“Did my brother ever tell you what he was working on?”
Cantona shrugged his huge rounded shoulders. “Talked about a lot of things, but not much about that. Usually when he was talking he was drunk, which meant I was drunk, too, so maybe he did talk about his work and I just didn’t take it in. I know it was to do with chemicals.”
“Chemicals?”
“There’s a company out here called CWC, stands for Co-World Chemicals. It was to do with them. I drove Jim out to talk to someone who used to work there, a scientist sort of guy. But he wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t let Jim over the door. Second time we tried, the guy wasn’t at home. On vacation or something.”
“Where else did you take him?”
“Well, there was another scientist, only this one wasn’t retired. But he wasn’t talking either. Then I used to take him to the library downtown, that’s where he’d do his research. You know, take notes, all that.”
“He took notes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw his notebooks?”
Cantona shook his head. “Didn’t have anything like that. Had a little computer, used to fold open, with a little bitty screen and all. He’d put these disks in there, and he was all set.”
Reeve nodded. Now the cable made sense: it was to recharge the battery on the computer. But there was no computer, and no disks. He ordered another round and went to use the telephone next to the toilets.
“Detective McCluskey please.” His call was put through.
“McCluskey here.” The voice sounded like it was stifling a yawn.
“It’s Gordon Reeve. I’ve been talking with Eddie Cantona.”
“Oh, yeah, him.” There was a pause while the detective slurped coffee. “I meant to tell you about him.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You want the truth? I didn’t know how you’d feel finding out your brother had spent his last few days on earth rattling around every seedy joint in San Diego with a bum at the steer-ing wheel.”
“I appreciate your candor.” A rustling noise now; a paper bag being opened. “And I apologize for disturbing your breakfast.”
“I had a late night; it’s no problem.”
“Mr. Cantona says my brother had a laptop computer and some disks.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“The cable in his room was an adapter so he could charge the battery.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Am I boring you?”
McCluskey swallowed. “Sorry, no. It’s just, like, what do you want me to say? I know what that old bum thinks; he says your brother was killed. And now he’s got you listening to his story… and would I be right in thinking you’re calling from the pay phone in a bar?”
Reeve smiled. “Good detective work.”
“Easy detective work. And would I further be right in thinking you’ve already laid a few drinks on Mr. Cantona? See, Gordon, he’ll tell you any damned story he can come up with if it keeps a glass of hooch in front of him. He’ll tell you your brother met Elvis and they rode off together in a pink Cadillac.”
“You sound like you know something about that state of mind.”
“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?”