Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

‘What message?’ The guitarist leaned one shoulder against the wall. ‘Suck it up. That’s all we can do.’

‘That’s how we’re going to make it,’ the singer said. ‘In the end.’

Reacher said nothing.

‘What? You think we’re doing the wrong thing?’

‘Maybe I’m out of line.’ Reacher looked at each of them in turn. ‘But it seems to me you’re telling the club owners it’s OK to rip you off. That you’re happy not to get paid.’

‘That’s crazy,’ the singer said. ‘I hate not getting paid. It’s the worst.’

‘Did you make that clear?’

‘Of course.’ The guitar player straightened up. ‘I did. I insisted he pay us. He made like he was going to, and took me to his office. Only a guy was waiting there. The bouncer. He’s huge. They must have planned the whole thing in advance because he didn’t say anything. Didn’t wait. Just grabbed my hand. My left.’ He held up his left hand to emphasize the point. ‘He grabbed it and pushed it down on to the desk where there’s this kind of metal plate. It’s all dented and stained. Anyway, he held my hand there, and the owner went around the desk and opened the top drawer. He took out a hammer. Used the claw thing to spread my fingers apart, then said I had to choose. We could have the money, and he’d break my fingers. One at a time. Or I could leave, unhurt, with no cash.’

Reacher was conscious of a voice in his head telling him to walk away. Saying this wasn’t his problem. But he had heard how the guy could make a guitar wail. He remembered watching his fingers when he was on stage. They were the opposite of Reacher’s own. Quick and delicate, dancing across the strings. He pictured the thug grabbing his hand. The owner, wielding the hammer. He stayed where he was.

‘If you like, I could go back in there,’ Reacher said. ‘Help the owner see things from a different angle. Maybe get him to reconsider tonight’s fee.’

‘You could do that?’ The singer didn’t look convinced.

‘I’ve been told I can be very persuasive.’

‘You could get hurt.’

‘Someone could. Not me.’

‘He has a hammer.’ The guitarist shuffled on the spot.

‘I doubt the hammer will come into play. And there wouldn’t be a problem if it did. So why don’t I give it a try? What have you got to lose?’

‘I’m not sure I’m–’

‘Thank you.’ The singer cut him off. ‘We appreciate any help you can give us. Just please be careful.’

‘I always am,’ Reacher said. ‘Now, tell me about the guitar. Your good spare. The guy really stole it?’

‘The big guy did,’ the guitarist said. ‘Kind of. He followed me down from the office and snatched it. Then he tossed it down the stairs to the basement and looked at me all weird, like he was daring me to go get it.’

‘You left it there?’

The guitarist looked away.

‘Don’t feel bad. That was the right move.’ Reacher paused. ‘Was it worth much?’

‘A grand, maybe?’ The guitarist shrugged. ‘That’s a lot to me.’

‘And the owner, with the hammer. What’s his name?’

‘Lockhart. Derek Lockhart.’

‘How much did he promise to pay you?’

‘Two hundred dollars.’

‘OK. And aside from Lockhart, the guy who was with him in the office, and the bartender, who else works there?’

‘No one.’

‘There is someone,’ the singer said. ‘A kid who busses tables. He’s out back most of the time, smoking weed.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No.’

‘Have you seen any weapons on the premises?’

They looked at one another and shook their heads.

‘OK then. Where’s Lockhart’s office?’

‘Second floor,’ the guitarist said. ‘Stairs are past the bathrooms.’

Back inside, a solitary customer was nursing his last bottle of beer. The barman was shoving a threadbare broom across the floor between the tables and the stage. There was no sign of anyone else so Reacher made his way past the bathrooms and crept up the stairs. He saw one door leading off a narrow landing. It was closed. Reacher could hear a voice on the other side. It was male, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t make out any words. They were soft. Rhythmic. Like someone counting. Probably checking the week’s take. So they’d likely be locked in. Reacher took hold of the handle. Turned it. And simultaneously slammed his shoulder into the door. It gave easily, sending fragments of splintered wood spinning into the air.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ He stepped into the room and pushed the door back into its ruined frame. ‘I didn’t realize that was locked.’

The space was small. More like a closet than an office. Two men were crammed in behind the desk, shoulder to shoulder. The regular-size guy Reacher took to be Lockhart. The other, a slack, flabby giant, would be the bouncer. Both were frozen in their seats. And the surface of the desk was covered with heaps of creased, greasy banknotes.

‘Who the hell are you?’ It took Lockhart a moment to find his voice.

‘My name’s Jack Reacher. I represent the band that played for you tonight. I’m here to talk about their contract.’

‘They don’t have a contract.’

‘They do now.’ Reacher took hold of a bentwood chair which was the only other piece of furniture in the room, tested its strength, and sat down.

‘Time for you to leave,’ Lockhart said.

‘I only just got here.’

‘You can’t be here. Not during the count.’

‘You didn’t think that through all the way, did you?’

Lockhart paused, searching for a trap. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You said I can’t be here. And yet clearly I am. Faulty reasoning on your part.’

‘You can leave.’ Lockhart spoke with exaggerated clarity. ‘Or I can throw you out.’

‘ You can throw me out?’ Reacher allowed himself a smile.

Lockhart’s fist clenched on the desk in front of him. ‘I can have you thrown out.’

‘Are you sure? Where are all your guys?’

‘I have all the guys I need, right here.’ Lockhart pointed to his companion.

‘Him? For a start, he’s one guy. Singular. So you’d have to say “the only guy I need”. But that’s not right either, is it? Because he’s obviously not up to the job. I could be asleep and he couldn’t throw me out. I could have died of old age and he still couldn’t do it.’

Reacher was watching the big guy’s eyes throughout the whole exchange. He saw them flicker towards Lockhart. Saw Lockhart respond with the tiniest nod of his head. The big guy rose out of his chair. Reacher knew there was only one possible play that stood any chance of success. The guy could launch himself straight over the desk. If he was quick enough he’d arrive before Reacher was on his feet. But even if Reacher was already standing, the guy would still have his most powerful weapon. His weight. He had at least a hundred pounds on Reacher. Coupled with the speed he’d have gained diving forward, all those pounds would translate into some formidable momentum. There’d be no way for Reacher to counter it. He’d be knocked backwards on to the floor. Pinned down. Jammed in the corner, unable to bring his fists or feet or elbows to bear. And unable to breathe. Then all the guy would have to do would be wait. Physics would finish the fight for him. He could just lie there till Reacher passed out. It would be the easiest victory he ever won.

The guy made the wrong choice. Instead of diving over the table he tried to shimmy around it. That was a serious mistake for someone with his build. Reacher’s goading had clouded his thinking. He wasn’t focused on the win. He was picturing the pummelling he could dish out. Which gave Reacher time to scoop up the metal plate from the desk. Grip it securely with one edge against his palms. And drive it up into the guy’s onrushing neck like a reversed guillotine blade, crushing his larynx and windpipe. Then Reacher shoved him square in the face and the guy fell back in the direction he came from and landed, choking and spluttering, in the corner.