by Lee Child
“Money?”
“For me to take.”
“What, now you think you’re going to mug me?”
“Not mug you,” Reacher said. “More of a historical thing. An old principle. Like a tradition. You lose a war, you give up your treasure.”
“Are we at war, you and me? Because if we are, you’re going to lose, kid. I don’t care how big of a corn-fed country boy you are. I’m going to kick your ass. I’m going to kick it bad.”
The woman was still six feet away. Still not moving. Reacher looked at her again and said, “Ma’am, is this gentleman married to you, or related to you in some other way, or known to you either socially or professionally?”
She said, “I don’t want you to get involved.” She was younger than the guy, for sure. But not by much. Still way up there. Twenty-nine, maybe. A pale-colored blonde. Apart from the vivid red print from the slap she was plenty good looking, in an older-woman kind of a way. But she was thin and nervous. Maybe she had a lot of stress in her life. She was wearing a loose summer dress that ended above her knees. She had a purse hooked over her shoulder.
Reacher said, “At least tell me what it is you don’t want me to get involved in. Is this some random guy hassling you on the street? Or not?”
“What else would it be?”
“Domestic quarrel, maybe. I heard of a guy who busted one up, and then the wife got real mad with him afterward, for hurting her husband.”
“I’m not married to this man.”
“Do you have any interest in him at all?”
“In his welfare?”
“I suppose that’s what we’re talking about.”
“None at all. But you can’t get involved. So walk away. I’ll deal with it.”
“Suppose we walk away together?”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Old enough,” Reacher said. “For walking, at least.”
“I don’t want the responsibility. You’re just a kid. You’re an innocent bystander.”
“Is this guy dangerous?”
“Very.”
“He doesn’t look it.”
“Looks can be deceptive.”
“Is he armed?”
“Not in the city. He can’t afford to be.”
“So what’s he going to do? Sweat on me?”
Which did the trick. The guy hit boiling point, aggrieved at being talked about like he wasn’t there, aggrieved at being called sweaty, even though he manifestly was, and he came in at a charge, his jacket flapping, his tie flailing, his shirt sticking to his skin. Reacher feinted one way and moved another, and the guy stumbled past, and Reacher tapped his ankles, and the guy tripped and fell. He got up again fast enough, but by then Reacher had backed off and turned around and was ready for the second maneuver. Which looked like it was going to be an exact repeat of the first, except Reacher helped it along a little by replacing the ankle tap with an elbow to the side of the head. Which was very well delivered. At nearly seventeen Reacher was like a brand-new machine, still gleaming and dewy with oil, flexible, supple, perfectly coordinated, like something developed by NASA and IBM on behalf of the Pentagon.
The guy stayed down on his knees a little longer than the first time. The heat kept him there. Reacher figured the hundred degrees he had heard about must have been somewhere open. Central Park, maybe. Some little weather station. In the narrow brick canyons of the West Village, close to the huge stone sidewalk slabs, it must have been more like a hundred and twenty. And humid. Reacher was wearing old khakis and a blue T-shirt, and both items looked like he had fallen in a river.
The guy stood up, panting and unsteady. He put his hands on his knees.
Reacher said, “Let it go, old man. Find someone else to hit.”
No answer. The guy looked like he was conducting an internal debate. It was a long one. Clearly there were points to consider on both sides of the argument. Pros, and cons, and plusses, and minuses, and costs and benefits. Finally the guy said, “Can you count to three and a half?”
Reacher said, “I suppose.”
“That’s how many hours you got to get out of town. After midnight you’re a dead man. And before that, too, if I see you again.” And then the guy straightened up and walked away, back toward Sixth Avenue, fast, like his mind was made up, his heels ringing on the hot stone, like a brisk, purposeful person on a just-remembered errand. Reacher watched until he was lost to sight, and then he turned back to the woman and said, “Which way are you headed?”
She pointed in the opposite direction, toward Washington Square, and Reacher said, “Then you should be OK.”
“You have three and a half hours to get out of town.”
“I don’t think he was serious. He was hauling ass, trying to save face.”
“He was serious, believe me. You hit him in the head. I mean, Jesus.”
“Who is he?”
“Who are you?”
“Just a guy passing through.”
“From where?”
“Pohang, at the moment.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“South Korea. Camp Mujuk. The Marine Corps.”
“You’re a Marine?”
“Son of a Marine. We go where we’re posted. But school’s out, so I’m traveling.”
“On your own? How old are you?”
“Seventeen in the fall. Don’t worry about me. I’m not the one getting slapped in the street.”
The woman said nothing.
Reacher said, “Who was that guy?”
“How did you get here?”
“Bus to Seoul, plane to Tokyo, plane to Hawaii, plane to LA, plane to JFK, bus to the Port Authority. Then I walked.” The Yankees were out of town, in Boston, which had been a major disappointment. Reacher had a feeling it was going to be a special year. Reggie Jackson was making a difference. The long drought might be nearly over. But no luck. The stadium was dark. The alternative was Shea, the Cubs at the Mets. In principle Reacher had no objection to Mets baseball, such as it was, but in the end the pull of downtown music had proven stronger. He had figured he would swing through Washington Square and check out the girls from NYU’s summer school. One of them might be willing to go with him. Or not. It was worth the detour. He was an optimist, and his plans were flexible.
The woman said, “How long are you traveling?”
“In theory I’m free until September.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I just got here. I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Your parents are OK with this?”
“My mother is worried. She read about the Son of Sam in the newspaper.”
“She should be worried. He’s killing people.”
“Couples sitting in cars, mostly. That’s what the papers say. Statistically unlikely to be me. I don’t have a car, and so far I’m on my own.”
“This city has other problems, too.”
“I know. I’m supposed to visit with my brother.”
“Here in the city?”
“Couple hours out.”
“You should go there right now.”
Reacher nodded. “I’m supposed to take the late bus.”
“Before midnight?”
“Who was that guy?”
The woman didn’t answer. The heat wasn’t letting up. The air was thick and heavy. There was thunder coming. Reacher could feel it, in the north and the west. Maybe they were going to get a real Hudson Valley thunderstorm, rolling and clattering over the slow water, between the high cliffs, like he had read about in books. The light was fading all the way to purple, as if the weather was getting ready for something big.
The woman said, “Go see your brother. Thanks for helping out.”
The red handprint on her face was fading.
Reacher said, “Are you going to be OK?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jill.”
“Jill what?”
&nbs
p; “Hemingway.”
“Any relation?”
“To who?”
“Ernest Hemingway. The writer.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You free tonight?”
“No.”
“My name is Reacher. I’m pleased to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, and they shook. Her hand felt hot and slick, like she had a fever. Not that his didn’t. A hundred degrees, maybe more, no breeze, no evaporation. Summer in the city. Faraway to the north the sky flickered. Heat lightning. No rain.
He said, “How long have you been with the FBI?”
“Who says I am?”
“That guy was a mobster, right? Organized crime? All that shit about his people, and getting out of town or else. All those threats. And you were meeting with him. He was checking for a wire, when he put his hand on you. And I guess he found one.”
“You’re a smart kid.”
“Where’s your backup? There should be a van, with people listening in.”
“It’s a budget thing.”
“I don’t believe you. The city, maybe, but the feds are never broke.”
“Go see your brother. This isn’t your business.”
“Why wear a wire with no one listening?”
The woman put her hands behind her back, low down, and she fiddled and jiggled, as if she was working something loose from the waistband of her underwear. A black plastic box fell out below the hem of her dress. A small cassette recorder, swinging knee-high, suspended on a wire. She put one hand down the front of her dress, and she pulled on the wire behind her knees with her other hand, and she squirmed and she wriggled, and the recorder lowered itself to the sidewalk, followed by a thin black cable with a little bud microphone on the end.
She said, “The tape was listening.”
The little black box was dewed with perspiration, from the small of her back.
Reacher said, “Did I screw it up?”
“I don’t know how it would have gone.”
“He assaulted a federal agent. That’s a crime right there. I’m a witness.”
The woman said nothing. She picked up the cassette recorder and wound the cord around it. She slid her purse off her shoulder and put the recorder in it. The temperature felt hotter than ever, and steamy, like a hot wet towel over Reacher’s mouth and nose. There was more lightning in the north, winking slow, dulled by the thick air. No rain. No break.
Reacher said, “Are you going to let him get away with that?”
The woman said, “This really isn’t your business.”
“I’m happy to say what I saw.”
“It wouldn’t come to trial for a year. You’d have to come all the way back. You want to take four planes and two buses for a slap?”
“A year from now I’ll be somewhere else. Maybe nearer.”
“Or further away.”
“The sound might be on the tape.”
“I need more than a slap. Defense lawyers would laugh at me.”
Reacher shrugged. Too hot to argue. He said, “OK, have a pleasant evening, ma’am.”
She said, “Where are you going now?”
“Bleecker Street, I think.”
“You can’t. That’s in his territory.”
“Or nearby. Or the Bowery. There’s music all over, right?”
“Same thing. All his territory.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Croselli. Everything north of Houston and south of 14th is his. And you hit him in the head.”
“He’s one guy. He won’t find me.”
“He’s a made man. He has soldiers.”
“How many?”
“A dozen, maybe.”
“Not enough. Too big of an area.”
“He’ll put the word out. All the clubs and all the bars.”
“Really? He’ll tell people he’s frightened of a sixteen-year-old? I don’t think so.”
“He doesn’t need to give a reason. And people will bust a gut to help. They all want brownie points in the bank. You wouldn’t last five minutes. Go see your brother. I’m serious.”
“Free country,” Reacher said. “That’s what you’re working for, right? I’ll go where I want. I came a long way.”
The woman stayed quiet for a long moment.
“Well, I warned you,” she said. “I can’t do more than that.”
And she walked away, toward Washington Square. Reacher waited where he was, all alone on Waverly, head up, head down, searching for a breath of air, and then he followed after her, about two minutes behind, and he saw her drive away in a car that had been parked in a tow zone. A 1975 Ford Granada, he thought, mid-blue, vinyl roof, a big toothy grille. It took a corner like a land yacht and drove out of sight.
—
Washington Square was much emptier than Reacher had expected. Because of the heat. There were a couple of unexplained black guys hanging around, probably dealers, and not much else. No chess players, no dog walkers. But way over on the eastern edge of the square he saw three girls go into a coffee shop. Coeds for sure, long hair, tan, lithe, maybe two or three years older than him. He headed in their direction, and looked for a pay phone on the way. He found a working instrument on his fourth try. He used a hot damp coin from his pocket and dialed the number he had memorized for West Point’s main switchboard.
A singsong male voice said, “United States Military Academy, how may I direct your call?”
“Cadet Joe Reacher, please.”
“Hold the line,” the voice said, which Reacher thought was appropriate. West Point was in the business of holding the line, against all kinds of things, including enemies foreign and domestic, and progress, sometimes. West Point was Army, which was an unusual choice for the elder son of a Marine, but Joe’s heart had been set on it. And he claimed to be enjoying it so far. Reacher himself had no idea where he would go. NYU, possibly, with women. The three in the coffee shop had looked pretty good. But he didn’t make plans. Sixteen years in the Corps had cured him of that.
The phone clicked and buzzed as the call was transferred from station to station. Reacher took another hot wet coin from his pocket and held it ready. It was a quarter to nine, and dark, and getting hotter, if such a thing was possible. Fifth Avenue was a long narrow canyon running north ahead of him. There were flashes of light in the sky, low down on the horizon, way far in the distance.
A different voice said, “Cadet Reacher is currently unavailable. Do you have a message?”
Reacher said, “Please tell him his brother is delayed twenty-four hours. I’m spending the night in the city. I’ll see him tomorrow evening.”
“Roger that,” the new voice said, with no interest at all, and the line went dead. Reacher put the second coin back in his pocket, and he hung up the phone, and he headed for the coffee shop on the eastern edge of the square.
—
An air conditioner over the coffee shop’s door was running so hard it was trembling and rattling, but it wasn’t making much difference to the temperature of the air. The girls were together in a booth for four, with tall soda glasses full of Coke and melting ice. Two of them were blondes and one was a brunette. All of them had long smooth limbs and perfect white teeth. The brunette was in short shorts and a sleeveless button-front shirt, and the blondes were in short summer dresses. They all looked quick and intelligent and full of energy. Storybook Americans, literally. Reacher had seen girls just like them in greasy old out-of-date copies of Time and Life and Newsweek at Mujuk and every other base he had lived on. They were the future, the stories had said. He had admired them from afar.
Now he stood at the door under the roaring air conditioner and admired them from a whole lot closer. But he had no idea what to do next. Life as a Corps kid taught a guy plenty, but absolutely nothing about bridging a fifteen-foot door-to-table distance in a New York City coffee shop. Up to that point his few conquests had not really been conquests at all, but mutual experiments with Corps girls just as isolated as hims
elf, and just as willing and enthusiastic and desperate. Their only negatives had been their fathers, who were all trained killers with fairly traditional views. The three students in front of him were a whole different can of worms. Much easier from the parental point of view, presumably, but much harder in every other way.
He paused.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He moved on, fifteen feet, and he approached their table, and he said, “Do you mind if I join you?”
They all looked up. They all looked surprised. They were all too polite to tell him to get lost. They were all too smart to tell him to sit down. New York City, in the summer of 1977. The Bronx, burning. Hundreds of homicides. The Son of Sam. Irrational panic everywhere.
He said, “I’m new here. I was wondering if you could tell me where to go, to hear some good music.”
No answer. Two pairs of blue eyes, one pair of brown, looking up at him.
He said, “Are you headed somewhere this evening?”
The brunette was the first to speak.
She said, “Maybe.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know yet.”
A waitress came by, barely older than the coeds themselves, and Reacher maneuvered himself into a spot where her approach gave him no choice but to sit down. As if he had been swept along. The brunette scooted over and left an inch between her thigh and his. The vinyl bench was sticky with heat. He ordered a Coke. It was way too hot for coffee.
There was an awkward silence. The waitress brought Reacher’s Coke. He took a sip. The blonde directly opposite asked him, “Are you at NYU?”
“I’m still in high school,” he said.
She softened a little, as if he was a rare curiosity.
“Where?” she asked.
“South Korea,” he said. “Military family.”
“Fascist,” she said. “Get lost.”
“What does your dad do for a living?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Get lost yourself.”
The brunette laughed. She was an inch shorter than the others, and her skin was a shade darker. She was slender. Elfin, almost. Reacher had heard the word. Not that it meant much to him. He had never seen an elf.
The brunette said, “The Ramones might be at CBGB. Or Blondie.”
Reacher said, “I’ll go if you go.”
