Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(6)

“Who are you?”

“A bar is a public place. I get thirsty, same as anyone else. Maybe they have coffee. I’ll sit at a different table. You can pretend not to know me. You’ll need help getting out again. That knee is going to stiffen up some.”

“Who are you?” the guy said again.

“My name is Jack Reacher. I was a military cop. I was trained to detect things.”

“It was a Chevy Caprice. The old style. All original. Perfect condition. Very low miles.”

“I know nothing about cars.”

“People like the old Caprices now.”

“How much did you get for it?”

“Twenty-two five.”

Reacher nodded. More than he thought. Crisp new bills, packed tight.

He said, “You owe it all?”

“Until twelve o’clock,” the guy said. “After that it goes up.”

“Then we better get going. This could be a relatively slow process.”

“Thank you,” the guy said. “My name is Aaron Shevick. I am forever in your debt.”

“The kindness of strangers,” Reacher said. “Makes the world go round. Some guy wrote a play about it.”

“Tennessee Williams,” Shevick said. “A Streetcar Named Desire.”

“One of which we could use right now. Three blocks for a nickel would be a bargain.”

They set out walking, Reacher stepping slow and short, Shevick hopping and pecking and lurching, all lopsided because of Newtonian physics.





Chapter 3


The bar was on the ground floor of a plain old brick building in the middle of the block. It had a battered brown door in the center, with grimy windows either side. There was an Irish name in sputtering green neon above the door, and half dead neon harps and shamrocks and other dusty shapes in the windows, all of them advertising brands of beer, some of which Reacher recognized, and some of which he didn’t. He helped Shevick down the far curb, and across the street, and up the opposite curb, to the door. The time in his head was twenty to twelve.

“I’ll go in first,” he said. “Then you come in. Works better that way around. Like we never met. OK?”

“How long?” Shevick asked.

“Couple minutes,” Reacher said. “Get your breath.”

“OK.”

Reacher pulled the door and went in. The light was dim and the air smelled of spilled beer and disinfectant. The place was a decent size. Not cavernous, but not just a storefront, either. There were long rows of four-top tables either side of a worn central track that led to the bar itself, which was laid out in a square shape, in the back left corner of the room. Behind the bar was a fat guy with a four-day beard and a towel slung over his shoulder, like a badge of office. There were four customers, each of them alone at a separate table, each of them hunched and vacant, looking just as old and tired and worn out and beaten down as Shevick himself. Two of them were cradling long-neck bottles, and two of them were cradling half-empty glasses, defensively, as if they expected them to be snatched away at any moment.

None of them looked like a loan shark. Maybe the barman did the business. An agent, or a go-between, or a middleman. Reacher walked up and asked him for coffee. The guy said he didn’t have any, which was a disappointment, but not a surprise. The guy’s tone was polite, but Reacher got the feeling it might not have been, had the guy not been talking to an unknown stranger of Reacher’s size and implacable demeanor. A regular Joe might have gotten a sarcastic response.

Instead of coffee Reacher got a bottle of domestic beer, cold and slick and dewy, with a volcano of foam erupting out the top. He left a dollar of his change on the bar, and stepped over to the nearest empty four-top, which happened to be in the rear right-hand corner, which was good, because it meant he could sit with his back to the wall, and see the whole room at once.

“Not there,” the barman called out.

“Why not?” Reacher called back.

“Reserved.”

The other four customers looked up, and looked away.

Reacher stepped back and took his dollar off the bar. No please, no thank you, no tip. He crossed diagonally to the front table on the other side, under the grimy window. Same geometry, but in reverse. He had a corner behind him, and he could see the whole room. He took a swallow of beer, which was mostly foam, and then Shevick came in, limping. He glanced ahead at the empty table in the far right-hand corner, and stopped in surprise. He looked all around the room. At the barman, at the four lonely customers, at Reacher, and then back at the corner table again. It was still empty.

Shevick set out hobbling toward it, but he stopped halfway. He changed direction. He limped to the bar instead. He spoke to the barman. Reacher was too far away to hear what he said, but he guessed it was a question. Could have been, where’s so-and-so? Certainly it involved a glance at the empty four-top in the rear corner. It seemed to get a sarcastic response. Could have been, what am I, clairvoyant? Shevick flinched away and stepped a pace into no-man’s-land. Where he could think about what to do next.

The clock in Reacher’s head said quarter to twelve.

Shevick limped over to the empty table, and stood for a moment, undecided. Then he sat down, opposite the corner, as if in a visitor chair in front of a desk, not in the executive chair behind it. He perched on the edge of the seat, bolt upright, half turned, watching the door, as if ready to spring up politely, as soon as the guy he was meeting walked in.