Eileen Slovak

Chapter Three: Cowboy’s Don’t Drive Beamers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scott

When the clerk looks up, frowning, I stop drumming my fingers on the Hertz counter and remove my cowboy hat.

She raises one heavily penciled eyebrow and says with a phony smile, “welcome to Bentonville. May I see your driver’s license, sir?” Her face is a map of wrinkles that looks like it could actually crack.

I straighten up, shift in my cowboy boots, and pull my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans. I can’t blame her; I’d be suspicious of me too. My only luggage on this trip is a thin case file. My small notepad and a mini recorder are tucked in various pockets of my flak jacket. It’s still in good shape and I’m never without it; a reminder of where I’ve been. Taking case notes old school is a habit. The recorder keeps me from missing any fine details. I left my Colt 45 at home; too much of a hassle to travel with a gun these days. With any luck I won’t need it on this trip. If anyone shoots at me, I can always duck. Avoidance is a master skill.  

      “Here you go miss,” laying the charm on thick, I hand over my Virginia driver’s license. Virginia is not home, just my most recent place of residence. She looks at the ID and then at me. I don’t fit the profile of the typical luxury rental car customer.

      “Mr. Manchester, you’ll be returning the car later this evening? Is that correct?”

      “Yes, Ma’am.”

      “Do you happen to have another form of identification?”

I left my passport behind on purpose. It only raises more questions. I hand her my military ID. I know full well I no longer resemble that clean shaven, boy-next-door with the crew cut. Not with my shaggy hair and five o’clock shadow. The person in the photo isn’t smiling. What can I say. He didn’t have much to smile about. The rest is the same, only a little worse for wear.

      “Well, thank you for your service,” she says cheerfully.

I nod as a way of an answer. My nerves are shot. I’m already thinking about the end of this day and an ice-cold beer.

She scurries around behind the counter, papers in hand. “Okay, I just need to finish printing your contract.”

      I sigh and look at my watch. I need to get this dry run done and search the kid’s apartment before my return flight tonight. I have no intention of spending the night in Arkansas. She gathers the documents together with the speed of a land turtle before reluctantly handing over the keys.

      “Your rental request was very specific, so I assume you’re familiar with the features of the BMW three series?”

      My client is paying a considerable price for the one-day rental. Most of the other rental car companies considered a Lincoln Town Car to be a luxury model. Hertz was my only option. Plan B was to fake an interest in buying car and test-driving near the town I’m headed to. But then, I’d have some annoying salesman with me the whole way asking dumb questions. My patience level for stupid ranks up there with my ability to make small talk.  

      “Yes, Ma’am,” I lie, “just like my little baby at home.” It can’t be that much different than my Ford F150 now, can it?

      “Enjoy your day in Bentonville, sir.”

      “Thank you, Ma’am. I sure will.”

      I crank up Hank Williams on the radio for the half hour drive to Bella Vista. The car hugs the road but it feels weird being so low to the ground. The steering wheel is fat under my grip. The sun streams in through the closed windows. The inky leather interior emits a strong, familiar scent. It brings me back to North Carolina. In my mind I’m watching my baby step-sisters ride ponies in a circle at my step dad’s farm. Sophie and Ginny are almost out of high school now. I really need to call home one of these days.

      It’s sixty degrees here, so I open up the sunroof and switch off the heat. The cool air blast feels good. I’m awake. Alert. But I haven’t eaten anything today and my stomach’s making an issue of it. 

      The car maneuvers like a dream on the interstate. It’s built for speed. After scanning for cops on I-49, I press the pedal to the floor to see what this baby can do. It purrs at eighty. I can see where a guy would enjoy driving this little car, maybe even feel powerful in it. Still, I’d rather be in my truck any day of the week. Humming along, Hank finishes singing and Waylon takes over. At least they play decent music in Arkansas. I take my foot off the gas and slow to the speed limit. I’m cruising and singing along until I see my exit.

      Within fifteen minutes of passing the “Welcome to Bella Vista Historical Society” sign, I locate the victim’s former residence. It’s a two-story complex in a park-like setting. I pull into the parking area, debating whether to drive the route first, or search the apartment. I circle the parking area. Then, I head down the road in the direction Sean, the victim, went that day, steadily increasing my speed. According to the police report, Sean was driving twice the speed limit at the time of the accident. That puts his speed on impact at around seventy miles per hour. Why the hurry?

      I accelerate to match Sean’s speed, slowing some for traffic and the snaking road. The beamer handles the speed brilliantly. It brakes on a dime. Where were you headed so fast, Sean? Not to work…on a Sunday.

      The roads were wet on the day of the accident. Around a sharp bend, I see the “Road Work Ahead” sign clearly visible. I spot a row of orange cones before the area of impact. I drop back down to forty. A group of construction vehicles sit unmanned on the grassy embankment, same as they would have been that day. Even speeding, he should have been able to avoid a collision based on the mechanics in this car.

      I do a U-Turn, circle back, pull over and park on the roadside among the construction vehicles. Walking the site, I see the job is still on hold. Looking back toward the way I came, even with the bend at that speed Sean should have seen it coming. I examine the large paver wrapped in caution tape that he struck head on. I’m thinking, at a high speed, slamming into that would sure put a serious dent in your head.

Sean Campbell, what in the hell were you thinking? Or not thinking? Good driving record. No speeding tickets. I couldn’t miss something that big unless I just plain wasn’t paying attention. There had to be some distraction or else, he meant to hit it. Pity dead men don’t talk. It would save me a hell of a lot of time. 

I snap a few pictures with my phone before leaving the accident scene. Then, I drive straight to the apartment where Sean lived for the last few months. The two-story complex is solid but isn’t new construction. Each building contains eight units. The lower levels are brick, and the upper levels have gray siding with cream-colored trim. Mini balconies overlook the rectangular-shaped building’s exterior with an open stairwell at the center that overlooks the parking area.

In the back, a vacant common area wraps around a medium-sized swimming pool, fitted with a winter cover. There’s a separate recreation building and management office opposite the covered pool. I walk that way first. Through a large wall of windows, I see a few people in the gym. Next door is a community laundry room and a cluster of vending machines.

      I stop by the building manager’s office. There’s a sign on the door that says office hours are Monday-Thursday, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. According to my watch they should be open, but maybe someone is taking an extended lunch break. I call the main number. The manager answers, says he didn’t forget I was coming and left the apartment and mail keys under the mat. With keys in hand, I cross the pool area taking the staircase to the apartment on the second level.

      Sean’s one-bedroom apartment came furnished with inexpensive, utilitarian furniture. There are a few pictures on the walls like something you’d find in a hotel room. It’s well-kept. A few work-related papers and bills are stacked neatly on the desk. Sean’s clothing is still in the closets and dresser drawers. The family isn’t in a big hurry to remove his personal effects, still too painful. It gives me a chance to survey the apartment as he left it. The rent is paid through the middle of next month. I’m thinking I’ll offer to do the task of cleaning the place out. No doubt I’ll be back here again and I can use the billable hours.

      Opening the refrigerator, I’m attacked by the odor of stale Chinese take-out. Some other basics have also gone south: milk, half and half, yogurt, and cold cuts. The cheese is still good as are the two bottles of German beer. Sean kept his bread, expensive coffee grounds, and bagels in the ice box too. In the freezer, I find breakfast sandwiches, chicken breast, bags of vegetables, and a few frozen pizzas. I make a quick cheese sandwich and eat with one hand while I go through the cabinets. It’s a little bit of a gruesome act eating a dead man’s food. What can I say, I’m starving, and it’s all going in the dumpster.

When I finish the sandwich, I slip a plastic bag over my hand to poke through the trash. I recover a few receipts and statements that could be useful. Don’t people know they should shred this stuff? Then, I empty all of the contents of the refrigerator into the trash. I keep the beer and leave the frozen stuff alone for now. I sift through the remaining trash cans in the bedroom and bathroom. Then, I set all the trash by the front door to take out when I leave.

I put the small pile of paperwork I found into my file and one of the beers in my pocket. Why should I pay airport price for cold brew when I can drink this before the security check?  

Nothing out of the ordinary turns up in the bathroom medicine cabinet: deodorant, cologne, toothpaste, cough medicine, and mouthwash. No prescriptions. Same with the bathroom sink drawers and cabinets, only extra hand towels and some Band-Aids. Come on Mr. Excitement, give me something to go on here.

Then, in the cabinet under the bathroom sink, I make a unique discovery. There’s a box of tampons. So somewhere in this picture there’s a woman. I don’t remember the family mentioning anyone.

      In the nightstand I find ear plugs, a notepad, and a box of condoms. I pull a pencil out of my jacket pocket. I brush the tip back and forth over the top page of the notepad. It reveals what looks like a grocery shopping list. Dead end. Returning the notepad to the drawer, I tuck the page into my file.

Before I go, I count the contents of the box of condoms; eight remain in the twelve-count box. So, Sean, you weren’t such a saint after all.