Blue Moon - Lee Child Page 0,13
twenty-first, but he also knew he had some kind of a wide-open portal in his head, a wormhole to humanity’s primitive past, where for millions of years every living thing could be a predator, or a rival, and therefore had to be assessed, and judged, instantly, and accurately. Who was the superior animal? Who would submit?
What he saw at the back table was going to be a challenge. If it came to it. If matters moved from the verbal to the physical. Not a colossal challenge. Somewhere between major and minor. The guy would be technically less skilled, almost certainly, unless he had also served in the U.S. Army, which taught the dirtiest fighting in the world, not that it would ever admit it in public. Against that the guy was big, and younger by a number of years, and he looked like he had been around the block a couple of times. He looked like he wouldn’t scare easy. He looked like he was accustomed to winning. The ancient part of Reacher’s brain took in all the subliminal information, and it flashed an amber warning, but it didn’t stop him walking. Ahead of him the guy at the table watched him in turn, all the way, apparently making his own atavistic calculations. Who was the superior animal? The guy looked pretty confident. As if he liked his chances.
Reacher sat down where Shevick had perched six hours previously. The visitor chair. Up close the guy in the executive chair could have been a little older than he seemed at first sight. Forty-something. Maybe halfway to fifty. Fairly senior. A man of substance, chronologically, but the weighty impression was undercut by the guy’s ghostlike pallor. That was the most noticeable thing about him. Plus his tattoo. It was inexpert and uneven. Prison ink. Probably not an American prison.
The guy picked up his ledger and opened it and propped it upright on his edge of the table. He peered down at it, with difficulty, like a guy playing his cards too close to his vest.
He said, “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” Reacher said.
“My name is of no importance.”
“Where’s Fisnik?”
“Fisnik has been replaced. Whatever business you had with him, now you have it with me.”
“I need more than that,” Reacher said. “This is an important transaction. This is a serious financial matter. Fisnik lent me money, and I need to pay him back.”
“I just told you, whatever business you had with Fisnik, now you have it with me. Fisnik’s clients are now my clients. If you owed money to Fisnik, now you owe it to me. This is not rocket science. What’s your name?”
Reacher said, “Aaron Shevick.”
The guy squinted down at his book.
He nodded.
He said, “Is this a final payment?”
“Do I get a receipt?” Reacher asked.
“Did Fisnik give you receipts?”
“You’re not Fisnik. I don’t even know your name.”
“My name is of no importance.”
“It is to me. I need to know who I’m paying.”
The guy tapped his finger, white as a bone, against the side of his glittering head.
“Your receipt is in here,” he said. “That’s all you need to know.”
“I could have Fisnik coming after me tomorrow.”
“I told you two times already, yesterday you were Fisnik’s, today you are mine. Tomorrow you will still be mine. Fisnik is history. Fisnik is gone. Things change. How much do you owe?”
“I don’t know,” Reacher said. “I depended on Fisnik to tell me. He had a formula.”
“What formula?”
“For the fees and the penalties and the add-ons. Rounded up to the nearest hundred, plus another five hundred as an administrative charge. That was his rule. I could never work it out right. I didn’t want him to think I was shortchanging him. I preferred to pay what he told me. Safer that way.”
“How much do you think it should be?”
“This time?”
“As your final payment.”
“I wouldn’t want you to think I was shortchanging you, either. Not if you inherited Fisnik’s business. I assume the same terms apply.”
“Give it to me both ways,” the guy said. “What you figure, and then what you think Fisnik’s formula would figure. Maybe I’ll cut you a break. Maybe we’ll split the difference. As an introductory offer.”
“I figure eight hundred dollars,” Reacher said. “But Fisnik would probably figure fourteen hundred. Like I told you. Rounded up to the nearest hundred plus five as a charge.”
The guy squinted down at his book.
He nodded, slowly, sagely, in complete agreement.
“But no break,” he said. “I decided against. I’ll take the full fourteen hundred.”
He closed his