Blue Moon

“I’m worried about malnutrition,” he said.

She smiled and left and the band kicked into a mournful rendition of Howlin’ Wolf’s old song “Killing Floor.” The guitar took the vocal line, with a tumble of pearl-like notes explaining how he should have quit her, since his second time, and went on to Mexico. At the door people kept on coming in, always two or more together, never alone. They all paused a second, like Reacher had before, obediently, for the doorman’s scrutiny. He looked at them one by one, up and down and in the eye, and he moved them inside with a millimetric jerk of his head, toward the fun beyond his shoulder. They walked past him, and he crossed his arms and slumped back on his stool.

Two songs later the waitress brought his food. She set it all out. He said thank you. She said he was welcome. He said, “Does the guy at the door ever stop anyone coming in?”

“Depends who they are,” she said.

“Who does he stop?”

“Cops. Although we haven’t seen cops in here for years.”

“Why cops?”

“Never a good idea. Whatever happens, if the wind changes, suddenly it’s bribery or corruption or entrapment or some other big thing. That’s why cops have their own bars.”

“Therefore he hasn’t stopped anyone coming in for years. Now I’m wondering what he’s for, exactly.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m curious,” Reacher said.

“Are you a cop?”

“Next you’re going to tell me I look like your dad.”

She smiled.

“He’s much smaller,” she said.

She turned away with a last look, which was not a wink, but it was close. Then she was gone. The band played on. The guy at the door was counting, Reacher figured. He was a cuckoo in the nest. Most likely the protection money was on a percentage basis. The guy counted the crowd so the owners couldn’t fudge the numbers. Plus maybe he offered a nominal security presence. To sweeten the deal. So everyone felt better.

The waitress came back before Reacher was finished. She had his check in a black vinyl wallet. She was about to go off duty. He rounded it up and added ten for a tip and paid in cash. She left. He finished his meal but stayed at his table a moment, watching the guy at the door. Then he got up and walked toward him. No other way to leave the restaurant. In the door, out the door.

He stopped level with the stool.

He said, “I have an urgent message for Maxim Trulenko. I need you to figure out a way to get it to him. I’ll be here tomorrow, same time.”

Then he moved onward, out the door, to the street. Twenty feet away on his right the waitress came out the staff-only door. At the exact same moment. Which he hadn’t expected.

She stopped on the sidewalk.

Petite, gamine, going off duty.

She said, “Hi.”

He said, “Thanks again for looking after me, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He was counting time in his head.

She said, “You too, and thank you for the very nice tip.”

She stayed about seven feet away, a little tense, a little up on her toes. All kinds of body language going on.

He said, “I try to think what kind of tip I would like, if I was a waitress.”

“That’s an image I’ll never unsee.”

He was counting time in his head because one of two things was about to happen. Either nothing or something. Maybe nothing, because maybe Maxim Trulenko’s name meant nothing to them. Or maybe something, because maybe Trulenko’s name was top of the list of their VIP clients.

Time would tell.

The waitress asked, “So what are you, if you’re not a cop?”

“I’m between jobs right now.”

If Trulenko’s name was on a list, the likely protocol would be for the guy at the door to call it in or text it in, immediately, and then, either because of an instruction in an immediate response, or because it was part of the protocol anyway, he would come out to detain and delay, any way he could, at least long enough to snap a picture with his phone, hopefully long enough for a roving surveillance team to show up. Or a roving snatch squad. No doubt they had plenty of vehicles. And not a huge patch to patrol. Half of a pear-shaped city.

“I’m sorry about your situation,” the waitress said. “I hope you find something soon.”

“Thank you,” Reacher said.

It would take the guy inside maybe forty seconds to make the call, or to text back and forth, and then get set, and take a breath, and step out the door behind them. In which case he was due right about then.

If it was something.

Maybe it was nothing.

The waitress asked, “What kind of work do you like to do?”

The guy stepped out the door behind them.

Reacher moved to the curb and turned around, to make a shallow triangle, with the waitress now on his left, and the guy on his right, and empty space at his back.

The guy looked at Reacher, but spoke to the waitress.

He said, “Run along now, kid.”

Reacher glanced at her.