The Enemy (7 page)

They found me first. I guess they wanted me out of sight before I emptied the place completely. Before I reduced their customer base to zero. Two of them came straight at me. One was a platinum blonde. The other was a brunette. Both were wearing tiny tight sheath dresses that sparkled with all kinds of synthetic fibres. The blonde got in front of the brunette and headed her off. Came clattering straight towards me, awkward in absurd clear plastic heels. The brunette wheeled away and headed for the Special Forces sergeant I had spoken to. He waved her off with what looked like an expression of genuine distaste. The blonde kept on track and came right up next to me and leaned on my arm. Stretched up tall until I could feel her breath in my ear.

"Happy New Year," she said.

"You too," I said.

"I haven't seen you in here before," she said, like I was the only thing missing from her life. Her accent wasn't local. She wasn't from the Carolinas. She wasn't from California, either. Georgia or Alabama, probably.

"You new in town?" she asked, loud, because of the music.

I smiled. I had been in more whorehouses than I cared to count. All MPs have. Every single one is the same, and every single one is different. They all have different protocols. But the are you new in town question was a standard opening gambit. It invited me to start the negotiations. It insulated her from a solicitation charge.

"What's the deal here?" I asked her.

She smiled shyly, like she had never been asked such a thing before. Then she told me I could watch her on stage in exchange for dollar tips, or I could spend ten to get a private show in a back room. She explained the private show could involve touching, and to make sure I was paying attention she ran her hand up the inside of my thigh.

I could see how a guy could be tempted. She was cute. She looked to be about twenty. Except for her eyes. Her eyes looked like a fifty-year-old's.

"What about something more?" I said. "Someplace else we could go?"

"We can talk about that during the private show."

She took me by the hand and led me past their dressing-room door and through a velvet curtain into a dim room behind the stage. It wasn't small. It was maybe thirty feet by twenty. It had an upholstered bench running around the whole perimeter. It wasn't especially private, either. There were about six guys in there, each of them with a naked woman on his lap. The blonde girl led me to a space on the bench and sat me down. She waited until I came out with my wallet and paid her ten bucks. Then she draped herself over me and snuggled in tight. The way she sat made it impossible for me not to put my hand on her thigh. Her skin was warm and smooth.

"So where can we go?" I asked.

"You're in a hurry," she said. She moved around and eased the hem of her dress up over her hips. She wasn't wearing anything under it.

"Where are you from?" I asked her.

"Atlanta," she said.

"What's your name?"

"Sin," she said. "Spelled S, i, n."

I was fairly certain that was a professional alias.

"What's yours?" she said.

"Reacher," I said. There was no point adopting an alias of my own. I was fresh from the widow visit, still in Class As, with my name plate big and obvious on my right jacket pocket.

"That's a nice name," she said, automatically. I was fairly certain she said it to everybody. Quasimodo, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, that's a nice name. She moved her hand. Started with the top button of my jacket and undid it all the way down. Smoothed her fingers inside across my chest, under my tie, on top of my shirt.

"There's a motel across the street," I said. She nodded against my shoulder. "I know there is," she said.

"I'm looking for whoever went over there last night with a soldier.

"Are you kidding?"

She pushed against my chest. "Are you here to have fun, or ask questions?"

"Questions," I said.

She stopped moving. Said nothing.

"I'm looking for whoever went over to the motel last night, with a soldier."

"Get real," she said. "We all go over to the motel with soldiers. There's practically a groove worn in the pavement. Look carefully, and you can see it."

"I'm looking for someone who came back a little sooner than normal, maybe."

She said nothing.

"Maybe she was a little spooked."

She said nothing.

"Maybe she met the guy there," I said. "Maybe she got a call earlier in the day."

She eased her butt up off my knee and pulled her dress down as far as it would go, which wasn't very far. Then she traced her fingertips across my lapel badge.

"We don't answer questions," she said.

"Why not?"

I saw her glance at the velvet curtain. Like she was looking through it and all the way across the big square room to the register by the door.

"Him?" I said. "I'll make sure he isn't a problem."

"He doesn't like us to talk to cops."

"It's important," I said. "The guy was an important soldier."

"You all think you're important."

"Many of the girls here from California?"

"Five or six, maybe."

"Any of them used to work Fort Irwin?"

"I don't know."

"So here's the deal," I said. "I'm going to the bar. I'm going to get another beer. I'm going to spend ten minutes drinking it. You bring me the girl who had the problem last night. Or you show me where I can find her. Tell her there's no real problem. Tell her nobody will get in trouble. I think you'll find she understands that."

"Or?"

"Or I'll roust everybody out of here and I'll burn the place to the ground. Then you can all find jobs somewhere else."

She glanced at the velvet curtain again.

"Don't worry about the fat guy," I said. "Any pissing and moaning out of him, I'll bust his nose again."

She just sat still. Didn't move at all.

"It's important," I said again. "We fix this now, nobody gets in trouble. We don't, then someone winds up with a big problem."

"I don't know," she said.

"Spread the word," I said. "Ten minutes."

I bumped her off my lap and watched her disappear through the curtain. Followed her a minute later and fought my way to the bar. I left my jacket hanging open. I thought it made me look off-duty. I didn't want to ruin everybody's evening. I spent twelve minutes drinking another overpriced domestic beer. I watched the waitresses and the hookers work the room. I saw the big guy with the face moving through the press of people, looking here, looking there, checking on things. I waited. My new blonde friend didn't show. And I couldn't see her anywhere. The place was very crowded. And it was dark. The music was thumping away. There were strobes and black lights and the whole scene was confusion. The ventilation fans were roaring but the air was hot and foul. I was tired and I was getting a headache.

I slid off my stool and tried a circuit of the whole place. Couldn't find the blonde anywhere. I went around again. Didn't find her. The Special Forces sergeant I had spoken to before stopped me halfway through my third circuit.

"Looking for your girlfriend?" he said.

I nodded. He pointed at the dressing-room door.

"I think you just caused her some trouble," he said.

"What kind of trouble?"

He said nothing. Just held up his left palm and smacked his right fist into it.

"And you didn't do anything?" I said.

He shrugged.

"You're the cop," he said. "Not me."

The dressing-room door was a plain plywood rectangle painted black. I didn't knock. I figured the women who used the room weren't shy. I just pulled it open and stepped inside. There were regular light bulbs burning in there, and piles of clothes and the stink of perfume. There were vanity tables with theatre mirrors. There was an old sofa, red velvet. Sin was sitting on it, crying. She had a vivid red outline of a hand on her left cheek. Her right eye was swollen shut. I figured it for a double slap, first forehand, then backhand. Two heavy blows. She was pretty shaken. Her left shoe was off. I could see needle marks between her toes. Addicts in the skin trades often inject there. It rarely shows. Models, hookers, actresses.

I didn't ask if she was OK. That would have been a stupid question. She was going to live, but she wasn't going to work for a week. Not until the eye went black and then turned yellow enough to hide with make-up. I just stood there until she saw me, through the eye that was still open. "Get out," she said. She looked away. "Bastard," she said.

"You find the girl yet?" I said.

She looked straight at me.

"There was no girl," she said. "I asked all around. I asked everybody. And that's what I heard back. Nobody had a problem last night. Nobody at all."

I paused a beat. "Anyone not here who should be?"

"We're all here," she said. "We've all got Christmas to pay for."

I didn't speak.

"You got me slapped for nothing," she said.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry for your trouble."

"Get out," she said again, not looking at me. "OK," I said. "Bastard," she said.

I left her sitting there and forced my way back through the crowd around the stage. Through the crowd around the bar. Through the bottleneck entrance, to the doorway. The guy with the face was right there in the shadows again, behind the register. I guessed where his head was in the darkness and swung my open right hand and slapped him on the ear, hard enough to rock him sideways.

"You," I said. "Outside."

I didn't wait for him. Just pushed my way out into the night. There was a bunched-up crowd of people in the lot. All military. The ones who had trickled out when I came in. They were standing around in the cold, leaning on cars, drinking beer from the long-neck bottles they had carried out with them. They weren't going to be a problem. They would have to be very drunk indeed to mix it up with an MP. But they weren't going to be any help, either. I wasn't one of them. I was on my own.

The door burst open behind me. The big guy came out. He had a couple of locals with him. They looked like farmers. We all stepped into a pool of yellow light from a fixture on a pole. We all stood in a rough circle. We all faced each other. Our breath turned to vapour in the air. Nobody spoke. No preamble was required. I guessed that parking lot had seen plenty of fights. I guessed this one would be no different from all the others. It would finish up just the same, with a winner and a loser.

I slipped out of my jacket and hung it on the nearest car's door mirror. It was a ten-year-old Plymouth, good paint, good chrome. An enthusiast's ride. I saw the Special Forces sergeant I had spoken to come out into the lot. He looked at me for a second and then stepped away into the shadows and stood with his men by the cars. I took my watch off and turned away and dropped it in my jacket pocket. Then I turned back. Studied my opponent. I wanted to mess him up bad. I wanted Sin to know I had stood up for her. But there was no percentage in going for his face. That was already messed up bad. I couldn't make it much worse. And I wanted to put him out of action for a spell. I didn't want him coming around and taking his frustration out on the girls, just because he couldn't get back at me.

He was barrel-chested and overweight, so I figured I might not have to use my hands at all. Except on the farmers, maybe, if they piled in. Which I hoped wouldn't happen. No need to start a big conflict. On the other hand, it was their call.

Everybody has a choice in life. They could hang back, or they could choose up sides.

I was maybe seven inches taller than the guy with the face, but maybe seventy pounds lighter. And ten years younger. I watched him run the numbers. Watched him conclude that on balance he would be OK. I guessed he figured himself for a real junkyard dog. Figured me for an upstanding representative of Uncle Sam. Maybe the Class As made him think I was going to act like an officer and a gentleman. Somewhat proper, somewhat inhibited.

His mistake.

He came at me, swinging. Big chest, short arms, not much reach at all. I arched around the punch and let him skitter away. He came back at me. I swatted his hand away and tapped him in the face with my elbow. Not hard. I just wanted to stop his momentum and get him standing still right in front of me, just for a moment.