"Did you play?"
Did you, not do you. She made him feel old.
"You're certainly big enough," she said.
"I tried out for Army," he said. "When I was at West Point."
"Did you make the team?"
"Only once."
"Were you injured?"
"I was too violent."
She half-smiled, not sure if he was joking.
"Want a taco?" she said.
"I just ate."
"I'm Sandy," she said.
So was I, he thought. Friday, on the beach.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Jimmy Reese," he said.
He saw a flash of surprise in her eyes. He didn't know why. Maybe she had had a boyfriend called Jimmy Reese. Or maybe she was a serious fan of the New York Yankees.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Jimmy Reese," she said.
"Likewise," he said, and turned back to the game.
"You're new in town, aren't you?" she said.
"Usually," he said.
"I was wondering," she said. "If you only like football a bit, maybe you would like to take me somewhere else."
"Like where?"
"Like somewhere quieter. Maybe somewhere a little lonelier."
He said nothing.
"I've got a car," she said.
"You old enough to drive?"
"I'm old enough to do lots of things. And I'm pretty good at some of them."
Reacher said nothing. She moved on her chair. Pushed it out from the table a little way. Turned toward him and looked down.
"Do you like these pants?" she asked.
"I think they suit you very well."
"I do, too. Only problem is, they're too tight to wear anything underneath."
"We all have our cross to bear."
"Do you think they're too revealing?"
"They're opaque. That usually does it for me."
"Imagine peeling them off."
"I can't. I doubt if I would have gotten them on."
The green eyes narrowed. "Are you a queer?"
"Are you a hooker?"
"No way. I work at the auto parts store."
Then she paused and seemed to think again. She reconsidered. She came up with a better answer. Which was to jump up from her chair and scream and slap his face. It was a loud scream and a loud slap and everyone turned to look.
"He called me a whore," she screamed. "He called me a damn whore!"
Chairs scraped and guys stood up fast. Big guys, in jeans and work boots and plaid shirts. Country boys. Five of them, all the same.
The girl smiled in triumph.
"Those are my brothers," she said.
Reacher said nothing.
"You just called me a whore in front of my brothers."
Five boys, all staring.
"He called me a whore," the girl wailed.
Rule one: Be on your feet and ready.
Rule two: Show them what they're messing with.
Reacher stood up, slow and easy. Six-five, two-fifty, calm eyes, hands held loose by his sides.
"He called me a whore," the girl wailed again.
Rule three: Identify the ringleader.
There were five guys. Any five guys will have one ringleader, two enthusiastic followers, and two reluctant followers. Put the ringleader down, and both of the keen sidekicks, and it's over. The reluctant pair just run for it. So there's no such thing as five-on-one. It never gets worse than three-on-one.
Rule four: The ringleader is the one who moves first.
A big corn-fed twentysomething with a shock of yellow hair and a round red face moved first. He stepped forward a pace and the others fell in behind him in a neat arrowhead formation. Reacher stepped forward a pace of his own to meet them. The downside of a corner table is there's no other way to go except forward.
But that was fine.
Because, rule five: Never back off.
But, rule six: Don't break the furniture.
Break furniture in a bar, and the owner starts thinking about his insurance policy, and insurance companies require police reports, and a patrolman's first instinct is to throw everyone in jail and sort it out later. Which generally means: Blame it on the stranger.
"He called me a whore," the girl said plaintively. Like her heart was broken. She was standing off to the side, looking at Reacher, looking at the five guys, looking at Reacher. Her head was turning like a spectator at a tennis game.
"Outside," the big guy said.
"Pay your check first," Reacher said.
"I'll pay later."
"You won't be able to."
"You think?"
"That's the difference between us."
"What is?"
"I think."
"You've got a smart mouth, pal."
"That's the least of your worries."
"You called my sister a whore."
"You prefer sleeping with virgins?"
"Get outside, pal, or I'll put you down right here."
Rule seven: Act, don't react.
"OK," Reacher said. "Let's go outside."
The big guy smiled.
"After you," Reacher said.
"Stay here, Sandy," the big guy said.
"I don't mind the sight of blood," she said.
"I'm sure you love it," Reacher said. "One week in four, it makes you feel mighty relieved."
"Outside," the big guy said. "Now."
He turned around and shooed the others toward the door. They formed up in single file and threaded between the tables. Their boots clattered on the wood. The girl called Sandy tagged after them. Other customers shrank away from them. Reacher put twenty dollars on his table and glanced up at the football game. Someone was winning, someone was losing.
He followed the girl called Sandy. Followed the blue spandex pants.
They were all waiting for him on the sidewalk. They were all tensed up in a shallow semicircle. There were yellow lamps on poles twenty yards away north and south and another across the street. The lamps gave each guy three shadows. There was neon outside the bar that filled the shadows with pink and blue. The street was empty. And quiet. No traffic. No noise, except sports bar sounds muffled by the door.
The air was soft. Not hot, not cold.
Rule eight: Assess and evaluate.
The big guy was round and smooth and heavy, like a bull seal. Maybe ten years out of high school. An unbroken nose, no scar tissue on his brows, no misshapen knuckles. Therefore, not a boxer. Probably just a linebacker. So he would fight like a wrestler. He would be a guy who wants you on the ground.
So he would start by charging. Head low.
That was Reacher's best guess.
And Reacher was right.
The guy exploded out of the blocks and charged, head low. Driving for Reacher's chest. Looking to drive him backward and have him stumble and fall. Whereupon the other four could all pile in together and stomp him and kick him to their hearts' content.
Mistake.
Because, rule nine: Don't run head-on into Jack Reacher.
Not when he's expecting it. It's like running into an oak tree.
The big guy charged and Reacher turned slightly sideways and bent his knees a little and timed it just right and drove all his weight up and forward off his back foot and through his shoulder straight into the big guy's face.
Kinetic energy is a wonderful thing.
Reacher had hardly moved at all but the big guy bounced off crazily, stunned, staggering backward on stiff legs, desperately trying to stay upright, one foot tracing a lazy half-circle in the air, then the other. He came to rest six feet away with his feet firmly planted and his legs wide apart, just like a big dumb capital letter A.