed for coffee from the vending machine down the hall. While he chewed, he stared at the telephone, and after he’d swallowed the last mouthful, he tossed the paper bag into the trash (making eight first attempts out of ten for the week, which was not bad), then reached again for his phone, checking first that there was no one in earshot.
“Fucking Cantona,” he snarled, trying to recall the number.
Back in the bar, Reeve sat on his stool and took a mouthful of orange juice. He studied Eddie Cantona, who was studying the cocktail menu and looking like he was settling in for the day. Yes, Eddie looked like a boozer, but not a liar. But then a lot of people were real pros when it came to lying. Reeve knew; he was one of them. He’d had to lie to a lot of people about his real position in the army; he never said SAS or Special Forces, not even to other army careerists. He kept his mouth shut when he could, and lied when he couldn’t. Lying was easy, you just said you were in the regiment you’d been in before you joined Special Forces. Some people took pride in their lies. But nothing Cantona had said so far struck Reeve as anything other than accurate. It made sense that Jim would own a portable computer. But then it also made sense that he might ditch it…
No, it didn’t. He’d been writing a story. He’d have wanted that story published in some form, even after death. He’d have wanted his monument.
“Eddie,” Reeve said, waiting till the man had turned away from the menu, “tell me about my brother. Tell me everything you can.”
Cantona drove them to the car rental firm. Reeve had memorized the salient details of McCluskey’s report, and knew which firm to go to. He’d found the address in the telephone book. He was thinking about his own expensive rental car, the Blazer, and how it was spending more time at rest than in motion.
“You got a wife, Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“Kids?”
“A son. He’s eleven.”
“Jim used to talk about a nephew, would that be him?”
Reeve nodded. “Allan was Jim’s only nephew.” He had the side window open, his head resting into the airflow.
“You got any photos?”
“What?”
“Your wife and kid.”
“I don’t know.” Reeve got out his wallet and opened it. There was an old photo of Joan, not much bigger than a passport shot.
“Can I see?” Cantona took the photograph from him and studied it, holding it between thumb and forefinger as he rested both meaty hands on the top of the steering wheel. He turned the photo over, revealing a line of Scotch tape. “It’s been torn in two,” he said, handing the photo back.
“I get a temper sometimes.”
“Tell my arm about it.” Cantona rolled his shoulder a couple of times.
“They tried treating me,” Reeve said all of a sudden, not knowing why he was telling a stranger.
“Treating you?”
“For the violence. I used to get angry a lot. I spent some time in a psychiatric ward.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Now I have pills I’m supposed to take, only I don’t take them.”
“Mood-controllers, man. Never take a pill that screws with your mind.”
“Is that right?”
“Take it from one who knows. I was in Monterey in the sixties, then Oakland. I was twenty, twenty-one. I saw some action. Chemical action, if you know what I mean. Came out of it with a massive depression which lasted most of the seventies, started drinking around nineteen eighty. It doesn’t cure anything, but other drunks are better company than doctors and goddamned psychiatrists.”
“How come you still have a driving license?”
Cantona laughed. “Because they’ve never caught me, pure and simple.”
Reeve looked out through his open window. “Drinking’s one of the things that seems to start me off with the violence.”
Cantona said nothing for a minute. Then: “Jim told me you were ex-military.”
“That’s right.”
“Seems to me that might explain things. You see any action?”
“Some.” More than most, he might have added.
“I was in Vietnam for a tour,” Cantona continued. “Took some shrapnel in my foot. By that time, I was just about ready to do
“What spells?”
“The violence.”
“I’ve tried self-help. I’ve read a lot of books.”
“What, medical stuff?”
“Philosophy.”
“Yeah, Jim said you got to like that stuff. Castaneda’s about my limit. What stuff do you read?”
“Anarchism.”
“Anarchism?” Cantona looked disbelievingly at him. “Anarchism?” he repeated, as though trying the word out for size. Then he nodded, but with a quizzical look on his face. “Does it help?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What do the doctors say?”
“They say I’m on my last warning. One more outburst, they’ll section me. I think they mean it.” He stared at Cantona. “Why am I telling you this?”
Cantona grinned. “Because I’m listening. Because I’m harmless. Besides, it’s a damned sight cheaper than therapy.” Then he laughed. “I can’t believe I’m sharing my car with a goddamned anarchist.”
The rental place looked like a used-car lot, dusty cars ranked behind a high fence. There was a metal gate, a chain and padlock hanging off it, and behind it a single-story prefabricated office. Reeve could tell it was the office because there was a big painted sign above it stating just that. Garishly colored notices in the window offered “the best deals in town,” “extra-special weekend rates,” and “nice clean cars, low mileage, good runners.”
“Looks like Rent-A-Wreck before they went upscale,” Cantona commented.
They knocked and opened the office door. There was a single room inside with a couple of doors leading off, both open. One showed a storeroom, the other a toilet. A man in shirtsleeves was seated behind the desk. He looked Mexican, in his fifties, and he was showing teeth around a long thin cigar.
“My friends,” he said, half rising. “What can I do for you?” He gestured for them to sit, but Reeve stayed standing by the window, occasionally looking out, and Cantona stayed there with him.
“My name’s Gordon Reeve.”
“Good morning to you, Gordon.” The Mexican wagged a finger. “I seem to know you.”
“I think you rented a car to my brother on Saturday night.”
