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It was a dog, its mouth, front and back legs taped, jerking across the lawn
towards the driveway.
Reeve pushed the button on the remote and the gates swung silently inwards.
After they d driven out, he used the remote to close the gates, then rolled
down his window and tossed the thing high over the stone wall.
He hoped it would miss the dog.
PART SEVEN
CONFESSIONAL
EIGHTEEN
REEVE DIDN T HANG AROUND for the aftershock.
He flew out to Los Angeles that morning, grabbed a cab at the airport, and
told the driver he wanted a cheap rental service.
Cheapest I know is Dedman s Auto, the cabbie declared, enjoying showing off
his knowledge. The cars are okay no stretch limos or nothing like that, just
clean sedans.
Dead man s?
The cabbie spelled it for him. That s why he keeps his rates so low. It s not
the sort of name would leap out at you from Yellow Pages. He chuckled.
Christ knows, with a name like that would you go into car rental?
Reeve was studying the cabbie s ID on the dashboard. I guess not, Mr.
Plotnik.
It turned out that Marcus Aurelius Dedman, the blackest man Reeve had ever
seen, operated an auto-wrecking business, and car rental was just a sideline.
See, mister, he said, I ll be honest with you. The cars I get in here ain t
always so wrecked. I spend a lot of time and money on them, get them fit for
battle again. I hate to sell a car I ve put heart and soul into, so I rent
them instead.
And if the client wrecks them, they come straight back for hospitalization?
Dedman laughed a deep, gurgling laugh. He was about six feet four and carried
himself as upright as a fence post. His short hair had been painstakingly
uncurled and lay flat against his head like a Cab Calloway toupee. Reeve
reckoned him to be in his early fifties. He had half a dozen black kids
ripping cars apart for him, hauling out the innards.
Nobody strips a vehicle quite like a kid from the projects, Dedman said.
Damned clever mechanics, too. Here s the current options. He waved a
basketball player s arm along a line of a dozen dusty specimens, any of which
would be perfect for Reeve s needs. He wanted a plain car, a car that wouldn t
stand out from the crowd. These cars had their scars and war wounds a chipped
windshield here, a missing fender there, a rusty line showing where a strip of
chrome had been torn off the side doors, a sill patched with mastic and
resprayed.
Take your pick, Dedman said. All one price.
Reeve settled for a two-door Dodge Dart with foam-rubber suspension. It was
dull green, the metallic sheen sanded away through time. Dedman showed him the
engine ( reliable runner ), the interior ( bench seat ll come in handy at
Lover s Point ), and the trunk. Reeve nodded throughout. Eventually, they went
to Dedman s office to clinch the deal. Reeve got the feeling Dedman didn t
want the project kids, no matter what their mechanical skills, to see any
money changing hands. Maybe it would give them ideas.
The office was in a ramshackle cinder-block building, but surprised Reeve by
being immaculately clean, bright, air-conditioned, and high-tech. There was a
large black leather director s chair behind the new-looking desk. Dedman
draped a sheet over the chair before sitting, so as not to dirty the leather
with his overalls. There was a computer on the desk with a minitower hard disk
drive. Elsewhere Reeve glimpsed a fax and answering machine, a large
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photocopier, a portable color TV, even a hot drinks machine.
Grab a coffee if you want one, Dedman said. Reeve pushed two quarters into
the machine and watched it deliver a brown plastic cup of brown plastic
liquid. He looked around the office again. It had no windows; all the light
was electrical. The door, too, was solid metal.
I see why you keep it padlocked, Reeve said. Dedman had undone three
padlocks, each one barring a thick steel bolt, to allow them into the office.
Dedman shook his head. It s not to stop the kids seeing what s in here, if
that s what you re thinking. Hell, it s the kids who bring me all this stuff.
They get it from their older brothers. What am I supposed to do with a
computer or a facsimile? Dedman shook his head again. Only they d be hurt if
I didn t look like I appreciated their efforts.
Reeve sat down and put the cup on the floor, not daring to sully the surface
of the desk. He reached into his pocket for a roll of dollars. I m assuming
you don t take credit cards, he said.
Your assumption is correct. Now, there s no paperwork, okay? I don t like
that shit. Dedman wrote something on a sheet of paper. This is my name, the
address here, and the telephone number. Anyone stops you, the cops or anybody,
or if you re in a crash, the story is you borrowed the car from me with my
blessing.
Insurance?
It s insured.
And if I break down?
Well Dedman sat back in his chair for another thirty, you get my
twenty-four-hour call-out service.
Does it stretch as far as San Diego?
Dedman looked at the roll of notes. I guess that wouldn t be a problem. That
where you re headed?
Yes. So how much do I owe you?
Dedman appeared to consider this, then named a figure Reeve found comfortably
low. Reeve counted out the bills and made to hand them over, but paused.
The Dart isn t hot, is it?
Dedman shook his head vehemently. No, sir, it s aboveboard and legal. He
took the bills and counted them, finding the sum satisfactory. He looked at
Reeve and smiled. I never rent a hot car to a tourist.
Dedman had warned Reeve that he might get lost a few times on his way out of
Los Angeles, an accurate assessment of Reeve s first hour and a half in his
new car. He knew all he had to do was follow the coast, eventually picking up
I-5, but finding the coast was the problem initially, and keeping to it proved
a problem later. The freeway system around Los Angeles was like a joke God was
playing on the human brain. The more Reeve focused his mind, the less sense
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