‘No refunds.’
‘Not looking for one.’
‘You got a bag in the hold?’
‘No bag.’
‘Have a nice day.’
The guy pulled a lever and the door sucked shut in Reacher’s face. The engine roared and the bus moved off without him. He turned away from the diesel smoke and walked back towards the pawn shop.
TWO
THE GUY IN the pawn shop was a little disgruntled to have to get the ring tray out again so soon after he had put it away. But he did, and he placed it in the same spot on the counter. The West Point ring had rolled over again. Reacher picked it up.
He said, ‘Do you remember the woman who pawned this?’
‘How would I?’ the guy said. ‘I got a million things in here.’
‘You got records?’
‘You a cop?’
‘No,’ Reacher said.
‘Everything in here is legal.’
‘I don’t care. All I want is the name of the woman who brought you this ring.’
‘Why?’
‘We went to the same school.’
‘Where is that? Upstate?’
‘East of here,’ Reacher said.
‘You can’t be a classmate. Not from 2005. No offence.’
‘None taken. I was from an earlier generation. But the place doesn’t change much. Which means I know how hard she worked for this ring. So now I’m wondering what kind of unlucky circumstance made her give it up.’
The guy said, ‘What kind of a school was it?’
‘They teach you practical things.’
‘Like a trade school?’
‘More or less.’
‘Maybe she died in an accident.’
‘Maybe she did,’ Reacher said. Or not in an accident, he thought. There had been Iraq, and there had been Afghanistan. 2005 had been a tough year to graduate. He said, ‘But I would like to know for sure.’
‘Why?’ the guy said again.
‘I can’t tell you exactly.’
‘Is it an honour thing?’
‘I guess it could be.’
‘Trade schools have that?’
‘Some of them.’
‘There was no woman. I bought that ring. With a lot of other stuff.’
‘When?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘From who?’
‘I’m not going to tell you my business. Why should I? It’s all legal. It’s all perfectly legitimate. The state says so. I have a licence and I pass all kinds of inspections.’
‘Then why be shy about it?’
‘It’s private information.’
Reacher said, ‘Suppose I buy the ring?’
‘It’s fifty bucks.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Forty.’
‘Deal,’ Reacher said. ‘So now I’m entitled to know its provenance.’
‘This ain’t Sotheby’s auction house.’
‘Even so.’
The guy paused a beat.
Then he said, ‘It was from a guy who helps out with a charity. People donate things and take the deduction. Mostly old cars and boats. But other things too. The guy gives them an inflated receipt for their tax returns, and then he sells the things he gets wherever he can, for whatever he can, and then he cuts a cheque to the charity. I buy the small stuff from him. I get what I get, and I hope to turn a profit.’
‘So you think someone donated this ring to a charity and took a deduction on their income taxes?’
‘Makes sense, if the original person died. From 2005. Part of the estate.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Reacher said. ‘I think a relative would have kept it.’
‘Depends if the relative was eating well.’
‘You got tough times here?’
‘I’m OK. But I own the pawn shop.’
‘Yet people still donate to good causes.’
‘In exchange for phony receipts. In the end the government eats the tax relief. Welfare by another name.’
Reacher said, ‘Who is the charity guy?’
‘I won’t tell you that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s none of your business. I mean, who the hell are you?’
‘Just a guy already having a pretty bad day. Not your fault, of course, but if asked to offer advice I would have to say it might prove a dumb idea to make my day worse. You might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.’
‘You threatening me now?’
‘More like the weather report. A public service. Like a tornado warning. Prepare to take cover.’
‘Get out of my store.’
‘Fortunately I no longer have a headache. I got hit in the head, but that’s all better now. A doctor said so. A friend made me go. Two times. She was worried about me.’
The pawn shop guy paused another beat.
Then he said, ‘Exactly what kind of a school was that ring from?’
Reacher said, ‘It was a military academy.’
‘Those are for, excuse me, problem kids. Or disturbed. No offence.’
‘Don’t blame the kids,’ Reacher said. ‘Look at the families. Tell the truth, at our school there were a lot of parents who had killed people.’
‘Really?’
‘More than the average.’
‘So you stick together for ever?’
‘We don’t leave anyone behind.’
‘The guy won’t talk to a stranger.’
‘Does he have a licence and does he pass inspections by the state?’
‘What I’m doing here is legal. My lawyer says so. As long as I honestly believe it. And I do. It’s from a charity. I’ve seen the paperwork. All kinds of people do it. They even have commercials on TV. Cars, mostly. Sometimes boats.’
‘But this particular guy won’t talk to me?’
‘I would be surprised.’
‘Does he have no manners?’
‘I wouldn’t ask him over to a picnic.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jimmy Rat.’
‘For real?’
‘That’s what he goes by.’
‘Where would I find Mr Rat?’
‘Look for a minimum six Harley-Davidsons. Jimmy will be in whatever bar they’re outside of.’
THREE
THE TOWN WAS relatively small. Beyond the sad side was a side maybe five years from going sad. Maybe more. Maybe ten. There was hope. There were some boarded-up enterprises, but not many. Most stores were still doing business, at a leisurely rural pace. Big pick-up trucks rolled through, slowly. There was a billiard hall. Not many street lights. It was getting dark. Something about the architecture made it clear it was dairy country. The shape of the stores looked like old-fashioned milking barns. The same DNA was in there somewhere.