by Lee Child
and crept west, past the dark wasteland streets of Soho coming in from the left, Mercer, and Greene, and Wooster, and West Broadway, and Thompson, and Sullivan, and MacDougal. Then they turned right on Sixth, and headed north a block to where Bleecker and Downing and Minetta all met in an untidy little six-way split. Retail was down-market and scruffy in that location, some of it too scruffy even for looters, some of it already busted wide open and stripped. Looking north, Sixth was the same long black hole it had been before, with the same slim upright rectangle of night sky at the end of it.
Chrissie said, “Should I park here?”
Reacher said, “Let’s cruise a few blocks.”
“You said we would hang out and let her come to us.”
“Mission creep. Occupational hazard. Like the Navy transporting the Marines.”
“I’m an English major.”
“Just five minutes, OK?”
“OK,” she said.
But they didn’t need five minutes. They were done in barely sixty seconds. They made the tight left onto Downing, and a right on Bedford, and a right on Carmine, back toward Bleecker again, and in a doorway on the right side of the street Reacher caught a flash of pale skin and blonde hair, and he pointed, and Chrissie jammed to a stop, and Jill Hemingway stepped out of the dark and bent down to Reacher’s window, like a Seoul streetwalker talking to an enlisted man.
* * *
Reacher expected Hemingway to be mad at his reappearance, but she wasn’t. He figured she felt exposed. Or caught out in her own obsession. Which she was, basically. And she looked a little sheepish about it.
He asked, “Is his place near here?”
She pointed through the car at a pair of large blank doors across the street. They were tall and wide. Like a wagon entrance, from long ago, big enough for a cart and a team of horses. In the daylight the paint might have looked dark green. Set into the right-hand door was a judas gate, big enough for a person. Presumably the doors would lead to an interior ground floor yard. It was a two-story building. Offices above, possibly. Or storerooms. Behind the building was a bigger building, blank and dark and massive. A brick church of some kind, maybe.
Reacher asked, “Is he in there?”
Hemingway nodded.
Reacher asked, “With how many others?”
“He’s alone.”
“Really?”
“He runs protection rackets. Among other things. So now he has to deliver. His guys are all out, watching over his clients.”
“I didn’t know protection rackets worked that way. I thought they were just extortion, plain and simple.”
“They are, basically. But he needs to maintain some kind of credibility. And he needs to keep his best cash cows in business. There’s a lot of damage being done tonight. Plenty of places are going to go under. No more payoffs from them. And a wise man keeps an eye on his cash flow.”
Reacher turned and looked at the doors. “You hoping someone will break in?”
“I don’t know what’s taking them so long. That’s the problem with junkies. No get-up-and-go.”
“What has he got in there?”
“A little of everything. He keeps his inventory low because he’s got the New Jersey Turnpike and the Holland Tunnel for rapid resupply, which is apparently what they teach you in business school now, but still, I bet there’s a week’s worth in there.”
“Are we in the way? Should we go park somewhere else?”
“You should go home. This isn’t your business.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“The Son of Sam.”
“Croselli isn’t enough for you?”
“I saw him.”
“Who?”
“I saw a man carrying a Charter Arms Bulldog and peering into cars.”
“Are you serious?”
“It was our car he peered into.”
“Where?”
“The East River, at 34th Street.”
Hemingway said, “You know guns, right? Being a Marine and all?”
“Son of a Marine,” Reacher said. “It was the right gun.”
“It’s pitch dark.”
“The moon and the stars and the water.”
Hemingway ducked down another inch and looked across Reacher at Chrissie. “Did you see it too?”
Chrissie said, “No.”
“How come?”
“I wasn’t looking.”
Hemingway said, “I don’t know what to do. OK, let’s say we have a confirmed sighting, but so what? We already know the Son of Sam is in New York. That’s the point of the guy. It adds no new information. You’d need something more. You’d need to know who he is. Do you?”
“No,” Reacher said. “But I know what he used to be.”
* * *
They parked on Bleecker, intending to walk back and join Hemingway in her doorway hideout, but suddenly Bleecker had people on it, some of them in groups, some of them in pairs, some of those groups and pairs carrying stuff too heavy for comfort, and therefore consequently looking for alternative modes of transportation, such as small hatchback cars, each one apparently ideal for hauling a large television. Reacher and Chrissie were a yard out of the Chevette, with the doors closed but not locked, when the staring match started. Two guys, staggering under an enormous box, with Sony written on it upside down. They came in a straight line, eyeballing the Chevette all the way, and Reacher said, “Keep walking, guys.”
The guy on the left was a shadowy grunting figure, and he said, “Suppose we don’t?”
“Then I’ll kick your butt and steal your television.”
“Suppose you drive us?”
“Just keep walking,” Reacher said.
They didn’t. They eased the box carefully to the ground and stood up again, breathing deep, two dark figures in the dark. Even from six feet away it was hard to make out detail, but their hands hadn’t gone to their pockets yet, which was a good sign. It meant any upcoming combat was likely to be unarmed, which was reassuring. Reacher had grown up in a culture of extreme violence, it being hard to describe the U.S. Marine Corps any other way, and he had taken its lessons on board, with the result that he hadn’t lost a fight in more than ten years, against Corps kids from the same culture, and against rivalrous local youth all around the world, who liked to think the U.S. military was nothing special, and who liked to try to prove it by proxy, usually unsuccessfully. Two punks on a blacked-out New York City street were unlikely to prove an unprecedented problem, unless they had knives or guns, which was unknowable at that point.
The guy on the right said, “Maybe we’ll take the girl with us. Maybe we’ll have ourselves some fun.”
The guy on the left said, “Just give us the keys and no one gets hurt.”
Which was the moment of decision. Surprise was always good. Delay was always fatal. Guys who let a situation unfold in its own good time were just stockpiling problems for themselves. Reacher ran at the left-hand guy, two choppy steps, like an infielder charging a grounder, and he didn’t slow down. He ran right through the guy, leading with his forearm held horizontal, jerking his elbow into the guy’s face, and as soon as he felt the guy’s nose burst open he stamped down and reversed direction around the box and went after the second guy, who flinched away and took Reacher’s charging weight flat in the back. The guy pitched forward like he had been hit by a truck, and Reacher kicked him in the head, and the guy lay still.
Reacher checked their pockets. No knives, no guns, which was usually the case. But it had been their choice. They could have kept on walking. He hauled the right-hand guy next to the left-hand guy, close together, shoulder to shoulder, and he picked up the heavy box like a strongman in the circus, struggling and tottering, and he took two short steps and dropped it on their heads from waist height.
Chrissie said, “Why did you do that?”
“Rules,” Reacher said. “Winning ain’t enough. The other guy has to know he lost.”
“Is that what they teach you in the Marine Corps?”
“More or less.”
“They’ll wreck the car when they wake up.”
“They won’t. They’ll throw up and crawl home. By which time you’ll be long gone anyway.”
So Chrissie locked up, and they walked back through the heat to where Hemingway was waiting on Carmine. Reacher said, “No progress?”
Hemingway said, “Not yet.”
“Maybe we should go recruit someone. There are plenty of people on Bleecker.”
“That would be suborning a felony.”
“Means to an end.”
“Tell me what you meant about the guy with the Bulldog.”
“Can you use it?”
“Depends what it is.”
“It was dark,” Reacher said. “Obviously.”
“But?”
“He was in his mid-twenties, I would say, medium height, heavy in the chest and shoulders, quite pale, with wavy hair that wouldn’t lie down.”
“Carrying a .44 Bulldog?”
“Most Bulldogs are .44s. But I don’t have X-ray vision.”
“How far away was he?”
“Twenty feet, at one point.”
“How long were you eyeballing him?”
“Twenty seconds, maybe.”
“Twenty seconds at twenty feet,” Hemingway said. “In a blackout? That’s a tough sell. I bet there have been a thousand reports tonight. People freak out in the dark.”
“He was a trained man,” Reacher said.
“Trained how?”
“The way he moved through the available cover. He’s ex-military. He’s had infantry training.”
“So have lots of guys. You ever heard of Vietnam?”
“He’s too young. This guy was of age six or seven years ago. The draft was winding down. You had to be pretty unlucky. And I don’t think he was ever in combat. I’ve seen lots of people back from Vietnam. They’re different. This guy was all theory and training. Second nature, for sure, pretty slick, but he had never lived or died by it. I can guarantee that. And I don’t think he was a Marine. They’re different too. I think he was army. And I think he’s been in Korea. It was like a fingerprint. I think he did basic, and infantry, with the urban specialization, and I think he served in Seoul. Like a particular combination. That’s how he looked. I see it all the time. You ever been there? Seoul teaches you to move a certain way. But he’s been out at least two years, because of the hair, and he’s had time to get a bit heavy. I think he volunteered at eighteen or nineteen, and I think he served a three-year hitch. That was my impression, anyway.”
“That’s one hell of a detailed impression.”
“You could offer it as a filter. They could see if any persons of interest match up.”
“It was twenty seconds in the pitch dark.”
“What else have they got?”
“Maybe I could.”
“Suppose it worked? Suppose they get the guy? Would that be good for you?”
“Of course it would.”
“So what’s the downside?”
“Sounding desperate and pathetic.”
“Your call.”
“You should try it,” Chrissie said. “Someone needs to catch the guy.”
Hemingway said nothing.
* * *
They waited, all crammed together in the doorway opposite Croselli’s place, with absolutely nothing happening. They heard sirens, and snatches of conversation from people passing by on Bleecker. Like headline news. It was now only ninety degrees. The lights had gone out at Shea in the bottom of the sixth, with the Mets trailing the Cubs by two to one. Subway riders had spent scary hours trapped underground, but were slowly making their way back to the surface. Cars were using chains and ropes to tear the shutters off stores. Even Brooks Brothers on Madison had been looted. Crown Heights and Bushwick were on fire. Cops had been hurt and arrests had been made.
Then the last of the passersby moved on and Carmine went quiet again and the clock in Reacher’s head ticked around toward midnight. He said to Chrissie, “I’ll walk you back to your car. Your friends will be waiting.”
She said, “Are you staying here?”
“Might as well. I already missed my bus.”
“Do you think the roads are open?”
“Wide open. They want people to leave.”
“Why?”
“Fewer mouths to feed here.”
“Makes sense,” Chrissie said. They walked together to the corner, and around it, where the Chevette waited undisturbed. The two guys were still laid out in the roadway, under the box. Like a cartoon accident. They were still breathing.
Reacher said, “Want me to ride with you?”
“No,” Chrissie said. “We go back alone. That’s part of the deal.”
“You know how to go?”
“Up on Sixth and across on 4th. And then it’s right there.”
“Roger that.”
“Take care, OK?”
“I will,” Reacher said. “You too. I’ll never forget you.”
“You will.”
“Check back next year, see if I have.”
“OK. Let’s see who remembers. Same night, same place. Deal?”
“I’ll be there,” Reacher said.
She got into the car, and she eased away from the tangle of limbs behind her, and she made the left on Sixth, and she waved through her open window. And then she was gone.
* * *
Hemingway said, “I’m going to put it in the system. Your impression, I mean. That’s the smart play here. They’ll ignore it of course, but it will be in the record. I can say told you so, afterward. If you’re right. That’s always worth a point or two. Sometimes more. Being right afterward can be a wonderful thing.”
“It’s a filter,” Reacher said. “That’s all. It’s about efficiency.”
“But I still need Croselli.”
“The Son of Sam wouldn’t get you out of jail?”
“I need Croselli.”
“Why?”
“Because he burns me up.”
“You ever read a book called Moby-Dick?”
“OK, I get it. And I admit it. Croselli is my great white whale. I’m obsessed. But what can I do about it? What could anyone, with a whale pressing on her head?”
“Is that how you feel? Like you have a whale pressing on your head?”
“That’s exactly how I feel.”
“Then let’s trade,” Reacher said.
“What for what?”
“I need a ride out of town.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. I’m sure my brother is worrying about me. Which I’m sure is hard on the old guy. I need to put him out of his misery.”