Make Me

Then they saw the building did not fill the whole block. Side to side, maybe, but not front to back. It stopped short, and the rear part of the block was a delivery yard. Which made sense. A club that size would need all kinds of consumables. Like an ocean liner. And it would generate all kinds of trash and recycling. Which would need regular pick up. The yard was fenced, with some kind of superior hurricane wire, interwoven with pink screens, so it wasn’t see-through. The fence was topped with floppy rolls of razor wire, to keep climbers out. But two ten-foot lengths were hinged to fold inward, which made sense because of the truck traffic in and out, food and drink and garbage.

One of those gates was open.

“Stop,” Reacher said.

Chang did, and then backed up discreetly, for a better view.

She said, “I don’t believe it.”

Inside the gate was a line of head-high trash containers, and then next came an area outside the kitchen door, with fake green grass laid on the concrete, and a token picket fence, and a white metal garden bench, and a big canvas sun umbrella. For chefs and waiters to smoke in comfort.

Sitting on the bench was a fat man.

He was smoking a thick cigar and talking to a Hispanic guy, who was wearing a wife-beater and a do-rag, and standing rigidly to attention, his gaze fixed on a spot in the air just above the fat man’s head.

But fat was too small a word, and plainly inadequate for the occasion. The man on the bench was not plump or big-boned or overweight or even obese. He was a mountain. He was huge. Over six feet, and that was side to side. He dwarfed the bench. He was wearing an ankle-length caftan, gray in color, and his knees were forced wide by his belly, and he was leaning back, perched with his ass on the very front part of the seat, because in the other direction his belly wouldn’t let him fold up ninety degrees to a normal sitting position. There were no recognizable contours to his body. He was an undifferentiated triangle of flesh, with breasts the size of soft basketballs, and other unexplained lumps and bulges the size of king-size pillows. His arms were resting along the back of the bench, and huge dewlaps of fat hung down either side of dimpled elbows.

All in all he was colossal, which was the word Chang’s contact had used. His head was tiny in comparison with his body. His face was pink and shiny from the sun, and his eyes were small and deep set, partly because he was squinting against the light, and partly because his face was swollen tight, as if someone had stuck a bicycle pump in his ear and given it ten long strokes. His haircut was the same scalped style as the three guys at McCann’s sister’s house.

Chang said, “He could be a brother or a cousin. Maybe it’s a fat family.”

“He looks like the boss,” Reacher said. “Look how he’s talking to that guy. He’s giving him a real hard time.”

And he was. No histrionics. No shouting. Just a steady stream of words, unending, conversational, and therefore probably all the more cruel and effective. The guy in the do-rag wasn’t enjoying himself. That was for damn sure. He was holding himself rigid, staring at the air, riding it out.

Chang said, “We have to be sure. Maybe Merchenko delegates. Maybe there are underbosses. Maybe this is a brother or a cousin taking care of staff relations for him.”

Reacher said, “Did your contact mention family members?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Can you check?”

Chang dialed her phone. Reacher watched the fat man. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. He was still talking. Chang asked her question and listened to the answer. She hung up the phone.

She said, “We don’t know of any family members.”

“He looks like the boss,” Reacher said again. “Except there’s no security. No guys with sunglasses and wires in their ears. There would be one at the gate, surely. Bare minimum. This guy is supposed to be a crime boss. He’s in full view of the street. We’re just sitting here. No one has tried to chase us away.”

“Confidence, maybe,” Chang said. “Or overconfidence. He thinks we’re dead by now. Maybe he’s got nothing else to worry about. He could be the apex predator here. Unchallenged.”

“If he’s the guy.”

“We shouldn’t assume.”

“I wish we could. I could hit him from here.”

“Really?”

“Figure of speech. Not with a handgun. To be certain I’d want to be closer.”

“Inside the yard?”

“Ideally.”

“Maybe there are guards behind the gate.”

“Could be. But it’s an image thing with these guys. They like to be seen behind a human wall. Or not seen.”

“So maybe he’s not the guy.”

“He sure looks like the guy. He looks like a fat man, and it looks like he’s making rules.”

“We have to be certain.”

“We’ll never be certain. Unless I ask for ID. Which he might not have. I don’t see a pocket in his dress.”

“It’s a caftan. Or a muumuu.”

“What’s a muumuu?”

“What he’s wearing.”

“We need to know. This could be solid gold. He’s right there.”

“Which is the problem. It’s too good to be true.”