“Some.” More than most, he might have added. Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream… He cut that memory off at the pass.
“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 myself an injury to get me out of there. So you still get these spells?”
“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.”
The smile melted. The man slipped the cigar out of his mouth and placed it in the overspilling ashtray. “I’m sorry. Yes, you resemble your brother.”
“Was it you who dealt with my brother?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”
The Mexican smiled. “You sound like a policeman.”
“This is just for my peace of mind.” Then Reeve spoke to the man in Spanish, and the man nodded. Family, he was saying, I have to take these memories back for the family. The Spanish understood these things.
“See,” he said in English, “I’m trying to understand my broth-er’s state of mind on that night.”
The Mexican was nodding. “I understand. Ask your questions.”
“Well, one thing I don’t quite yet understand. My brother was last seen drinking in a downtown bar, then it seems he came here. A cab picked him up from the bar. But to get here, he had to pass three or four other car hire firms.” In his hotel room, with map and telephone book, Reeve had done his work.
The Mexican opened his arms. “This is perhaps easily explained. For one thing, we have the lowest rates in town, you can ask anyone. Being blunt, if you only need a car so you can drive somewhere quiet and put an end to your life, you do not need a Lincoln Continental. For a second thing, I open later than the other places. You can check this. So maybe they were closed already.”
Why would I want to “check this”? Reeve thought, but he nodded his head. “My brother had been drinking,” he said. “Did he seem affected by drink to you?”
But the Mexican’s attention was on Cantona, who was leaning against the noisy air conditioner. “Please,” he said. “It breaks easily.”
Cantona got up from the unit. Reeve noticed that the machine was dripping water into a bowl on the floor. He repeated his question.
The Mexican shook his head. “I would not have done business with him if I thought he’d been drinking. I have nothing to gain by seeing my cars wrecked or messed up.”
“Speaking of which, where is the car?”
“It is not in the lot.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It has gone for repair and… detailing. The police smashed the driver’s side window to effect entry. Remember, the car was locked from within.”
I know that, thought Reeve, but why are you telling me? “Before renting the car to my brother,” he asked, “did you take a look at his driving license?”
“Of course.”
Reeve stared at the man.
“What is it?” the Mexican asked, his grin looking queasy.
“He held a UK driving license, not valid over here.”
“Then I should not have rented him one of my automobiles.” The man shrugged. “A mistake on my part.”
Reeve nodded slowly. “A mistake,” he repeated. He asked a few more questions, trivial ones, just to put the Mexican more at ease, then thanked him for his help.
“I am truly sorry about your brother, Gordon,” the Mexican said, holding out his hand.
Reeve shook it. “And I’m sorry about your car.” He followed Cantona to the door. “Oh, you forgot to say which garage is fixing the car.”
The Mexican hesitated. “Trasker’s Auto,” he said at last.
Cantona started chuckling the moment they were outside. “I thought he was going to swallow that cigar,” he said. “You really had him going.”
“He wasn’t a very good liar.”
“No, he surely wasn’t. Hey, where did you learn to speak Spanish?”
Reeve opened the car door. “There was a time I needed to know it,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat.
Daniel Trasker ran what looked like four parts wrecking operation to one part repair. When Reeve explained who he was, Trasker went wide-eyed with shock.
“Hell, son, you don’t want to see that car! There’s stains on the-”
“It’s okay, Mr. Trasker, I don’t want to see the car.”
Trasker calmed a little at that. They’d been standing outside the wood-and-tin shack that served as Trasker’s premises. Most of the work was done in the yard outside. Trasker himself was in his well-preserved early sixties, clumps of curling silver hair showing from beneath an oily baseball cap. His walnut face showed deep laugh lines around the eyes, with oil and dirt in-grained. He wiped his hands on a large blue rag throughout their conversation.
“You better come in.”
In the midst of the shack’s extraordinary clutter, it took Reeve a while to work out that there was a desk and chair, and even a PC. Paperwork covered the desk like so much camouflage, and there were bits of engines everywhere.
“I’d ask you to sit,” said Trasker, “but there’s nowhere to sit. If someone’s writing me a check, I sometimes clear some space for them, but otherwise you stand.”
“Standing’s fine.”
“So what is it you want, Mr. Reeve?”
“You know my brother was found in a locked car, Mr. Trasker?”
Trasker nodded. “We got the car right here.”
“Police smashed the window to get in.”
“That they did. We got the replacement part on order.”
Reeve stood close beside the older man. “Is there any way someone could have locked the car afterwards? I mean, after my brother died?”
Trasker stared at him. “What’s your point, son?”
“I’m just wondering if that’s possible.”
Trasker thought about it. “Hell, of course it’s possible. All you’d need’s a spare set of keys. Come to think of it…” Trasker’s voice trailed off.