Reacher #3: Something’s Cookin’

‘WHERE’S REACHER, NORMAN?’

Three simple words, scrawled on a napkin.  It wasn’t what he expected, nor what he wanted.

But it was what he needed.

Norman was frogmarched out of the coffee shop to the Mercedes by the two taciturn men.  The lady followed.  He was carefully placed in the back of the four-by-four.  One man accompanied him, the other ducked into the driver’s side.  The lady slid into the passenger side.  The other two men that had been standing guard entered another four-by-four behind.  The vehicles slowly moved off.

‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?  What’s this all got to do with my brother?’

There was no reply.

Norman knew any further questions were an exercise in futility.  This wasn’t a vehicle encouraging discussion.  Let’s see where this takes me, he thought.

After around 45 minutes, the vehicle came to a stop outside a small, secluded building just west of the main highway exit they’d taken earlier.  Norman was led out toward the building’s entrance – a large glass door outlined in chrome.  They approached a front desk in a lobby, of sorts.  The lady approached a uniformed man, presumably local PD, and whispered in his ear.  The man nodded and gestured over to the opposite side of the entrance, where a solitary, empty cell was situated.

Norman heard a loud buzz and the cell door opened.  He was ushered in and the door was closed and electronically locked behind him.  The lady and men left, silently.

‘What, no phone call?’ Norman shouted after them.  There came no reply as the glass door closed behind them as they exited the building.  The man at the desk tapped away at a keyboard, occasionally looking at some files to his right on the desk.

‘Hey, can you get HBO on those monitors?’ Norman asked the man.

Again, no reply.

Norman looked at his watch – 3:15.  All he could do now was wait.

He removed his thin summer jacket and slung it over a horizontal bar that fed through the vertical cell door bars.  Lied down on the surprisingly comfortable bed.

He was awoken by a loud buzz, the same one as earlier.

He blinked several times to regain his focus.  Looked at his watch – 7:22pm.

He saw a man approach the cell, dressed in a light grey suit and black tie.  The man beckoned Norman out of the cell, ‘Follow me, sir,’ he said.

Norman grabbed his jacket and followed the man toward the building’s exit, glancing at the guard at the desk on his way out – he was still tapping away at his keyboard.

Norman followed the man around the corner of the building, the early evening summer sun offering an impossibly beautiful concentration of light on a flawless, shiny 1970 Dodge Charger.

The man gestured to Norman to get in the car.  As he approached, he almost hesitated to touch the door handle, as flawless as it was.

‘You’re moving up in the world, Jack,’ Norman said, smiling.

Reacher said nothing.

Reacher nosed out of the small, sandy parking lot and turned right, back on to the road that’d led Norman here.

‘What are you doing here, Jake?’ Reacher asked.

Joe, Jack and Jake.  The Reacher brothers.  Except Norman never wanted that kind of allegiance; it was alien to him.  He’d idolised his brothers – their strength, accomplishments, but he wasn’t them.  Didn’t bother him, why not be proud of your siblings?  He was Norman, a separate entity but still a Reacher.  He’d not heard from Joe for several years before his murder.  Jack even more so.  Didn’t stop him thinking about both of them every day.

He was Norman Reacher.  And he was very alone.

‘I needed to see you.  How do you find the man who can’t be reached?’

Reacher glanced over, frowned.

Norman continued, ‘I knew you’d be in Chicago.  Leon Garber, your old mentor had been stationed up here, years ago.  He’d done a lot of good and had many friends.  I recalled you attending his funeral around this time.  One of the guests, a friend of Dad’s, emailed me.  Said you looked well.  Said some of his old compatriots met up around this time every year.  Didn’t know where in Chicago though.  The trick was getting to you.  It was a stab in the dark, but all I had to go on.’

Norman pointed to his bow tie.  ‘You walk around dressed like this enough and you get noticed.  More cameras around now than there used to be.  It was only a matter of time before I got recognised.  And found.  Needed to bring you out of hiding.’

Reacher slowed down as he approached a red light.

‘Well, whatever the reason, it’s cost me time and a lot of trouble,’ Reacher replied.  ‘It’s gonna have to wait.  I’m late for an appointment and it’s more important than your game of hide and seek, that’s for damn sure.’

‘Getting involved in another crazy adventure, Jack?’ Norman asked.

Reacher gestured to the back seat of the car.  There lay a light brown folder.  He trusted Norman more than most people in his life.  He wouldn’t humour him with specifics, but didn’t want to lie.  ‘I’m working with a friend in the DEA, he called in a favour.  Just like the one I called in to get you out of that cell, quickly.  He needed some undercover hired muscle at some drug buys.  I need to get back to my motel and change out of this suit.  Can’t show up looking like this.’

‘Anything I can help you with?’ Norman offered.

Reacher said nothing.

The light changed to green and Reacher squeezed down on the Dodge’s gas pedal.  It let out an exhilarating growl.  He took a corner faster than he needed to, but well within the Dodge’s capabilities.  Norman noticed the contents of the folder spill across the length of the back seat as the car screeched through the turn; in particular, a high quality surveillance photograph of a smartly dressed middle-aged man standing next to a younger man dressed in baggy clothing.

There was a name written at the base of the photograph in thick black marker pen.

‘Walter White’

Norman Reacher in Reacher #2: ‘Two’s Company’

Chicago has a population of roughly 2.7 million people.  Norman Reacher was sitting in a coffee shop, containing around one hundred.  Everywhere he looked, there were people: men, women, children, families.  He was surrounded by people, yet he’d never felt so alone.  Every time someone walked past his table, he automatically looked up and attempted to make eye contact.  A simple glance and smile – an acknowledgement – would have helped remedy his ongoing, near terminal feeling of isolation.  He needed to find his brother.

He felt close to his brother, sitting in such an establishment.  He knew how much he liked his coffee, ever since he was a teenager.  This was the closest he was going to get.  How do you find the man who can’t be reached?

The door to the coffee shop opened.  A ray of blinding sun eclipsed the shop’s entrance as a figure emerged.  A smartly dressed lady in her early thirties, dark brunette bobbed hair, slim figure, a dark skirt and blazer covering a crisp, clean, open-necked white blouse.  Norman watched as she reached up to remove her sunglasses.  She scanned the room for a place to sit.  All the tables were taken.  She glanced over in his direction and only then he noticed her eyes.  Big, piercing blue eyes; the kind that could disarm anyone.  Like him.

She shifted her gaze to Norman and proceeded to stride over, confidently.

‘Excuse me, is this seat…’

‘No, please, sit down,’ Norman said, cutting her off before she had time to finish her question.

‘Oh, thank you.  I guess I timed my visit wrong, huh?’  she smiled.

‘Lunchtime rush,’ Norman replied.

The lady took a seat on the cheap but comfortable wooden chair with brown leather cushions.  She removed an expensive looking red handbag from her shoulder and placed it on the floor next to her feet.  Norman couldn’t take his eyes of her the whole time.  It was the most familiar of sights – someone making themselves comfortable on a chair – but the way she moved, looked, smelt, had him absolutely engaged.  Engagement was something he’d not experienced with someone for weeks, months, maybe longer.

The lady looked up and caught the attention of the waitress.  She ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee.  The waitress offered to refill Norman’s mug of coffee.  He had to snap out of his trance in order to accept.

The waitress hurried off amidst the ambient customer chatter and the clinking of dishes and cutlery from the shop kitchen.

‘Lunch hour?’ Norman asked.

‘Yeah, I like to get away from the office and get some fresh air.  I also like to people watch, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine, noseying at people as they walk past,’ she remarked, thoughtfully.

‘I’m just as guilty of that,’ Norman smiled.  ‘You do it long enough, you begin to see things other than people walking, sitting or eating.’

‘Really?’ she asked, genuinely interested in his claim.

‘Sure,’ he replied.

Norman nodded over to the counter area in front of the kitchen.

‘See that kid with the piece of paper, tapping his foot on the floor, biting his nail?’ he asked her.

‘Yeah,’ she replied.

‘I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he’s got a job interview in the next hour.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked.

‘Nobody adjusts their tie every thirty seconds if they’re stopping by for a quick coffee… unless they have a crush on one of the waitresses,’ he said.

The lady laughed, an irresistible giggle that merely increased his resolve to maintain the conversation, and more so, her attention.

‘Old guy, two o’clock,’ he said.

The lady looked over to a man in his early eighties, sitting alone at a table in the corner of the shop.  He nursed a cup of steaming coffee whilst reading a newspaper.  Opposite him was another cup and an orange hat that was perched on the corner of the chair facing him.

‘Go on,’ she offered.

Norman sighed, thoughtfully.  ‘I’d say he lost his wife recently.  They came here a lot.  She bought him that hat and he didn’t like it, but she found it funny.  It made her very happy to see him jokingly wear it about town.  Just for her.  He keeps that memory going, makes him remember how happy he made her.  And how happy she made him.  How he loved the way she didn’t take life too seriously.’

‘That’s so lovely,’ she said.

Norman nodded.  ‘See the steam only coming from his cup?  I’ll bet he has a few coffees and just orders one for her.  Like he always did.  It just sits there, every time he comes here.’

The waitress arrived with the sandwich: two brown baguettes covering turkey, lettuce and mayonnaise.  Looked appetising.  The lady thanked the waitress and she hurried off again.

They sat in silence and watched as the man sipped the coffee, read the newspaper, and occasionally glanced up at the hat and the coffee, misty-eyed, with a knowing, poignant smile.  He touched a thick gold wedding ring each time he glanced.  It was clear to see that he’d loved his wife and refused to let her go so quickly.  Not yet, Norman guessed the man was thinking.  Not yet.

The lady slowly shifted her attention back to Norman.  Took a deep breath and sighed.

‘You ever lose anyone?’ she asked.

On any other day, Norman would not volunteer such information.  This was not any other day.  It was the first time he’d been engaged, and, in turn, engaged another person, in as long as he could remember.

‘Yeah, a brother.  Lost him a few years back,’ he replied.

The lady pursed her lips.  ‘I’m sorry.’

Norman smiled.  Not in his eyes, just his mouth.  That kind of ‘thank you’, acknowledging smile.  Not a real one.

‘You?’ he asked.

The lady glanced down at her sandwich, picked at some lettuce.

‘I’ve been here a few times, but never seen you.  What’s with the bow tie?’ she smiled.

Norman acknowledged the subject change, but chose not to continue his line of enquiry.

‘Hey, it’s different, right?’ he smiled.

The lady chuckled.

There was nothing quite like making a lady laugh, Norman thought.  Especially one to which he was irrevocably attracted.

The lady began to eat her sandwich whilst Norman sipped his coffee.  They both sat in a comfortable silence and looked outside at the crowds as they walked past the window, occasionally blocking out the sun rays beaming on to their table.

Chicago was a vast place, infinite stretches of road snaking around huge skyscrapers.  You’re out there, somewhere, he thought.

The lady finished her sandwich and carefully dabbed each side of her mouth with a napkin.

‘Well, I’m going to have to get back to the grindstone,’ she said.  ‘It’s been really nice speaking to you.’

Norman felt his heart sink as she smiled, thoughtfully, and searched his face with her eyes, awaiting his response.

‘You too,’ he said, barely hiding his disappointment at her impending exit.

She looked at the napkin holder and reached over, smoothly removing one and placing it down in front of her.  She leaned down to her handbag and removed an expensive looking gold-plated ball point pen.  She began to write.

Norman felt a surge of adrenaline as she began to scrawl on the white napkin.  His heart-rate increased.  She clicked the pen, turned the napkin around and slid it across the table.  She was no longer smiling.  Now, she was looking at him, dead-eyed.  This was no longer the lady that had walked in earlier, this was a chameleon.

Norman slowly read the smudged blue lettering.  He felt a huge icy wave of anxiety wash over him.  He froze.

He looked across the table as the lady carefully gripped the left lapel of her blazer and pulled it open, marginally, revealing a gun holster.  Whatever gun she was carrying, Norman thought, it sure as hell wasn’t standard government issue.  He was no expert, but that much he did know.

Outside, almost simultaneously, an impeccable black Mercedes four-by-four screeched to a halt on the sidewalk adjacent to their table.  He saw four heavy-set men, all dressed in black, methodically pace out of the vehicle in unison.  Two bounded over and stood either side of the shop’s entrance, the other two unhurriedly entered the shop and paced over to Norman’s table, each one glaring directly at him.  Nobody else.  Him.

Norman could talk his way out of most situations.

Not today…

Introducing the hitherto unknown younger brother, Norman Reacher, in his first story – Don’t Judge A Book.

‘A nerd walks into a bar…’  No, this wasn’t the start of a joke, though there would be a punchline, and it’d be pretty damn good.

Norman had been at the bar for a couple of hours now.  He wasn’t one for alcohol, never had the taste for it.  It lost him an edge, an edge he would demonstrate tonight, and shortly.

‘Hey, nice bow tie,’ said the blond girl to his right, reaching over and smoothing her thumb and forefinger across it.  Norman was taken aback, her silent approach temporarily disarming his composure.  The hybrid of vodka and perfume was improbably alluring.  ‘That 212?’ Norman asked.  ‘Oh, and what a sharp little nose you have,’ she said, smiling.  She glanced to her left, her smile dropped, she made her excuses and walked off, slightly unbalanced in her stride.

Norman felt three pairs of eyes on him, burning a hole through his tweed jacket.  He was leaving after this final sip of club soda and he wouldn’t be alone.  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar note, placed it on the bar and slid off the polished silver stool.

In any other walk of life, a 148lb, 5″ 9 man, dressed like the judge of a spelling bee, inadvertently antagonising three stocky knuckleheads wasn’t going to have a pleasant solitary walk home.  But there was one thing he shared with his brothers – it sure as hell wasn’t an aptitude for military abilities – but was something equally as effective for the forthcoming scenario – simple, acute observation.  It had served him well in the past and it would serve him well tonight.

Norman buttoned up his jacket and made his way through the narrow central walkway toward the bar’s exit.  Over the soft rock music in the background he heard several seats shuffle and squeak behind him.  This was no surprise.  He made it to the exit, entering an adequate parking lot and slowed his pace in anticipation.

‘Hey, nerd!’ came the raucous growl behind him.  Norman stopped and turned, slowly.  Pointed to his chest, quizzically.  ‘Yeah, fuckin’ you,’ the man said.  Norman gently paced over to the three men as two women, one the blond girl from earlier, emerged, made their way to the side of the bar entrance and leaned against the bonnet of a dusty grey pickup truck.  Both sparked up cigarettes and vaguely watched as the drama unfolded.

‘What you think you’re playin’ at, flirting with my girl, nerd?’

The two other men, mid to late twenties, stood behind, eyes fixed on Norman.

‘I was just having a conversation with her, about her perfume.  It’s called 212.  It’d really suit you, too.  I love what you’ve done with that t-shirt, by the way.  Kind of half tucked in, but not.’

‘Oh, a wise guy huh?  You wanna piece of me?’

‘You’re not my type,’ Norman replied.  The two girls cracked up, howling with laughter.  The blond girl dropped her cigarette and doubled over.

‘What makes you think you’re gonna walk away from here without all three of us kicking your ass?’ He growled.

‘I can give you four reasons, Rambo,’ Norman said.

The man raised his arms.  ‘I’m listening, faggot.’

Norman smiled.  ‘Reason one: your boy to your left there?  Earlier, he spent an eternity looking at the beer signs at the bar with his nose practically pressed against each one.  Either he’s wasted, or his eyesight is shot to shit; and given the fact I don’t feel any rain, he must have a grey cloud above his crotch, because he’s got more leaks than a torpedoed submarine.  My guess is he couldn’t piss on to the side of a warehouse right now.  If I stood back two more metres, he wouldn’t know which one of me to hit.’

The drunken man stumbled back, glanced at his crotch then back at the men.

‘Reason two: your boy to the right has been twitching like a heroin addict on payday.  He’s never had a fight in his life.  A little drunken confidence when he’s standing behind you, for sure, but get him in a sticky situation, and he’s out like a rocket.  Which brings me to reason three,’ Norman turned to the girls.  ‘And you’re gonna love this one, folks.  When you were at the bar before and reached over to pick up that pitcher of beer, you looked like a four-year-old lifting a giant watering can.  Given your build and t-shirt, I guess the football career didn’t work out after the injury?’

The man looked back, stifled.  As always, Norman had made him.

‘So I’m willing to bet that if you swing for me – with the same hand, as you are right-handed – it’ll be as slow and clunky as your way with words.  I’d just need to step to the side, put a little pressure on that shoulder with my elbow and you’d be in more pain than you can imagine. Oh, and here’s reason four – I don’t think your father would care much for trouble in his bar when it’s this dead on a Friday night.  I guess he needs the business.’

The man scowled, anxiously. ‘How the fu-‘

‘How did I know it was your father’s bar?’  Norman gestured to the worn brass plaque above the bar’s entrance. ‘There can’t be that many Zeterhoffers in a dive bar in Chicago, and you should really conceal your work ID pass when you’re off duty.’

The man looked at his pass and back at Norman.

‘You got a real smart mouth, don’t you?  You ain’t worth the bother.  Don’t let me catch you around here again, Sherlock.’

The men walked back into the bar, stumbling as they went.  One of the girls followed, chuckling to herself.  The blond girl walked over to Norman and raised her head a little. ‘Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy settle a fight with his mouth before.  Good going.’

Norman said nothing.

‘What brings you to Chicago?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ said Norman.

‘Well, I hope to see you around.  For a guy who looks like an antique dealer, you’re quite impressive.’

Norman smiled, leaned in to her.

‘Think I’m impressive?’ He asked.

‘You don’t know Jack…’

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED.