Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

Reacher stepped off the crumbling sidewalk and continued down the centre of the street. He figured he’d give it another two blocks. Three at the most. If he hadn’t found anything good by then he’d strike out to the right, towards the river. He passed a place that sold part-worn tyres. A warehouse that a charity was using to store donated furniture. Then, as he crossed the next street, he picked up the rumble of a bass guitar and the thunder of drums.

The sound was coming from a building in the centre of the block. It didn’t look promising. There were no windows. No signage. Just a thin strip of yellow light escaping from beneath a single wooden door. Reacher didn’t like places with few potential exits so he was inclined to keep walking, but as he drew level the door opened. Two guys, maybe in their late twenties, with sleeveless T-shirts and a smattering of anaemic tattoos, stumbled out on to the sidewalk. Reacher moved to avoid them, and at the same moment a guitar began to wail from inside. Reacher paused. The riff was good. It built and swelled and soared, and just as it seemed to be done and its final note was dying away a woman’s voice took over. It was mournful, desperate, agonizing, like a conduit to a world of the deepest imaginable sorrow. Reacher couldn’t resist. He stepped across the threshold.

The air inside smelled of beer and sweat, and the space was much shallower front to back than Reacher had expected. It was also wider, effectively creating two separate areas with a dead zone down the middle. The right-hand side was for the music lovers. There were a couple dozen that night, some standing, some dancing, some doing a bit of both. The stage was beyond them, against the far wall, taking up the full depth of the room. It was low, built out of beer crates with some kind of wooden sheeting nailed across the top. There was a modest speaker stack at each side, and a pair of metal bars hanging from the ceiling to hold the lights. The singer was front and centre. She seemed tiny to Reacher. Five feet tall at the most, and as thin as a needle. Her hair was in a perfect blonde bob that shone so brightly Reacher wondered if it was a wig. The guitar player was to her left, nearest the door. The bassist mirrored him on her right. They both had wild curly hair and high, sharp cheekbones, and looked so alike they could have been twins. Certainly brothers. The drummer was there too, pounding out the beat, but the shadow at the back of the stage was too deep for Reacher to see her clearly.

The left-hand side was for drinking. There were six round tables, each with four chairs, and four stools at the bar which was set against the wall, opposite the stage. It was kitted out with the usual array of beer pumps and bottle fridges and spirit dispensers. A mirror ran its full width with a jagged star-shaped fracture mid-way up in the centre. The result of a bottle being thrown, Reacher thought. He liked the way it looked. It added character. But it wasn’t enough to outweigh the biggest flaw in the place. The section of ceiling in front of the bar. Hanging from it were dozens of bras. Maybe hundreds. There were all kinds of styles and colours and sizes. Where they’d come from Reacher didn’t want to know. It seemed sleazy to him. Unnecessary. And bad from a practical point of view. To get to the bar anyone reasonably tall would have to either push his way through or stoop down beneath them. Reacher waited until the band finished their last song then bent at the waist and pivoted around until he was close enough to snag a bar stool. He was the only one on that side of the room, and he couldn’t tell from the bartender’s blank expression whether that was a situation he was happy with or not.

‘Coffee,’ Reacher said, when the bartender finally acknowledged him. ‘Black.’

‘Don’t have coffee,’ the bartender replied.

‘OK. Cheeseburger. Fries. No lettuce. No pickle. And a Coke.’

‘Don’t have cheeseburgers.’

‘What food do you have?’

‘Don’t have food.’

‘Where around here does?’

The bartender shrugged. ‘Don’t live around here.’

Reacher took his Coke and turned to look at the stage. He was hoping another band would set up but there was no sign of activity. Half the audience had drifted across and congregated around the tables. The rest had already made for the door. With no more music and no hope of food Reacher figured he might as well finish his drink and follow them out. He continued in the direction he’d been going before he was lured inside, but when he reached the alley at the far end of the building he heard a scuffling noise. He turned, and almost collided with the guitar player from the band he’d just heard. The guy took a step back, his eyes wide with fear and his guitar case raised like a shield. The singer almost piled into him from behind. Reacher held up his hands, palms facing out. He was aware of the effect his appearance could have. He was six feet five. Two hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was a dishevelled mess. He was unshaved. Children had been known to run screaming at the sight of him.

‘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.’