“He isn’t here,” Shevick whispered back.
“Is he usually?”
“Always,” Shevick whispered. “He sits at this table all day long.”
“How many times have you done this?”
“Three.”
The barman was still busy, way far away.
Shevick whispered, “Five minutes from now I’ll owe them twenty-three five, not twenty-two five.”
“The late fee is a thousand dollars?”
“Every day.”
“Not your fault,” Reacher whispered. “Not if the guy doesn’t show up.”
“These are not reasonable people.”
Shevick stared at the door. The barman finished up his imaginary task, and waddled the diagonal distance from the back of the bar to the front, with his chin up, hostile, as if possibly willing to entertain a request, but very unlikely to fulfill it.
He stopped a yard from Reacher and waited.
Reacher said, “What?”
“You want something?” the guy said.
“Not anymore. I wanted to make you walk there and back. You looked like you could use the exercise. But now you’ve done it, so I’m all good. Thanks anyway.”
The guy stared. Sizing up his situation. Which wasn’t great. Maybe he had a bat or a gun under the counter, but he would never get to them. Reacher was only an arm’s length away. His response was going to have to be verbal. Which was going to be a struggle. That was clear. In the end he was saved by his wall phone. It rang behind him. An old-fashioned bell. A long muted mournful peal, and then another.
The barman turned away and answered the call. The phone was a classic design, with a big plastic handset on a curly cord stretched so much it dragged on the floor. The barman listened and hung up. He jutted his chin in the direction of Shevick, all the way over at the rear corner table.
He called out, “Come back at six o’clock tonight.”
“What?” Shevick said.
“You heard me.”
The barman walked away, to another imaginary task.
Reacher sat down at Shevick’s table.
Shevick said, “What did he mean, come back at six o’clock?”
“I guess the guy you’re waiting for got delayed. He called in, so you know where you stand.”
“But I don’t know,” Shevick said. “What about my twelve o’clock deadline?”
“Not your fault,” Reacher said again. “It was the guy who missed it, not you.”
“He’s going to say I owe them another grand.”
“Not if he didn’t show up. Which everyone knows he didn’t. The barman took his call. He’s a witness. You were here and the other guy wasn’t.”
“I can’t find another thousand dollars,” Shevick said. “I just don’t have it.”
“I would say the postponement gives you a pass. It’s a clear implication. Like an implied term in a contract. You were offering legal tender in the right place at the right time. They didn’t show up to accept it. It’s some kind of a common law principle. An attorney could explain it.”
“No lawyers,” Shevick said.
“Worried about them, too?”
“I can’t afford one. Especially if I have to find another thousand bucks.”
“You don’t. They can’t have it both ways. You were here on time. They weren’t.”
“These are not reasonable people.”
The barman glared from far away.
The clock in Reacher’s head hit twelve noon exactly.
He said, “We can’t wait here six hours.”
“My wife will be worried,” Shevick said. “I should go home and see her. Then come back again.”
“Where do you live?”
“About a mile from here.”
“I’ll walk with you, if you like.”
Shevick paused a long moment.
Then he said, “No, I really couldn’t ask you to do that. You’ve done enough for me already.”
“That was vague and polite, for damn sure.”
“I mean I mustn’t put you out anymore. I’m sure you have things to do.”
“Generally I avoid having things to do. Clearly a reaction against literal regimentation earlier in my life. The result is I have no particular place to go, and all the time in the world to get there. I’m happy to take a one-mile detour.”
“No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“The regimentation I mentioned was, as I said, in the military police, where, as I also said, we were trained to notice things. Not just physical clues, but things about how people are. How they behave and what they believe. Human nature, and so on and so forth. Most of it was bullshit, but some of it rang bells. Right now you’re facing a mile walk through a backstreet neighborhood, with more than twenty grand in your pocket, which you feel weird about, because you’re not really supposed to still have it, and it’s a total disaster if you lose it, and you’ve already been mugged once today, so the truth is, all in all you’re afraid of that walk, and you know I could help with that feeling, and you’re also hurt from the attack, and therefore not moving well, and you know I can help with that too, so all in all you should be begging me to see you home.”
Shevick said nothing.
“But you’re a gentleman,” Reacher said. “You wanted to give me a reward. Now if I walk you home and meet your wife, you think the very least you should do is give me lunch. But there is no lunch. You’re embarrassed. But you shouldn’t be. I get it. You’re in trouble with a moneylender. You haven’t eaten lunch in a couple of months. You look like you lost twenty pounds. Your skin is hanging loose. So we’ll pick up sandwiches on the way. Uncle Sam’s dime. That’s where my cash comes from. Your tax dollars at work. We’ll enjoy some conversation, and then I’ll walk you back here. You can pay off your guy, and I’ll get on my way.”
“Thank you,” Shevick said. “I mean it.”
“You’re welcome,” Reacher said. “I mean it.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Someplace else. Often depends on the weather. I like to be warm. Saves buying a coat.”
The barman glared again, still from far away.