Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

Kim’s stomach growled. “Good thing Asian women don’t weigh much. If I don’t get real food pretty soon, you may have to carry me when I faint.”

“Then we’d better hurry. We Cubans are not that chivalrous,” he said, as fat raindrops started to fall.

A solid wall of rain overwhelmed the Blazer all the way down the country road. Gaspar turned the wipers to their fastest speed, but they didn’t do much. Headlights on bright showed nothing but a curtain of water dead ahead.

“There,” Kim said, pointing at a dull gleam of aluminum. A sun-faded sign out front of the place said Eno’s Diner in letters the size of garbage cans.

“Got it, boss.” She saw exhaustion around his eyes and pain in the lines that etched his face. He pulled the Blazer into the lot. The only other vehicle was a green Saturn. He drove as close to the door as he could get and turned the engine off. They sat for a moment listening to the rain hammering on the roof.

Then they ran. She got there first. Was he still limping? She wrenched the door open, and they fell inside and back in time about sixty years.

Eno’s Diner resembled a converted railroad car. Retro. Like American Graffiti. There should have been table-side jukeboxes in the booths loaded with Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis records. Maybe Ray Charles singing Georgia, or even that sad old dude, Blind Blake, considering the location.

The place was narrow, with a long counter on one side, and booths lining the opposite wall, and a kitchen off the back. The doorway was in the center where one of the booths had been removed. A small sign posted at the cash register immediately ahead said, “Please be seated.” The entrance aisle formed a T intersection from the front door and required a right or left turn to choose a table. Gaspar turned right, walked fifteen feet on checkerboard black and white tile and chose a booth. He sat down hard on the red vinyl upholstered bench, facing the door. Predictable.

Kim headed straight for the restroom, feeling her shoes squeak as each step pressed water through the soles. Noxious fumes from a pine scented air freshener assaulted her when she pushed the door open. She flipped on the harsh overhead florescent and a roaring fan started up. She performed her tasks briskly while forcing herself to ignore the rust stains and broken toilet seat. She pulled a bit of toilet paper to protect her fingers when she flushed and held the handle down, as the note taped to the tank instructed.

Then she checked her reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. “You’re hopeless,” she told the face. “Be careful or you’ll scare small children.” She pressed the water out of her hair with her hands and washed without touching the nasty soap cake and refused to use the wrinkled pull-down cloth towel hanging from its dispenser near the door. She shook her hands by her sides to dry them as best she could, and then drew her fingers up inside her sleeve and pulled the door open to escape.

She slid onto the bench opposite Gaspar. He was full-on focused watching the diner, the parking lot, everything, like a predatory bird. God, she was tired. What she wouldn’t give for eight hours solid sleep. She’d be a new woman. But food first. She pulled napkins from a chrome holder and used them to dry her hands and pat the rain off her face. There was a two-foot round mirror on the opposite wall. It gave her a decent view of the room behind her. By moving her head slightly she could see the entrance, too. Not perfect. But good enough for government work.

A waitress walked over and put two laminated menus with curled corners down on the red plastic table top and asked, “Can I bring y’all some coffee while you decide what you want?”

“Absolutely,” Kim said, without looking up from the menu. One page with pictures of all-American diner food on both sides. Breakfast, lunch, deserts, and drinks. No dinner. No alcohol. No pre-packaged food. Ptomaine, she decided, was a real possibility.

“Wide selection here,” Gaspar said. “We can get our burgers with or without cheese. Or our cheese with or without burgers.”

“I didn’t take you for a vegetarian,” Kim said, and the waitress returned with the coffee. “What do you recommend, Mary? And can you leave the pot?”

Mary’s name was embroidered on her breast pocket. She seemed pleased that Kim had noticed and made the effort. She set the coffee pot down. She said, “I’d have the burger with cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Fries are good, if you like the crispy thin ones. Dill pickles.”

“Sold,” Kim said.

“Make it two,” Gaspar said.

“Be about fifteen minutes while I get it ready,” Mary told them, taking their menus and heading back to the kitchen to do the cooking.

“Low margin operation,” Gaspar said. He took the sugar jar and tipped it to pour about two ounces of sugar into the eight ounce cup. Kim wondered how he was going to get half a cup of cream in there, too. She took out her personal smart phone and saw a surprisingly strong signal, considering their location. She brought up a search engine. Typed “Major Jack Reacher” with one thumb. Waited for the search to complete.

“Figured it out yet?” Gaspar asked.

“Figured what out?”

“When exactly Black was shot.”

“Have you?”

"He's not God. He doesn't know everything."

She blinked, shook her head quickly as if to clear the fog inside. "What?"

“How fast does the boss think?”

“Pretty damn fast,” Kim said.

“Exactly. Therefore Black was killed around three this morning. The boss put a plan in place and called us at four, so we’d be here when the call came in.”

“How did he delay the 911?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he need us here at all?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the brains of the outfit. I thought we had established that already.”

Kim’s smart phone pinged. She looked at the screen for the results of her search. Nothing. She tried “Jack Reacher, U.S. Army,” and pressed search again.

She asked, “What else do you know?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I know what you know. I got a call. Told to fly to Atlanta, meet you, drive to Margrave. I got encrypted files identical to the four you got, I think, but you’re welcome to read them for yourself. The last one is about you. Name, rank, and serial number. And I’m guessing your last one is the same about me. The assignment is build the Reacher file for some secret project and keep it under the radar. I’m number two, you’re number one. Interview Chief Roscoe first, get to her before 11:30 a.m. Met you at the airport. We’ve been together ever since. That’s it.”

Her phone pinged again. Still no results. She tried one more time, “Reacher, Jack,” and the phone pinged once more. No results. Reacher was a ghost. He didn’t exist. Or her equipment was faulty. She thought about it a couple of seconds and tried a name belonging to an actual flesh and blood person she had seen with her own eyes: Beverly Roscoe .

She asked, “So is this whole Reacher thing a distraction?”

“It would be a very elaborate decoy, wouldn’t you say? Four files, and a guy we actually can’t find?”

“And the dead cop? The one with the killer-pretty wife wearing designer duds and packing pricey luggage? Is he the elaborate decoy instead?”

“He can’t be.”

“So how are they connected, Einstein?”

“I’d say ‘you tell me,’ but given the Vietnamese Inquisition here, I’m guessing you don’t know either. Right?”

She’d pushed, he shoved. Best defense is strong offense. Typical man. Good. Reactions she understood made her trust him a little more. She’d have been pissed off in his place, but she’d have concealed her anger, which was much more sensible.