I gave her the station house number and told her to speak to nobody except me or Roscoe or Finlay. Then she hung up in a hurry like somebody had just walked in on her. I sat for a moment and tried to imagine what she looked like.
Teale was back in the station house. And old man Kliner was inside with him. They were over by the
reception counter, heads together. Kliner was talking to Teale like I’d seen him talking to Eno at the diner. Foundation business, maybe. Roscoe and Finlay were standing together by the cells. I walked over to them. Stood between them and talked low.
`Counterfeiting,’ I said. `This is about counterfeit money. Joe was running the Treasury Department’s defence for them. You know anything about that sort of a thing down here? Either of you?’
They both shrugged and shook their heads. I heard the glass door suck open. Looked up. Kliner was on his way out. Teale was starting in toward us.
`I’m out of here,’ I said.
I brushed past Teale and headed for the door. Kliner was standing in the lot, next to the black pickup. Waiting for me. He smiled. Wolf’s teeth showing.
`Sorry for your loss,’ he said.
His voice had a quiet, cultured tone. Educated. A slight hiss on the sibilants. Not the voice to go with his sunbaked appearance.
`You upset my son,’ he said.
He looked at me. Something burning in his eyes. I shrugged.
`The kid upset me first,’ I said.
`How?’ Kliner asked. Sharply.
`He lived and breathed?’ I said.
I moved on across the lot. Kliner slid into the black pickup. Fired it up and nosed out. He turned north. I turned south. Started the walk down to Roscoe’s place. It was a half-mile through the new fall chill. Ten minutes at a brisk pace. I got the Bentley out of the garage. Drove it back up
the slope to town. Made the right onto Main Street and cruised along. I was peering left and right in under the smart striped awnings, looking for the clothes store. Found it three doors north of the barbershop. Left the Bentley on the street and went in. Paid out some of Charlie Hubble’s expenses cash to a sullen middle-aged guy for a pair of pants, a shirt and a jacket. A light fawn colour, pressed cotton, as near to formal as I was prepared to go. No tie. I put it all on in the changing cubicle in the back of the store. Bagged up the old stuff and threw it in the Bentley’s trunk as I passed.
I walked the three doors south to the barbershop. The younger of the two old guys was on his way out of the door. He stopped and put his hand on my arm.
`What’s your name, son?’ he asked me.
No reason not to tell him. Not that I could see. `Jack Reacher,’ I said.
`You got any Hispanic friends in town?’ `No,’ I said.
`Well, you got some now,’ he said. `Two guys, looking all over for you.’
I looked at him. He scanned the street. `Who were they?’ I asked him.
`Never saw them before,’ the old guy said. `Little guys, brown car, fancy shirts. Been all over, asking for Jack Reacher. We told them we never heard of no Jack Reacher.’
`When was this?’ I said.
`This morning,’ he said. `After breakfast.’ I nodded.
‘OK,’ I said. `Thanks.’
The guy held the door open for me.
`Go right in,’ he said. `My partner will take care
of you. But he’s a bit skittish this morning. Getting old.’
`Thanks,’ I said again. `See you around.’
`Sure hope so, son,’ he said.
He strolled off down Main Street and I went inside his shop. The older guy was in there. The gnarled old man whose sister had sung with Blind Blake. No other customers. I nodded to the old guy and sat down in his chair.
`Good morning, my friend,’ he said.
`You remember me?’ I said.
`Sure do,’ he said. `You were our last customer. Nobody in between to muddle me up.’
I asked him for a shave and he set about whipping up the lather.