Free Cadillac Cathedral by Jack Hodgins

the golfers were home and sleeping in their beds. Expensive mowers would no longer be needed. The cows could be rounded up and locked in a pen each morning before the Mercedes and BMW s began to turn in off the road.
    Of course he knew this wasn’t practical, but he liked to imagine fat Pentti Virtanen out there every morning with wheelbarrow and shovel, earning his keep for a change. He could imagine a city councillor yelling at Pentti after stepping in something Pentti had overlooked.
    Once they’d crossed the river bridge and entered town, the unnaturally slow pace allowed Arvo to notice that most of the single-storey stucco shops — whether they were selling menswear, bedroom furniture, fancy cakes, or children’s toys — had a Reynard Realty sign in one corner of the window, though there was no mention of the property being for sale. Since Ernie Reynard owned a number of these buildings, he must have convinced his tenant merchants that advertising his business was a requisite part of the lease.
    Of course Ernie Reynard was not the owner of the real-estate company only, but was also the owner of a lumber company as well as the construction company that used his lumber to build houses on theland his real-estate company sold, as well as the paving company that finished the roads that led to the houses and stores he’d built. There was a Reynard Realty sign even in the window of the restaurant where Peterson and Herbie had decided to stop. “For a decent cup of coffee,” Peterson said, “and a little more breakfast before going any farther at this pace of a lazy snail.”
    Arvo dropped Cynthia off at the restaurant and pulled ahead to Buster’s Service for a fill-up. Of course he first had to convince the boy running the place that a vehicle built in the ’30s could use modern gasoline if its engine had not been destroyed in the era of leaded gas. In order to survive the volley of questions that followed this, he discovered himself to be a little hard of hearing.
    By the time he’d joined the others, Peterson had ordered the Special Steak Breakfast and Herbie had ordered scrambled eggs, but Cynthia said she was about to call her sister to come and get her. “I’m content,” she said. “I’ve had my ride. And Arvo refuses to take me to California.”
    But she returned to the table after making her phone call and sat with the others while they waited for their breakfast to arrive and listened to Herbie Brewer complain about their pace. “I never thought we’d be going this slow. If me ’n’ Bert waited here ’til you phoned that you’re getting close to Martin’s hospital I bet we could catch up before you even found a space in the parking lot.”
    “Arvo needs you boys to lead the way,” Cynthia said on Arvo’s behalf.
    “Yes Mam,” Peterson said to the ceiling. “But I don’t see a reason for it. He ought to find his way without us, since this same road that goes past here runs the whole damn way to the city and Martin’s morgue.”
    “Still,” Cynthia said. “He’ll be safer out on that road with an escortcar ahead of him.” She got to her feet. “Well, my sister will be here in a minute. You boys go have your fun. Riding shotgun in that hearse was ruining my hair.”
    Eating their breakfast was an opportunity to congratulate themselves for going on this brave and generous mission. They could have taken the easy way and arranged for a professional funeral director to bring Martin home. Herbie Brewer couldn’t see why they hadn’t driven down in the Henry J and brought Martin home in a coffin tied to the roof.
    “Eat your eggs,” Peterson said. “What we’re doing is giving Martin the sort of final journey a friend and important man deserves.”
    They were so impressed with their mission on Martin’s behalf that it seemed only right that they spend a little time admiring Martin and recalling his many accomplishments as the local Member of Parliament in Ottawa. It was public