Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

he went and hung himself, God rest his soul. You’re the first white face in here since last February, yes sir, that’s for sure.”
    “Why won’t Teale come in here?” I asked him.
    “Man’s got a problem,” the old guy said. “I figure he don’t like to sit all swathed up in the towel while there’s a black man standing next to him with a razor. Maybe worried something bad might happen to him.”
    “Might something bad happen to him?” I said.
    He laughed a short laugh.
    “I figure there’s a serious risk,” he said. “Asshole.”
    “So you got enough black customers to make a living?” I asked him.
    He put the towel around my shoulders and started brushing on the lather.
    “Man, we don’t need customers to make a living,” he said.
    “You don’t?” I said. “Why not?”
    “We got the community money,” he said.
    “You do?” I said. “What’s that?”
    “Thousand dollars,” he said.
    “Who gives you that?” I asked him.
    He started scraping my chin. His hand was shaking like old people do.
    “Kliner Foundation,” he whispered. “The community program. It’s a business grant. All the merchants get it. Been getting it five years.”
    I nodded.
    “That’s good,” I said. “But a thousand bucks a year won’t keep you. It’s better than a poke in the eye, but you need customers too, right?”
    I was just making conversation, like you do with barbers. But it set the old guy off. He was shaking and cackling. Had a whole lot of trouble finishing the shave. I was staring into the mirror. After last night, it would be a hell of a thing to get my throat cut by accident.
    “Man, I shouldn’t tell you about it,” he whispered. “But seeing as you’re a friend of my sister’s, I’m going to tell you a big secret.”
    He was getting confused. I wasn’t a friend of his sister’s. Didn’t even know her. He’d told me about her, was all. He was standing there with the razor. We were looking at each other in the mirror. Like with Finlay in the coffee shop.
    “It’s not a thousand dollars a year,” he whispered. Then he bent close to my ear. “It’s a thousand dollars a week.”
    He started stomping around, chuckling like a demon. He filled the sink and dabbed off the spare lather. Patted my face down with a hot wet cloth. Then he whipped the towel off my shoulders like a conjurer doing a trick.
    “That’s why we don’t need no customers,” he cackled.
    I paid him and got out. The guy was crazy.
    “Say hello to my sister,” he called after me.

17
    THE TRIP TO ATLANTA WAS THE BEST PART OF FIFTY MILES . Took nearly an hour. The highway swept me right into the city. I headed for the tallest buildings. Soon as I started to see marble foyers I dumped the car and walked to the nearest corner and asked a cop for the commercial district.
    He gave me a half mile walk after which I found one bank after another. Sunrise International had its own building. It was a big glass tower set back behind a piazza with a fountain. That part looked like Milan, but the entranceway at the base of the tower was clad in heavy stone, trying to look like Frankfurt or London. Trying to look like a big heavy-duty bank. Foyer full of dark carpet and leather. Receptionist behind a mahogany counter. Could have been a quiet hotel.
    I asked for Paul Hubble’s office and the receptionist flipped through a directory. She said she was sorry, but she was new in the job and she didn’t recognize me, so would I wait while she got clearance for my visit? She dialed a number and started a low conversation. Then she covered the phone with her hand.
    “May I say what it’s in connection with?”
    “I’m a friend,” I said.
    She resumed the phone call and then directed me to an elevator. I had to go to reception on the seventeenth floor. I got in the elevator and tapped the button. Stood there while it carried me up.
    The seventeenth floor looked even more like a gentleman’s club than the entrance foyer had. It was carpeted and paneled and dim. Full of glowing antiques and old pictures. As I waded across the thick pile a door opened and a suit stepped out to meet me. Shook my hand and fussed me back into a little anteroom. He introduced himself as some sort of a manager and we sat down.
    “So how may I help you?” he asked.
    “I’m looking for Paul Hubble,” I said.
    “May I know why?”
    “He’s an old friend,” I said. “I remembered him saying he works here, so I thought I’d look him up