Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(14)

“By when?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Can you?”

“We couldn’t find another eighteen cents.”

“Why so quick?”

“Some things can’t wait.”

“What are you going to do?”

Shevick didn’t answer.

His wife took her hands away from her face.

“We’re going to borrow it,” she said. “What else can we do?”

“Who from?”

“The man with the prison tattoo,” she said. “What choice do we have? We’re maxed out everywhere else.”

“Can you pay it back?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

No one spoke.

Reacher said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

Mrs. Shevick looked at him.

“You can,” she said.

“Can I?”

“In fact you’ll have to.”

“Will I?”

“The man with the prison tattoo thinks you’re Aaron Shevick. You have to go get our money for us.”





Chapter 7


They discussed it thirty minutes more. Reacher and the Shevicks, back and forth. Certain facts were established early. The fixed points. The dealbreakers. They absolutely needed the money. No question. No debate. They absolutely needed it by morning. No leeway. No flexibility.

They absolutely would not say why.

Their life savings were gone. Their house was gone. They were newly into an old-person’s mortgage arrangement, whereby they were allowed to live there the rest of their lives, but the title had already passed to the bank. The lump sum they had gotten was already spent. No more could be raised. Their credit cards were maxed out and canceled. They had borrowed against their Social Security checks. They had cashed in their life insurance and given up their landline telephone. Now that their car was gone they had sold everything of value. All they had left were personal trinkets. Between their own stuff and family heirlooms they had five nine-carat wedding bands, three small diamond rings, and a gold-plated wristwatch with a crack in the crystal. Reacher figured on the happiest day of his life the most warmhearted pawnbroker in the world might have given them two hundred bucks. No more than that. Maybe less than a hundred on a bad day. Not even a drop in the bucket.

They said they had first used Fisnik five weeks previously. They had gotten his name from a neighbor. As an item of gossip, not as a recommendation. Some kind of a scandal. Some lurid story about some other neighbor’s nephew’s wife’s cousin borrowing money from a gangster in a bar. Name of Fisnik, imagine that. Shevick had narrowed the search radius based on detail and rumor, and he had started checking every bar within that predicted area, one by one, blushing, embarrassed, stared at, asking every barman if he knew a guy named Fisnik, until at his fourth stop a fat man with a sarcastic manner jerked his thumb at the corner table.

Reacher said, “How did it work?”

“Very easy,” Shevick said. “I approached his table, and stood there, while he inspected me, and then he signaled me to sit down, so I did. I guess at first I beat about the bush a bit, but then I just came out and said, look, I need to borrow money, and I understand you lend it. He asked how much, and I told him. He explained the terms of the contract. He showed me the photographs. I watched the video. I gave him my account number. Twenty minutes later the money was in my bank. It was wired in from somewhere untraceable via a corporation in Delaware.”

“I pictured a bag of cash,” Reacher said.

“We had to make our repayments in cash.”

Reacher nodded.

“Two things in one,” he said. “Both at the same time. Loansharking and money laundering. They wired dirty electrons and in return they got random clean cash from the streets. Plus a healthy rate of interest on top. Most money laundering involves losing a percentage, not gaining one. I guess those boys weren’t dumb.”

“Not in our experience.”

“You think the Ukrainians will be better or worse?”

“Worse, I expect. The law of the jungle seems to be proving it already.”

“So how are you going to pay them back?”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.”

“You have nothing left to sell.”

“Something might show up.”

“In your dreams.”

“No, in reality. We’re waiting for something. We have reason to believe it will come very soon. We have to hang tough until it does.”

They absolutely would not say what they were waiting for.



* * *



—

Twenty minutes later Reacher stepped down the far curb unencumbered, and crossed the street in four fast strides, and stepped up the near curb, and pulled the bar door. Inside it felt brighter than before, because it was darker outside, and it was a click noisier, because there were more people, including a group of five men all squeezed around a four-top table, all reminiscing about something or other.

The pale guy was still in the far back corner.

Reacher walked toward him. The pale guy watched him all the way. Reacher dialed it back a little. There were conventions to follow. Lender and borrower. He walked what he thought of as his friendly walk, pure unselfconscious locomotion, no threat to anybody. He sat down in the same chair he had used before.