American was minuscule. That left the Alamo counter.
“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter, after giving Duckey a once-over, asked in heavily accented English.
“I have a reservation,” Duckey said. “Under the name Duckett.”
The Alamo employee punched a few buttons on his computer and after reviewing the information gave a slight nod.
“We have your car available, sir,” he said. “Would you like to purchase insurance?”
Duckey declined and handed over his credit card. “Do you get a lot of Americans coming through here?”
“A good number,” the other man—Farag, according to his name tag—said without looking up.
“Enough that it would be hard to remember someone who came through, oh, about a week ago?”
This time, Farag did look up, a gesture that coincided with the sound of the printer coming to life. Duckey thought him no older than twenty, a local who, though young, had been in the job long enough to have been exposed to a great many different types of people and cultures. Consequently, even though his English was only passable, he understood that Duckey was not simply making conversation.
“It would be very difficult for me to remember someone who came to my counter a week ago,” Farag said, his eyes narrowing.
“I can appreciate that,” Duckey said. “But I have a friend who rented a car from you last Thursday. An American, about ten years younger than me, dark hair, a little rumpled. Does that ring a bell?”
Farag gave a slow headshake. “As I said, sir. Too many people come through here for me to remember most of them.”
Duckey nodded. “His name’s Jack Hawthorne. He rented a Ford Taurus.”
At the mention of Jack’s name, he saw Farag’s eyes light up.
“Hawthorne,” he said. “Like the writer.”
“Exactly. Like the writer.”
“I only remember because of The Red Letter,” Farag said.
It took Duckey a moment to realize what Farag was referring to, and when it came to him he decided not to correct the Libyan’s substitution of red for scarlet, worried that might put the brakes on their developing rapport.
“I asked him if he was related to the writer,” Farag said, obviously pleased that he could recall the man Duckey was inquiring after.
“That’s great,” Duckey said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He sensed the growing impatience of the man who had taken a place in line behind him and chanced a quick glance, his eyes widening on seeing the line had grown by several more people. “Do you remember him saying anything about where he was going?”
Farag frowned as if giving the question some thought, then shook his head.
“Do you know if he returned the car? Here or somewhere else?”
Another headshake, yet this one was slower in coming, as if Farag was realizing he shouldn’t be providing information about one customer’s transaction to another customer.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am not authorized to give you that information.”
Duckey tried his best smile. “I know you’re not supposed to, although I was hoping you’d make an exception. Jack’s a good friend of mine, but no one’s heard from him in a while. To be honest, I’m kind of worried.”
He could see right away that Farag wasn’t biting.
“If you are such good friends, I would think that he would call you if he wanted to talk with you.”
Duckey had a hard time retaining his smile against growing exasperation. As his expression changed to something more akin to a grimace, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dinar note, which he slid across the counter.
“I could really use that information,” he said quietly. Behind him, he could hear a rising grumbling and he saw Farag look past him to a line that kept growing.
The Libyan opened his mouth and Duckey could almost see the denial forming on his lips, but then the man sighed, glanced down at the currency on the desk. He briefly met Duckey’s eyes before reaching for the money and slipping it into his pocket. Then he turned his attention back to the computer.
“Jack Hawthorne rented a Ford Taurus on Thursday the fifteenth,” Farag said. “He was supposed to return the car on Saturday the seventeenth.”
Duckey watched as a frown crossed the Libyan’s face. He hit a key, then another. After a few moments, he looked up at the American.
“The police called us on Monday to report that the car had been parked on a street in Al Bayda for three days. It has since been returned to us.” He offered Duckey an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry. I did not work that day and