up. Getting excited. He smiled at me in the dark.
`Good job, Reacher,’ he said. `I was wondering how the hell you were going to get me out. What happened to Picard?’
I made a gun with my fingers, like a child’s mime. He nodded a sort of partner’s nod to me. Too reserved to go any further. I shook his hand. Seemed like the right thing to do. Then I turned and rapped softly on the service door at the back of the barbershop. It opened up straight away. The older guy was standing there like he’d been waiting for us to knock. He held the door like some kind of an old butler. Gestured us in. We trooped single file down a passage into a storeroom. Waited next to shelves piled high with barber stuff. The gnarled old man caught up to us.
`We need your help,’ I said.
The old guy shrugged. Held up his mahogany palm in a wait gesture. Shuffled through to the front and came back with his partner. The younger old guy. They discussed my request in loud rasping whispers.
`Upstairs,’ the younger guy said.
We filed up a narrow staircase. Came out in an apartment above the shop. The two old barbers showed us through to the living room. They pulled the blinds and switched on a couple of dim lamps. Waved us to sit. The room was small and threadbare, but clean. It had a cosy feel. I figured if I had a room, I’d want it to look like that. We sat down. The younger guy sat with us and the older guy shuffled out again. Closed the door. The four of us sat there looking at each other. Then the barber leaned forward.
`You boys ain’t the first to hide out with us,’ he said.
Finlay glanced around. Appointed himself spokesman.
`We’re not?’ he said.
`No sir, you’re not,’ the barber said. `We’ve had lots of boys hiding out with us. And girls too, tell the truth.’
`Like who?’ Finlay asked.
`You name it, we had it,’ the old guy said. `We’ve had farmworkers’ union boys from the peanut farms. We’ve had farmworkers’ union boys from the peach growers. We’ve had civil rights girls from the voter registration. We’ve had boys who didn’t want their ass sent to Vietnam. You name it, we had it.’
Finlay nodded.
`And now you’ve got us,’ he said. `Local trouble?’ the barber asked. Finlay nodded again.
`Big trouble,’ he said. `Big changes coming.’ `Been expecting it,’ the old guy said. `Been expecting it for years.’
`You have?’ Finlay said.
The barber nodded and stood up. Stepped over to a large closet. Opened the door and waved us over to take a look. It was a big closet, fitted with deep shelves. The shelves were stacked with money. Bricks and bricks of cash held together with rubber bands. It filled the closet from floor to ceiling. Must have been a couple of hundred thousand dollars in there.
`Kliner Foundation’s money,’ the old guy said. `They just keep on throwing it at us. Something wrong with it. I’m seventy-four years old. Seventy years, people are pissing all over me. Now people are throwing money all over me. Something wrong with that, right?’
He closed the door on the cash.
`We don’t spend it,’ he said. `We don’t spend a cent we don’t earn. We just put it in the closet. You boys going after the Kliner Foundation?’
`Tomorrow there won’t be any Kliner Foundation,’ I said.
The old guy just nodded. Glanced at the closet door as he passed by and shook his head. Closed the door on us and left us alone in the small cosy room.
`Not going to be easy,’ Finlay said. `Three of us and three of them. They hold four hostages. Two of the hostages are children. We’re not even certain where they’re holding them.’
`They’re at the warehouse,’ I said. `That’s for sure. Where else would they be? No manpower available to hold them anyplace else. And you heard that tape. That boomy echo? That was the warehouse, for sure.’
`What tape?’ Hubble asked.
Finlay looked at him.
`They had Roscoe make a tape for Reacher,’ he said. `A message. To prove they were holding her.’