[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
hood, as though checking the damage to both himself and the car.
How do you know who I am?
Cantona turned towards him and started rubbing his elbow and wrist. You look
like him, he said simply.
What were you doing out at La Jolla?
You saw me, huh? Cantona kept manipulating his arm. Some gumshoe I d make.
What was I doing? He rested his bulk against the wheel well. Same as you, I
guess. Trying to make sense out of it.
And did you?
Cantona shook his head. No, sir, I didn t. There s only one thing I know for
damned sure: Jim didn t commit suicide. He was murdered.
Reeve stared at the stranger, and Cantona returned the look without blinking.
I liked your brother a hell of a lot, he said. Soon as I saw you, I knew
who you were. He mentioned you to me, said he wished you could ve been closer.
He was mostly drunk when he talked, but they say drunk men speak the truth.
The words rolled out like they d been rehearsed. This was what Reeve wanted,
someone who had known Jim towards the end, someone who might help him make
sense of it all. But what had Cantona said& ?
Page 22
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
What makes you think, Reeve said slowly, my brother was murdered?
Because he d no need to rent a car, Eddie Cantona said. I was his driver.
They sat in a bar two blocks from the funeral parlor, and Reeve told Cantona
what McCluskey had told him how suicides like to make a break.
If he was going to commit suicide, he wouldn t ve wanted to do it in your
car, Reeve said.
Well, all I know is, he didn t kill himself. Cantona shot back his second
Jose Cuervo Gold and sipped from his iced glass of beer.
Reeve nursed his orange juice. Have you talked to the police?
Sure, soon as I heard about it on the news. That fellow you were with,
McCluskey, he took a sort of statement from me. Leastways, he listened to what
I had to say. Then he said I could go, and that was the end of it, haven t
heard from the police since. Tried phoning a couple of times, but I never
catch him.
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
Page 23
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
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
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]