Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(26)

After which the car’s doors were wrenched open, almost symmetrically, the guy from the far sidewalk shoving the driver into the empty seat alongside him and taking his place, while the guy from the liquor store crowded in the back. They slammed their doors and the car took off, all its seats filled, its occupants arranged diagonally, two guys feeling pretty good about things, plus one guy dead and one guy dying.



* * *



—

By that time Reacher was two blocks the other side of Center Street. He had figured out the demarcation line between Albanian and Ukrainian territory. He had found exactly what he was looking for. He was in a bar with small round cabaret tables and a stage in back. On the stage was a guitar-bass-drums trio, and on the tables were late-night small-bite menus. There was an espresso machine on the bar back. There was a guy on a stool inside the door. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, white skin, fair hair. Ukrainian for sure.

All good, Reacher thought. Everything he needed, and nothing he didn’t.

He chose a table on the far side of the room, about halfway in, and he sat with his back to the wall. In the left corner of his eye was the guy on the stool, and in the right corner was the band. They were pretty good. They were playing blues covers in a 1950s jazz style. Soft round tones from the guitar, not too loud, woody thumps from the bass, brushes skittering over the snare drum. No vocals. Most of the crowd was drinking wine. Some had pizzas about the size of a teacup saucer. Reacher checked the menu. They were called personal size. Plain or pepperoni. Nine dollars.

A waitress came by. She fit the 1950s music. She was petite and gamine, maybe in her late twenties, neat and slender and dressed all in black, with short dark hair and lively eyes and a shy but contagious smile. She could have been in an old-time black and white movie, with jazz on the soundtrack. Probably someone’s sassy little sister. Dangerously advanced. Probably wanted to wear pants to the office.

Reacher liked her.

She said, “May I bring you something?”

Reacher ordered two glasses of tap water, two double espressos, and two pepperoni pizzas.

She asked, “Is someone joining you?”

“I’m worried about malnutrition,” he said.

She smiled and left and the band kicked into a mournful rendition of Howlin’ Wolf’s old song “Killing Floor.” The guitar took the vocal line, with a tumble of pearl-like notes explaining how he should have quit her, since his second time, and went on to Mexico. At the door people kept on coming in, always two or more together, never alone. They all paused a second, like Reacher had before, obediently, for the doorman’s scrutiny. He looked at them one by one, up and down and in the eye, and he moved them inside with a millimetric jerk of his head, toward the fun beyond his shoulder. They walked past him, and he crossed his arms and slumped back on his stool.

Two songs later the waitress brought his food. She set it all out. He said thank you. She said he was welcome. He said, “Does the guy at the door ever stop anyone coming in?”

“Depends who they are,” she said.

“Who does he stop?”

“Cops. Although we haven’t seen cops in here for years.”

“Why cops?”

“Never a good idea. Whatever happens, if the wind changes, suddenly it’s bribery or corruption or entrapment or some other big thing. That’s why cops have their own bars.”

“Therefore he hasn’t stopped anyone coming in for years. Now I’m wondering what he’s for, exactly.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m curious,” Reacher said.

“Are you a cop?”

“Next you’re going to tell me I look like your dad.”

She smiled.

“He’s much smaller,” she said.

She turned away with a last look, which was not a wink, but it was close. Then she was gone. The band played on. The guy at the door was counting, Reacher figured. He was a cuckoo in the nest. Most likely the protection money was on a percentage basis. The guy counted the crowd so the owners couldn’t fudge the numbers. Plus maybe he offered a nominal security presence. To sweeten the deal. So everyone felt better.

The waitress came back before Reacher was finished. She had his check in a black vinyl wallet. She was about to go off duty. He rounded it up and added ten for a tip and paid in cash. She left. He finished his meal but stayed at his table a moment, watching the guy at the door. Then he got up and walked toward him. No other way to leave the restaurant. In the door, out the door.

He stopped level with the stool.

He said, “I have an urgent message for Maxim Trulenko. I need you to figure out a way to get it to him. I’ll be here tomorrow, same time.”

Then he moved onward, out the door, to the street. Twenty feet away on his right the waitress came out the staff-only door. At the exact same moment. Which he hadn’t expected.

She stopped on the sidewalk.

Petite, gamine, going off duty.

She said, “Hi.”

He said, “Thanks again for looking after me, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He was counting time in his head.

She said, “You too, and thank you for the very nice tip.”

She stayed about seven feet away, a little tense, a little up on her toes. All kinds of body language going on.

He said, “I try to think what kind of tip I would like, if I was a waitress.”