One Shot (16 page)

It had a flat roof and bricked-up windows and moss
growing where blocked rainwater gutters had spilled.

Inside it was better, but generic. It was like every other
sports bar he had ever been in. It was one tall room with
black-painted air conditioning ducts pinned to the
ceiling. It had three dozen TV screens hanging from the
walls and the roof. It had all the usual sports bar stuff all
over the place. Signed uniform jerseys framed under
glass, football helmets displayed on shelves, hockey
sticks,

basketballs,

baseballs,

old

game-day

programmes. The waiting staff was all female, all of
them in cheerleader-style uniforms. The bar staff was
male and dressed in striped umpire uniforms.

The TVs were all tuned to football. Inevitable, Reacher
guessed, on a Monday night. Some of the screens were
regular TVs, and some were plasmas, and some were
projectors. The same event was displayed dozens of
times, all with slightly different colour and focus, some
big, some small, some bright, some dim. There were
plenty of people in there, but Reacher got a table to
himself.

In a corner, which he liked. A hard worked waitress ran
over to him and he ordered beer and a cheeseburger.

He didn't look at the menu. Sports bars always had beer
and cheeseburgers.

He ate his meal and drank his beer and watched the
game. Time passed and the place filled up and got more
and more crowded and noisy but nobody came to share
his table. Reacher had that kind of effect on people. He
sat there alone, in a bubble of quiet, with a message
plainly displayed: Stay away from me.

Then someone ignored the message and came to join
him. It was partly his own fault. He looked away from the
screen and saw a girl hovering nearby. She was
juggling a bottle of beer and a full plate of tacos. She
was quite a sight.

She had waved red hair and a red gingham shirt open
at the neck and tied off at the navel. She had tight pants
on that looked like denim but had to be Spandex. She
had the whole hourglass thing going, big time. And she
was in shiny lizard-skin boots. Open the encyclopedia
to C for Country Girl and her picture was going to be
right there staring back at you. She looked too young
for the beer. But she was past puberty. That was for
damn sure. Her shirt buttons were straining. And there
was no visible panty line under the Spandex.

Reacher looked at her for a second too long, and she
took it as an invitation.

'Can I share your table?' she asked, from a yard away.

'Help yourself,' he said.

She sat down. Not opposite him, but in the chair next
to him.

'Thanks,' she said.

She drank from her bottle and kept her eyes on him.

Green eyes, bright, wide open. She half turned towards
him and arched the small of her back. Her shirt was
open three buttons.

Maybe a 34D, Reacher figured, in a push-up bra. He
could see the edge of it.

White lace. She leaned close, because of the noise.

'Do you like it?' she asked.

'Like what?' he said.

'Football,' she said.

'A bit,' he said.

'Did you play?'

Did you, not do you. She made him feel old. You're
certainly big enough,' she said. 'I tried out for Army,' he
said. 'When I was at West Point.' 'Did you make the
team?'

'Only once.'

"Were you injured?'

'I was too violent.'

She half smiled, not sure if he was joking. 'Want a
taco?' she said.

'I just ate.'

'I'm Sandy,' she said.

So was I, he thought. Friday, on the beach. ¦What's
your name?' she asked.

'Jimmy Reese,' he said.

He saw a flash of surprise in her eyes. He didn't know
why. Maybe she had had a boyfriend called Jimmy
Reese. Or maybe she was a serious fan of the New York
Yankees. 'I'm pleased to meet you, Jimmy Reese,' she
said. 'Likewise,' he said, and turned back to the game.

You're new in town, aren't you?' she said.

'Usually,' he said.

'I was wondering,' she said. 'If you only like football a
bit, maybe you would like to take me somewhere else.'

'Like where?'

'Like somewhere quieter. Maybe somewhere a little
lonelier.' He said nothing.

'I've got a car,' she said.

'You old enough to drive?'

'I'm old enough to do lots of things. And I'm pretty
good at some of them.'

Reacher said nothing. She moved on her chair.

Pushed it out from the table a little way. Turned towards
him and looked down. 'Do you like these pants?' she
asked.

'I think they suit you very well.'

'I do too. Only problem is, they're too tight to wear
anything underneath.'

'We all have our cross to bear.'

'Do you think they're too revealing?'

'They're opaque. That usually does it for me.'

'Imagine peeling them off.'

'I can't. I doubt if I would have gotten them on.'

The green eyes narrowed. 'Are you a queer?'

'Are you a hooker?'

'No way. I work at the auto parts store.'

Then she paused and seemed to think again. She
reconsidered. She came up with a better answer. Which
was to jump up from her chair and scream and slap his
face. It was a loud scream and a loud slap and everyone
turned to look. 'He called me a whore,' she screamed.

'He called me a damn whore!' Chairs scraped and guys
stood up fast. Big guys, in jeans and work boots and
plaid shirts.

Country boys. Five of them, all the same. The girl
smiled in triumph.

'Those are my brothers,' she said.

Reacher said nothing.

'You just called me a whore in front of my brothers'

Five boys, all staring.

'He called me a whore,' the girl wailed.

Rule one, be on your feet and ready.

Rule two, show them what they're messing with.

Reacher stood up, slow and easy. Six-five, two-fifty,
calm eyes, hands held loose by his sides. 'He called me
a whore,' the girl wailed again.

Rule three, identify the ringleader.

There were five guys. Any five guys will have one
There were five guys. Any five guys will have one
ringleader, two enthusiastic followers, and two reluctant
followers. Put the ringleader down, and both of the keen
sidekicks, and it's over.

The reluctant pair just run for it. So there's no such
thing as five-on-one.

It never gets worse than three-on-one. Rule four: The
ringleader is the one who moves first.

A big corn-fed twenty-something with a shock of
yellow hair and a round red face moved first. He
stepped forward a pace and the others fell in behind him
in a neat arrowhead formation. Reacher stepped
forward a pace of his own to meet them. The downside
of a corner table is there's no other way to go except
forward. But that was fine.

Because, rule five: Never back off.

But, rule six: Don't break the furniture.

Break furniture in a bar, and the owner starts thinking
about his insurance policy, and insurance companies
require police reports, and a patrolman's first instinct is
to throw everyone in jail and sort it out later. Which
generally means: Blame it on the stranger. 'He called me
a whore,' the girl said, plaintively. Like her heart was
broken. She was standing off to the side, looking at
Reacher, looking at the five guys, looking at Reacher.

Her head was turning like a spectator at a tennis game.

'Outside,' the big guy said.

'Pay your check first,' Reacher said.

'I'll pay later.'

'You won't be able to.'

'You think?'

'That's the difference between us.'

What is?'

'I think.'

'You've got a smart mouth, pal.'

'That's the least of your worries.'

'You called my sister a whore.'

'You prefer sleeping with virgins?'

'Get outside, pal, or I'll put you down right here.'

Rule seven: Act, don't react.

'OK,' Reacher said. 'Let's go outside.'

The big guy smiled.

'After you,' Reacher said.

'Stay here, Sandy,' the big guy said.

'I don't mind the sight of blood,' she said.

'I'm sure you love it,' Reacher said. 'One week in four, it
makes you feel mighty relieved.'

'Outside,' the big guy said. 'Now.'

He turned round and shooed the others towards the
door. They formed up in single file and threaded
between the tables. Their boots clattered on the wood.

The girl called Sandy tagged after them. Other
customers shrank away from them. Reacher put twenty
dollars on his table and glanced up at the football game.

Someone was winning, someone was losing. He
followed the girl called Sandy. Followed the blue
Spandex pants.

They were all waiting for him on the sidewalk. They
were all tensed up in a shallow semicircle. There were
yellow lamps on poles twenty yards away north and
south and another across the street. The lamps gave
each guy three shadows. There was neon outside the
bar that filled the shadows with pink and blue. The
street was empty. And quiet. No traffic. No noise, except
sports bar sounds muffled by the door. The air was soft.

Not hot, not cold.

Rule eight: Assess and evaluate.

The big guy was round and smooth and heavy, like a
bull seal. Maybe ten years out of high school. An
unbroken nose, no scar tissue on his brows, no
misshapen knuckles. Therefore, not a boxer. Probably
just a linebacker. So he would fight like a wrestler. He
would be a guy who wants you on the ground.

So he would start by charging. Head low.

That was Reacher's best guess.

And Reacher was right.

The guy exploded out of the blocks and charged, head
low. Straight for Reacher's chest. Looking to drive him
backwards and have him stumble and fall.

Whereupon the other four could all pile in together and
stomp him and kick him to their hearts' content. Mistake.

Because, rule nine: Don't run head-on into Jack
Reacher.

Not when he's expecting it. It's like running into an oak
tree.

The big guy charged and Reacher turned slightly
sideways and bent his knees a little and timed it just
right and drove all his weight up and forward off his
back foot and through his shoulder straight into the big
guy's face.

Kinetic energy is a wonderful thing.

Reacher had hardly moved at all but the big guy
bounced off crazily, stunned, staggering backwards on
stiff legs, desperately trying to stay upright, one foot
tracing a lazy half-circle in the air, then the other. He
came to rest six feet away with his feet firmly planted
and his legs wide apart, just like a big dumb capital letter
A.

Blood on his face.

Now he had a broken nose.

Put the ringleader down.

Reacher stepped in and kicked him in the groin, but
left footed. Right-footed, he would have popped bits of
the guy's pelvis out through his nose. Your big soft
heart, an old army instructor had said. One day it'll get
you killed.