much of a talker any more, and he wasn’t much of a driver any
more, and the Roadmaster wasn’t much of a car any more. It
was all true. The old guy was completely silent and they were
all in mortal danger several times inside the first five miles. The
old lady started singing to calm,herself. She gave it a few bars
of Dawn Penn’s You Don’t Love Me and Reacher immediately
decided to go all the way east with her just to hear more. He
offered to take over the driving chores. She kept on singing.
She had the kind of sweet smoky voice that should have made
her a blues superstar long ago, except she was probably in the
wrong place too many times and it had never happened for her.
The old car had failed power steering to wrestle with and all
kinds of ticks and rattles and whines under the hammer-heavy
V-8 beat and at about fifty miles an hour the noises all came
together and sounded like a backing track. The radio was weak
and picked up an endless succession of local AM stations for
about twenty minutes each. The old woman sang along with
them and the old guy kept completely quiet and slept most of
17
the way on the back seat. Reacher drove eighteen hours a day
for three solid days, and arrived in New Jersey feeling like he’d
been on vacation.
The residency was at a fifth-rate lounge eight blocks from
the boardwalk, and the manager wasn’t the kind of guy you
would necessarily trust to respect a contract. So Reacher
made it his business to count the customers and keep a running
total of the cash that should show up in the pay envelope at
the end of the week. He made it very obvious and watched the
manager grow more and more resentful about it. The guy
took to making short cryptic phone calls with his hand shielding
the receiver and his eyes locked on Reacher’s face. Reacher
looked straight back at him with a wintry smile and an unblinking
gaze and stayed put. He sat through all three sets two
weekend nights running, but then he started to get restless.
And cold. So on the Monday morning he was about to change
his mind and get back on the road when the old keyboard
player walked him back from breakfast and finally broke his
silence.
‘I want to ask you to stick around,’ he said. He pronounced it wanna ax, and there was some kind of hope in the rheumy old
eyes. Reacher didn’t answer.
‘You don’t stick around, that manager’s going to stiff us for
sure,’ the old guy said, like getting stiffed for money was
something that just happened to musicians, like flat tyres and
head colds. ‘But we get paid, we got gas money to head up to
New York, maybe get us a gig from B. B. King in Times Square,
resurrect our careers. Guy like you could make a big difference
in that department, count on it.’
Reacher said nothing.
‘Of course, I can see you being worried,’ the old guy said. ‘Management like that, bound to be some unsavoury characters
lurking in the background.’
Reacher smiled at e subtlety.
‘What are you, anyway?’ the old guy asked. ‘Some kind of a
boxer?’
‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘No kind of a boxer.’
‘Wrestler?’ the old guy asked. He said it wrassler. ‘Like on
cable television?’
18
‘You’re big enough, that’s for damn sure,’ the old guy said.
‘Plenty big enough to help us out, if you wanted to.’
He said it he’p. No front teeth. Reacher said nothing.
‘What are you, anyway?’ the old guy asked again.
‘I was a military cop,’ Reacher said. ‘In the army, thirteen
years.’
You quit?’
‘As near as makes no difference.’
‘No jobs for you folks afterwards?’
‘None that I want,’ Reacher said.
‘You live in L.A.?’
‘I don’t live anywhere,’ Reacher said. ‘I move around.’
‘So road folk should stick together,’ the old guy said. ‘Simple
as that. Help each other. Keep it a mutual thing.’
He’p each other.
‘It’s very cold here,’ Reacher said.
q’hat’s for damn sure,’ the old guy said. ‘But you could buy a