Ли Чайлд - No Middle Name

‘Son of a Marine. We go where we’re posted. But school’s out, so I’m travelling.’

‘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 proved 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 travelling?’

‘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?’

‘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. Far away 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. Defence 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, towards 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 dialled the number he had memorized for West Point’s main switchboard.