The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(3)

‘I’m sorry, guys.’ Reacher attempted a reassuring smile. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

The guitarist lowered his case but he didn’t step forward.

‘Great performance tonight, by the way,’ Reacher said. ‘When are you playing again?’

‘Thanks.’ The guitarist stayed back. ‘Soon. I hope.’

‘Here?’

‘No chance.’

‘Why? Bad crowd?’

‘No. Bad owner.’

‘Wait.’ The singer glared up at Reacher. ‘Why are you here? Do you work for him?’

‘I don’t work for anyone,’ Reacher said. ‘But what’s bad about the owner? What’s the problem?’

The singer hesitated, then held up one finger, then another. ‘He wouldn’t pay us. And he ripped us off. He stole a guitar.’

‘One of mine,’ the guitarist said. ‘My good spare.’

‘Really?’ Reacher stepped back. ‘That doesn’t sound like good business practice. There has to be more to the story.’

‘Like what?’ The singer looked at the guitarist.

‘Like nothing,’ he said. ‘We finished our set. Packed up. Asked for our money. He refused.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Reacher paused. ‘A place like this, music’s the draw. Not the décor. That’s for damn sure. You need bands to have music. And if you don’t pay the bands, how do you get them to play? Sounds like a self-defeating strategy to me. You must have done something to piss him off.’

‘You don’t get the music business.’ The guitarist shook his head.

‘Explain it to me.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because I’m asking you to. I like information. Learning is a virtue.’

The guitarist rested his case on the ground. ‘What’s to explain? This kind of thing happens all the time. There’s nothing we can do about it.’

‘Bands don’t have the power.’ The singer put her hand on the guitarist’s shoulder. ‘The venues do.’

‘Isn’t there anyone who could help you put things right? Your manager? Your agent? Don’t musicians have those kinds of people?’

The guitarist shook his head. ‘Successful musicians, maybe. Not us.’

‘Not yet,’ the singer said.

‘The police, then?’

‘No.’ The singer’s hand brushed her jacket pocket. ‘No police.’

‘We can’t involve them,’ the guitarist said. ‘We get a name for being difficult, no one will book us.’

‘What’s the point in getting booked, if you don’t get paid?’

‘The point is, we get to play. People hear us.’ The singer tapped the side of her head. ‘You can’t get discovered if you don’t get heard.’

‘I guess.’ Reacher paused. ‘Although if I’m honest, I think you need to consider the message you’re sending.’

‘What message?’ The guitarist leaned one shoulder against the wall. ‘Suck it up. That’s all we can do.’

‘That’s how we’re going to make it,’ the singer said. ‘In the end.’

Reacher said nothing.

‘What? You think we’re doing the wrong thing?’

‘Maybe I’m out of line.’ Reacher looked at each of them in turn. ‘But it seems to me you’re telling the club owners it’s OK to rip you off. That you’re happy not to get paid.’

‘That’s crazy,’ the singer said. ‘I hate not getting paid. It’s the worst.’

‘Did you make that clear?’

‘Of course.’ The guitar player straightened up. ‘I did. I insisted he pay us. He made like he was going to, and took me to his office. Only a guy was waiting there. The bouncer. He’s huge. They must have planned the whole thing in advance because he didn’t say anything. Didn’t wait. Just grabbed my hand. My left.’ He held up his left hand to emphasize the point. ‘He grabbed it and pushed it down on to the desk where there’s this kind of metal plate. It’s all dented and stained. Anyway, he held my hand there, and the owner went around the desk and opened the top drawer. He took out a hammer. Used the claw thing to spread my fingers apart, then said I had to choose. We could have the money, and he’d break my fingers. One at a time. Or I could leave, unhurt, with no cash.’

Reacher was conscious of a voice in his head telling him to walk away. Saying this wasn’t his problem. But he had heard how the guy could make a guitar wail. He remembered watching his fingers when he was on stage. They were the opposite of Reacher’s own. Quick and delicate, dancing across the strings. He pictured the thug grabbing his hand. The owner, wielding the hammer. He stayed where he was.

‘If you like, I could go back in there,’ Reacher said. ‘Help the owner see things from a different angle. Maybe get him to reconsider tonight’s fee.’

‘You could do that?’ The singer didn’t look convinced.

‘I’ve been told I can be very persuasive.’

‘You could get hurt.’

‘Someone could. Not me.’

‘He has a hammer.’ The guitarist shuffled on the spot.