David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

Reacher said, “I never heard of that before.”

“You’re not from here.”

“Ethical gangsters?”

“Not really. Like I said, legs heal.”

“But it’s definitely a two-part deal?”

“All part of the culture.”

The top of the second ended with a limp swing-and-miss, strike three. Still one–zip Boston. The zip didn’t look likely to change. The one did. Reacher turned to the fat guy and said, “He’s supposed to make contact with you, right?”

DeLong nodded yes.

“When?”

“I’m not sure. Soon, I guess. I don’t really know what he’s waiting for.”

“Maybe he’s watching the game.”

“He isn’t,” Heller said.

“Not as dumb as he looks, then.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends when the audit starts, I guess.”

“Tomorrow morning,” DeLong said.

“And what happens if you’re in the orthopedic ward?”

“Someone else does it. Less well.”

The bottom of the second started. A four-pitch lead-off walk. Hopeless. Reacher rocked back and looked at Heller and said, “Do you live here?”

Heller said, “Not in this actual bar.”

“But in town?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“I guess someone has to. You worried about these Albanians?”

“Altogether less hassle if Allie Boy doesn’t remember my face.”

“Where did you serve?”

“With General Hood.”

“Did you get out in time?”

“Unscathed.”

“Good for you.”

“What were you?”

“MPs,” Reacher said. “Hood’s still in Leavenworth, as far as I know.”

“Where he belongs.”

“You armed, by any chance?”

“No, or I’d have shot you already. When you said a hundred years. It was less than ninety.”

“Is the Albanian guy armed?”

“Probably. A Sig, most likely. In the back of his pants. See how he’s sitting?”

“I don’t think we can get it done during the commercials. We’re going to have to give up half an inning.”

“Top of the next.”

Now Boston had two runners on. Reacher said, “I’m not sure our corpulent friend can wait that long.”

The fat guy said, “What are you talking about?”

Reacher saw the Albanian moving in the mirror, shifting in his chair, putting his hand on the grocery sack.

Heller said, “Now.”

Reacher turned back to DeLong and said, “Get up, right now, and walk out, straight line, fast, don’t look back, and keep on going.”

“Out?”

“To the street. Right now.”

“Which way?”

“Turn left. If in doubt, always turn left. That’s a rule that will serve you well.”

“Left?”

“Or right. It really doesn’t matter. Fast as you can.”

Which wasn’t lightning-quick, but it was reasonably speedy. The guy swiveled and kind of fell forward off his stool, and waited while his fat bounced and jiggled and settled, and then he set off through the crowd, surprisingly light on his dainty feet, and he was already past the blinged-out Albanian before the guy really noticed. Reacher and Heller paused a beat and slid off their stools in turn, and made up the third and fourth places in a determined little procession through the throng, first DeLong, then the Albanian with the sack, then Reacher, with Heller right behind him. DeLong had the advantage. He was cruising like a ship. People were scattering in front of him, for fear of getting run over. The Albanian guy wasn’t getting the same physical deference. From a distance he wasn’t imposing. Reacher and Heller didn’t have that problem. People were stepping smartly aside, out of their way.

DeLong pushed through the bar door and was gone. The Albanian got there a second later. Reacher and Heller followed him out, practically close enough to touch. The street was quiet and dark and narrow. Old Boston. The fat guy had turned left. His pale bulk was twenty yards away, on the sidewalk. The Albanian had seen him. He was getting ready to hustle in pursuit.

“Here?” Reacher asked.

Heller said, “It’s as good a place as any.”

Reacher called, “Allie Boy?”

The guy missed a step, but kept on walking.

“Yes, you, asshole,” Reacher said.

The guy glanced back.

“All those rings and chains,” Reacher said. “Didn’t your momma tell you it’s dumb to walk around like that in a poor part of town?”

The guy stopped and turned and said, “What?”

“You could get mugged,” Heller said.

The guy said, “Mugged?”

Reacher said, “Where a couple of guys take all your stuff. You don’t have that in Albania?”

“You know who I am?”

“Obviously. I just used your name and said you’re from Albania. This stuff ain’t rocket science.”

“You know what will happen to you?”

“Nobody knows what will happen to them. The future’s not ours to see. But in this case I don’t suppose much will happen. We might get a couple bucks for the bling. We’re certainly not going to wear it. We got more taste.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Was that a comedy club we were just in?”

There was a dull roar from inside the bar. Likely a three-run homer. Reacher winced. Heller smiled. The Albanian hitched the paper sack higher to the crook of his left elbow. Which left his right hand free.

Heller stepped forward, going right, and Reacher went left. At that point the Albanian guy should have turned and run. That was the smart play. He was probably fast enough. But he didn’t, inevitably. He was a tough guy. The streets were his. He went for his gun.

Which was very dumb, because it took both his hands out of the game. One was cradling his grocery sack, and the other was snaking around behind his back. Reacher hit him with a straight right, hard, in the center of his face, and after that it didn’t really matter where his hands were. Command and control were temporarily unavailable. The guy dropped the sack and rocked back on rubber legs, blood already spurting, ready for a standing count.

Which he didn’t get. Street-fighting’s first rule: there are no rules. Heller kicked him dead-on in the nuts, hard enough to take his weight off his feet, and then the guy collapsed down to about half his size in a crouch, and Heller used the flat of his sole to tip him over on his side, and Reacher kicked him in the head, and the guy lay still.

“Was that hard enough?” Heller said.

“For amnesia? Difficult to judge. Amnesia is unpredictable.”

“Best guess?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

So Heller picked his spot and kicked the guy again, in the left temple, going for lateral displacement of the brain in the pan. Generally four times more effective than front-to-back. No surprise. One of General Hood’s boys would have learned stuff like that pretty early. Hood wasn’t all bad. Mostly, but not all.

In the far distance Jerry DeLong was watching.

Reacher picked up the grocery sack. It was full of hundred-dollar bills, all used and wrinkled, held together in bricks by orange rubber bands. Reacher had four pants pockets, two in front, two in back, so he took four bricks from the sack and stuffed one in each pocket. Then he tore off the gold chains and pulled off the rings and found the Sig and went through the Albanian’s pockets and dumped out all the loot. He gave the sack to Heller.

Heller said, “The cops will come. We don’t leave people on the street here. Not like New York.”

Reacher said, “They’ll check the bar.”

“Their first stop.”

“I’ll go east and you go west. Pleasure working with you.”

“Likewise,” Heller said.

They shook hands, and melted away into the darkness, opposite directions, leaving the Albanian where he was on the sidewalk, an unfortunate victim of a mugging, his good and valuable consideration stolen before the deal with DeLong could be properly consummated. Therefore no deal existed. Their own rules said so. DeLong had no obligations, and nothing to betray. An Albanian thing. Part of the culture.