Blue Moon - Lee Child Page 0,68

together, after parking way out in the wastelands. A small, slender woman with short dark hair, and a big ugly man with short fair hair. Be on the lookout.

“Technically I think it means plain-featured,” Abby said. “Or handsome in a rugged kind of way. Not ugly as such.”

Reacher said, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

“These might,” Vantresca said. He was at the end of the video. The last Albanian text. He said, “They’re actively looking for you. They’re giving an estimate of your current position. They’re guessing you’re somewhere inside a particular twelve-block rectangle.”

“And are we?”

“Not far from its exact geographic center.”

“That’s not good,” Reacher said. “They seem to have plenty of information.”

“They have a lot of local knowledge. They have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, and a lot of eyes behind a lot of windows, and a lot of cars on a lot of streets.”

“Sounds like you’ve been studying up on them.”

“Like I said, I hear things. Everyone has a story. Because everyone comes up against them, sooner or later. Whatever you’re into, it’s the cost of doing business, east of Center Street. People get used to it. Ultimately they see it as reasonable. Ten percent, like the church used to take, back in the olden days. Like taxes. Nothing to be done about it. That part becomes quite civilized. As long as you pay. Which everyone does, by the way. These are scary people.”

“Sounds like personal experience.”

“A couple of months ago I helped a journalist from Washington, D.C., with her local arrangements. I have a private security license. My number is listed in all the national directories. I don’t know what her story was going to be about. She wouldn’t tell me. Organized crime, I supposed, because that was what she seemed to be interested in. The Albanians and the Ukrainians both. More the Ukrainians, to be honest. That was my impression. But somehow she said the wrong thing east of Center and her first encounter was with the Albanians. They had a face to face discussion. A handful of them, and just her, on her own, in the back room of a restaurant. She came out and had me drive her straight to the airport. Not even her hotel first. She didn’t want to stop and get her stuff. She was terrified. Deep down scared. She was acting like an automaton. She took the first flight out and never came back. If they could make that happen just by talking to her, you better believe they can make a whole bunch of people keep their eyes peeled for a pair of strangers. Sheer intimidation. That’s how they get their information.”

“That’s not good either,” Reacher said. “I don’t want to bring bad luck to this household.”

Neither Barton nor Hogan had a comment, one way or the other.

“We can’t use hotels,” Abby said.

“Maybe we can,” Reacher said. “Maybe we should. It might be a way of accelerating the process.”

“You’re not ready,” Hogan said.

Barton said, “Stay the night. You’re already here. The neighbors don’t have X-ray vision. We have a lunchtime gig tomorrow. If you need to get going, you can ride along in the van. No one will see.”

“Where is the gig?”

“At a lounge west of Center. Closer to Trulenko than you are now.”

“Does the lounge have a guy on the door?”

“Always. Probably best to get out around the corner.”

“Or not, if we wanted to accelerate the process.”

“We have to work there, man. It’s a good gig for us. Do us a favor and accelerate the process someplace else. If you need to. Which I hope you don’t. Because it’s crazy.”

“Deal,” Reacher said. “We’ll ride with you tomorrow. Thank you very much. And for your hospitality tonight.”

Vantresca left ten minutes later. Barton locked the doors. Hogan put headphones on and lit a blunt the size of Reacher’s thumb. Reacher and Abby went upstairs, to the room with the tipped-up guitar amplifier for a nightstand. Three blocks away a brand new text message failed to reach the Albanian phone in the abandoned metal mailbox. A minute later the same thing happened with the Ukrainian phone.

Chapter 29

Dino’s right-hand man had the given name Shkumbin, which was a beautiful river deep in the heart of his beautiful homeland. But it was not an easy name to use in English. At first most people said it Scum Bin, some of them tauntingly, but those only once. When they could speak