Easy Or Hard

by Moedad

Jack Reacher is in a diner in Fargo with a pocket full of money, getting a meal before a long bus ride. Of course, nothing is ever that simple with Reacher.

EASY OR HARD

A Jack Reacher Story

The clerk counted out the money like she was announcing it to the room or something. "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred. Sign here please."

I signed the receipt. Stepped away from the Western Union counter with the money. Folded the bills once. Stuffed them in the pocket of my jeans as I looked around the room. My glance fell on a big, dark-haired guy in shabby clothes sitting against the wall. His eyes slid away in another direction. He'd been watching me. There was another guy next to him, also trying hard to pay attention to something else. Not quite as big of a guy, but just as shabby. Maybe a brother to the first guy. They had the same look.

The Western Union office was inside the Fargo Greyhound bus depot. Made it convenient for travelers like me, of which there were more than a few. The seats and benches were occupied by the usual assortment of soon-to-be bus passengers. People too broke to travel more comfortably, or people who didn't care and weren't in a hurry. I wasn't broke, but it had been a month since I last put any money in my bank account. I wanted to conserve what was left until I found work in the warm South.

I wasn't in any hurry either. This would be a typical Jack Reacher New Year's Eve. Just me and myself. No rush to get anywhere. That was fine with me. I didn't have to be at anybody else's house for a dinner I didn't want to eat. Didn't have to check my plans with a list of people. Didn't have to worry about how I would get home or where I would wake up. Didn't have to watch any damn parade.

Most of these people didn't have to worry about those things either. It was way too late for them to be anywhere reasonable if they wanted to celebrate the New Year in any kind of style. They had their luggage or bags at their feet, or on the seats next to them, pulled close to discourage thieves. Most of them didn't look like they had anything worth stealing anyway. I didn't either, up until a minute ago. Now I had a pocket full of money. It was enough money for my ticket from Fargo to Houston. Enough for meals and a couple of weeks in a cheap hotel. If I was careful.

It was only a few steps from the Western Union counter to the Greyhound counter. I picked up a schedule and checked it. The next bus didn't leave for nearly two hours. Suited me. I hadn't eaten yet that day, and I was hungry.

I gave the woman behind the counter money for the ticket and asked, "Anywhere to get something to eat around here?"

She looked at the wall like she could see through it. "Hmm...I haven't been there in a few years, but there used to be a good diner near the river-" she pointed "-a few blocks east. It's on this street, but on the other side. If you get to the river, you've gone too far."

"Thanks."

She gave me my ticket and I headed out the door, turned right onto Northern Pacific Avenue. It looked like this part of Fargo was the old downtown area, the part that was left behind when businesses moved to take advantage of locations close to the interstate, leaving this part looking tired and weathered. It was late afternoon. The old brick storefronts with their faded scalloped awnings were still decorated with Christmas lights and wreaths. The setting sun almost made it look like a Norman Rockwell magazine cover, making the worn out buildings look inviting and friendly. The light couldn't make it warm though. The wind at my back was like ice water running down the street, deep enough to swim in, if swimming in the wind was possible. At least I was going downstream. I plodded along on the bottom of the current, my ears already burning from the cold. I turned up the collar on my thick canvas field jacket. Shrugged it higher on my neck. Jammed my hands deep into the over-sized pockets in my jacket. There were patches of old, grainy snow up against the buildings and drifted into the corners of entryways or stairwells. Dead leaves and scraps of litter skittered past me on the wind like they were trying find a warmer place to hide before dark. I hoped the depot clerk was right about the diner. A person could freeze to death in weather like this. Houston was going to feel good.

After about a block, I cut across the street and managed to take a look behind me without being obvious. The two big guys from the depot were coming down the street. They stopped and pretended to look in a storefront window. I made it to the opposite sidewalk. The buildings on this side of the street offered some protection from the wind. That was good. A city bus was at the curb picking up passengers. In the reflection on the front windshield, I saw the two guys cross the street to the same side as me. I kept walking.

It wasn't far to the diner. It was perpendicular to the street. One of those old places, longer than deep, like a rail car, with the entrance at the street end, and a sign on the roof that simply said DINER in neon red and blue. It had some slots for cars across the front. Didn't look too busy. No cars in the lot. I went up the steps and pushed open the door. Didn't look busy at all. It was warm though, and it smelled fantastic, like a feast was cooking. Being hungry made everything smell like a feast. There was nobody in the place except a blond girl in some kind of uniform-the waitress-behind the long counter. Must've been a cook in back; I heard pots being banged around in the kitchen. Opposite the counter was a row of booths along the front windows. To my right was a short hallway and a sign that said RESTROOMS.

The waitress smiled over at me and said, "You picked a cold day. Go ahead and sit anywhere."

I sat with my back to a wall in the booth farthest from the door. From behind the counter, the waitress held up a pot of coffee and raised her eyebrows in question. I nodded and she brought the pot and a thick, white ceramic cup on a thick, white ceramic saucer.

"Picked a cold day for what?" I asked her.

"Well, it's cold no matter what you're doing, isn't it?" she said as she poured.

"Not as long as I do it in here. You always open on New Year's Eve?"

"We are tonight. You always eat alone on New Year's Eve?"

"As often as I can."

The two guys who had been following me slouched in through the door, letting in a blast of cold air that I felt clear at my end of the diner. They shuffled up to the counter and took seats on the vinyl and chrome stools, still trying too hard not to look at me. I didn't blame them for coming in. It was too damned cold to wait for me to come out again. The waitress went from me to them and poured some coffee for them too. On my table, a laminated menu stood in a chrome rack at the window. I took it out and looked it over. After a minute the girl came back for my order. The menu said the diner served breakfast all day, and since I hadn't eaten yet, I ordered breakfast. A ham and cheese omelet.

"You want toast or a biscuit and gravy with that?" she asked me.

"Biscuit and gravy," I said. Sounded good on a cold day. She left.

I sipped my coffee. It was strong and black, the way coffee should be.

I was having trouble deciding something. I couldn't decide if I wanted to wait until I left the diner to let the two guys try to rob me, or if I should change their minds now. If I waited, I wouldn't have to worry about breaking up the diner or getting somebody shot. I figured at least one of them had a gun. They were big, sure, but I was bigger than either one of them and I don't exactly look like the kind of guy who'd give up his money very easily. If they wanted it, they wouldn't just expect me to give it to them simply because there were two of them, would they? So they must figure they had some kind of an edge, and that meant a gun. Made sense, right?

I decided I would enjoy my meal more if I didn't wait. If I waited, I would be anticipating how to deal with them instead of taking my time with my omelet. Plus, it was getting dark outside, and colder. Better to deal with them here.

But not in the dining room.

I got up out of my booth. Walked back down the length of the diner, past the two guys at the counter. The waitress watched me. The two guys ignored me. I turned the corner at the end, where the sign pointed to RESTROOMS. The men's room was at the end of the short hall. On the right was the door to the women's room and across the hall from the women's room was the door to the kitchen. There was a pay phone on the wall by the kitchen door. I pushed into the men's room. The door opened to the right, creating a kind of barrier that blocked a casual view into the rest of the room. Made fussy visitors to the rest room feel a little better about using it. If the owner had done it right, he would've put up a real barrier and made the door so it opened to the left, into the corner. I let the door close behind me. The room was an eight foot by eight foot square, with a tiled floor and tile halfway up the walls. The sink was straight across from the door. A urinal hung on the same wall to the right of the sink. An unflushed toilet squatted in the only corner left in the room. No stall. The open door kept anyone from seeing it.

I was supposed to lock the door behind me for privacy. I left it unlocked. I didn't want privacy.

There was a mirror above the sink. That made it a little harder. Anybody coming through the door would see me in the mirror, standing behind the door. I turned off the light. That was better. Now anybody coming through the door would see only his own reflection. I waited.

A couple of long minutes went by. I heard the muffled sound of pots and plates clanging and clattering in the kitchen, and then quiet footsteps in the hall. Somebody tried the door. It opened. In the mirror, I saw the bigger of the two guys outlined by the light from the hall. He had a gun in his right hand.

The darkness threw him. He paused, probably wondering if I was even in the room. He didn't have to wonder for long. I reached around the edge of the door with my right hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt front. Jerked him hard. Yanked him around to my side of the door, into the dark room. Kept pulling him as my left hand came up and clamped onto the back of his neck. I hauled with my right hand and shoved his head down with my left and ran him headfirst into the wall between the door and the toilet. His head crunched into the tile. His knees buckled and he dropped the gun. I held him up. Pulled him back and crunched his head into the wall again. Did it once more just to be sure.

I let him fall to the floor, stepped over and flicked the light back on. The guy's nose and forehead were bleeding pretty good. Some tiles on the wall were cracked and there was a dent where his head had hit. I picked up the gun. It was a Springfield Armory XD45, semi-automatic. I hadn't held one before, but I'd heard about them. They had polymer frames just like Glocks. The guns were made in Croatia for the army originally. Springfield had been so impressed with them, they partnered up with the Croatian arms company. Started importing the guns with Springfield's name and the "XD" stamped on the slide. Seemed like a good gun. I liked the way it fit my hand. The little pop-up tab on top of the slide showed me there was a round in the chamber. I released the magazine. It was more than half full. Seven, maybe eight rounds. I shoved it back into the grip. My jacket had big, roomy pockets. I put the gun in the bottom one on the right side. Checked the guy's pockets and found a fully loaded magazine. I took that too.

I'd gotten a little of his blood on my left hand. I didn't wash it off though. I left the guy lying on the floor and went back out into the dining room. The other guy did a double-take when he saw me come around the corner. I walked over and lowered myself onto the stool next to him. Put my elbows on the counter like I belonged there. He didn't know what to do. He leaned back and looked past me, maybe expecting the first guy to walk around the corner.

"He's not coming out for a while," I said without looking at him. "If he comes out at all."

The first guy's coffee was there in front of me. Didn't look like he'd put anything in it yet. It was still black. The second guy stared from me to the corner and back again as I picked up the cup and sipped the coffee. That was good coffee. The guy put his hands on the edge of the counter and started to slide back off of his stool. I reached out with my left hand, the one with the blood on it, and grabbed his wrist as hard as I'd grabbed the first guy's neck. He tried once to jerk loose. Didn't even come close.

He eased back onto the stool. I took a good look at him for the first time. He was a lot younger than I thought. Just a kid, really.

I said, "Don't try to leave again, and maybe you won't have to be carried out." He stared down at the blood on my hand, afraid to look up. I let go of his wrist.

"So, what was the plan?" I asked. "You wait here while your-what, brother? Cousin?-follows me into the men's room to take my money at gunpoint?"

He didn't answer.

"I asked you a question," I said.

"He's my cousin," he said, his eyes still on the drying blood on my hand.

"Okay. So, what was your job? A lookout? In case a cop came in for dinner or something?"

He nodded. The waitress stood at the far end of the counter, still watching.

"I'm a pretty easy-going guy," I said. "I've got one basic rule: Nobody messes with me. Now, if somebody messes with me because they've been told to, or because they have some kind of problem with me, I can understand that. It doesn't mean that they won't end up in the hospital, it just means I'm not mad when I put them there. But you know what DOES make me mad?"

He shook his head.

"What makes me mad is two guys who THINK they can take my money just because they want it. That makes me real mad. Your cousin already found out how mad I get. Do you want to see how mad I get?"

He shook his head. He had his hands folded on the countertop like he was going to pray for a meal. His knuckles were white.

I swiveled my stool around and faced him. Leaned in. Let my eyes drill into him. "I ASKED you a question."

He was shaking. Leaning away from me. His face was red and there were tears on his cheeks. "No," he whispered.

"'No' what?"

He said it in a rush, like it was all one long, unwieldy word: "I don't want to see how mad you get."

I heard heavy, shuffling footsteps from the hallway, but I didn't turn to look. I knew what I had done to the first guy. Knew he wouldn't be in any kind of shape to give me or anybody else more trouble. That was for damn sure. I kept my stool facing the kid at the counter. The footsteps reached the diner entrance. The kid stared over my shoulder. I heard the door open and the footsteps stumble down the stairs.

"If I ever see you or your cousin again, I'm going to get really mad." I nodded back over my shoulder toward the door. "Take him home."

The kid was off his stool and out the door before I finished saying "home."

The waitress came over with my omelet, and the biscuit and gravy. She put the plates in front of me, along with some silverware rolled in a napkin, and leaned her butt against the stainless steel counter behind her. Folded her arms. "That was quite a show," she said.

I shoveled a bite of omelet into my mouth. "They planned to rob me," I said after chewing for a moment. Good omelet. "I owe you some money for making a hole in the wall in the men's room."

"Forget it. You probably need your money more than we do."

I shrugged and took another bite.

"So, is that how you solve things? You're a 'hands on' kind of guy?" she asked.

"Works for me."

"Why didn't you just call the police from the phone? Maybe get those guys off the street so they don't rob someone else tonight."

I shook my head and swallowed. "I'm on a bus in an hour. I don't have time to be talking to the police. Besides, that kid got a better lesson from me than he'd get by being arrested."

She nodded like she understood about the police. "I hope he learned it." She glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen, then turned back to me and said in a low voice, "Those guys have had that coming for a long time."

"They come in here a lot?"

She looked back toward the kitchen again, uncomfortable. "Enough," she said.

Wasn't much to say to that. I kept eating.

The waitress felt like talking. "So you're spending New Year's Eve on a bus? That sucks."

I shrugged and took a big bite of biscuit dripping with hot gravy. "It'd suck worse to stay in Fargo."

She laughed. "That's a good point. Maybe I should make that my New Year's resolution. 'Get out of Fargo.' You have any resolutions?"

No wonder this place wasn't busy. Guy couldn't eat a decent meal in peace. At least she was easy to look at. I wouldn't've minded being the counter her butt was leaning on. "I don't believe in resolutions," I said.

"Oh, so you're already doing everything right?"

"I'm doing what I feel like doing, whenever I feel like doing it. Can't get much righter than that."

"But don't you want more? What about ten years from now? What about the big picture?"

"I don't believe in 'big pictures.' I was part of a 'big picture' once. Now I'm not. Best thing that ever happened to me."

I finished my omelet and washed it down with the last of my coffee. Slid back off the stool. Dug my money out of my jeans.

"Can you break a hundred?" I asked.

She took the bill and made change. I gave her a ten back. "Good omelet," I said.

"I'll tell the cook."

"Good luck with that 'big picture,'" I said as I walked to the door.

"Have a nice trip," she said. "Stay warm."

Outside in the cold I paused on the top step. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, but the wind had stopped. Felt like it was going to snow. I flipped my collar back up and stuck my hands in the pockets of my jacket. I was getting out of Fargo just in time. I started down the stairs.

The kid stepped out from around the corner of the diner. He was only fifteen feet away and in his hands was a big stainless steel revolver pointed up at my face. He didn't say anything. Just fired.

In the old days of arranged pistol duels, the two duelists would stand back to back. At the same moment, they'd march forward ten counted paces with their pistol muzzles pointed straight up. At ten, they'd turn, stand side on to their opponent, take deliberate aim with one hand, and fire. Standing side-on had two advantages. One, they only had to turn halfway before aiming and firing. A faster shot. Two, they offered less of a target standing sideways. But the old guys had it wrong.

Think about it. Say you're standing sideways, shooting at a guy who is shooting at you and you get hit under your outstretched arm by his bullet. It smashes through a rib and gets all jaggedy, chews through your brachial artery and your lung and minces your heart or aorta, maybe hangs up in your other lung if it doesn't cut right through you. You bleed to death in minutes, if not seconds. Down lower and it takes out your liver and stomach and other internal organs. An agonizing way to die. Standing sideways gives the bullet an opportunity to do more damage than taking the shot straight on. Never turn sideways.

I faced the kid straight on. I was already taking the first step on the stairs when he fired. It was a big gun with a huge muzzle. The concussion from the shot felt like somebody had taken two spikes and driven them into my ears simultaneously. But I was already stepping down and his first bullet went right over my head, literally parted my hair. My ears were ringing. I didn't even hear the XD firing from my pocket-I just triggered it as fast as I could. He managed to bring the big revolver back in line and get off another shot that smashed the glass door behind me as he staggered back. I kept firing the XD. The hot brass cartridges stayed in my pocket, burning the back of my hand. I'd seen too many guys keep shooting after they were shot full of holes themselves, so I let the kid have it all until the slide locked back. Nine shots. Six of them hit the kid. Knocked him back a few steps, but he didn't go down.

He stood there, just looking at me. One of my bullets must've smashed his shoulder. He couldn't raise the big revolver anymore. It slipped from his fingers, clunking to the pavement. He stayed on his feet, swaying. Didn't look scared anymore. Looked like a guy who'd just won an argument. Had a sort of "Take that, you bastard" expression on his face. Maybe the way he handled himself inside-crying and allowing himself to be scolded like a little kid-had grated on him, and he needed to prove that he wasn't just a kid. Maybe he wanted to get even with me for humiliating his cousin. Maybe he'd looked up to the guy. There were a lot of maybe's. I'd never know if one was right. The kid slowly sagged forward onto his knees and then tipped over on his side.

My jacket was smoldering and smoking where the bullets had torn through the canvas fabric. I pulled out the XD and the extra magazine. Released the empty mag from the grip of the XD. Slapped in the full one. Racked the slide the rest of the way back and let it go. It slammed forward with a harsh metallic sound. I liked that sound. I put the empty magazine in my pocket.

I walked down the rest of the stairs and knelt to check the kid. I knew he was already dead, but I did it anyway.

"You okay?" It was the waitress. A guy dressed like a cook was standing next to her on the top step. He had a Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun halfway pointed in my direction. Something in his expression made me glad I still had the XD in my hand.

"Yeah," I said. I gestured at the kid on the ground. "Better than him."

"Guess he didn't learn that lesson."

"He learned it. He just learned it too late."

"I called 9-1-1," she said.

"Okay. You understand I'm not going to wait for them?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to leave you to deal with this."

The girl said, "It's that easy for you? Just walk away?" The cook didn't say anything.

"It's not a question of easy or hard," I said. "He didn't give me a choice."

I heard sirens in the distance. With a nod to the two of them, I turned away and walked across the street. Found an alley and turned down it as a police car slid around the corner a block away, its lights flashing. I stood in the shadows and watched it speed by the mouth of the alley.

Houston was out of the picture, at least for now. Even if the girl didn't say anything to the police about me catching a bus, they would check the depot. They'd talk to the Greyhound clerk. She'd remember suggesting the diner. They'd put the pieces together and they'd call ahead and they'd be waiting for me at the first place the bus stopped. Maybe the second. But they were going to be disappointed. I was staying in Fargo. I was going to hunker down in a cheap hotel for a week.

Snow started to fall as I stood there-big fat flakes. They were the kind that would stick and pile up fast. I figured I'd better find someplace soon. I turned and started walking down the alley again.

Happy New Year, Reacher. Stuck in Fargo. A dead kid getting snowed on behind me. Ending the old year with a killing. Starting the New Year in hiding. Easy? Or hard? Maybe a resolution or two would do me some good after all.

Nah.

THE END