Killing Floor (Page 83)

He nodded.

"And Margrave is a very weird place," I said. "It’s deserted most of the time. There’s no life. There’s practically no commercial activity in the whole town. Nothing ever goes on. Nobody is earning any money."

He looked blank. Didn’t follow.

"Think about it," I said. "Look at Eno’s, for example. Brand-new place. Gleaming, state-of-the-art diner. But he never has any customers. I’ve been in there a couple of times. There were never more than a couple of people in the place. The waitresses outnumber the customers. So how is Eno paying the bills? The overhead? The mortgage? Same goes for everywhere in town. Have you ever seen lines of customers rushing in and out of any of the stores?"

Finlay thought about it. Shook his head.

"Same goes for this barbershop," I said. "I was in here Sunday morning and Tuesday morning. The old guy said they’d had no customers in between. No customers in forty-eight hours."

I stopped talking then. I thought about what else the old guy had said. That gnarled old barber. I suddenly thought about it in a new light.

"The old barber," I said. "He told me something. It was pretty weird. I thought he was crazy. I asked him how they make a living with no customers. He said they don’t need customers to make a living because of the money they get from the Kliner Foundation. So I said, what money? He said a thousand bucks. He said all the merchants get it. So I figured he meant some kind of a business grant, a thousand bucks a year, right?"

Finlay nodded. Seemed about right to him.

"I was just chatting," I said. "Like you do in the barber’s chair. So I said a thousand bucks a year is OK, but it’s not going to keep the wolf from the door, something like that, right? You know what he said then?"

He shook his head and waited. I concentrated on remembering the old guy’s exact words. I wanted to see if he would dismiss it as easily as I had done.

"He made it sound like a big secret," I said. "Like he was way out on a limb even to mention it. He was whispering to me. He said he shouldn’t tell me, but he would, because I knew his sister."

"You know his sister?" Finlay asked. Surprised.

"No, I don’t," I said. "He was acting very confused. On Sunday, I’d been asking him about Blind Blake, you know, the old guitar player, and he said his sister had known the guy, sixty years ago. From that, he’d got mixed up, must have thought I’d said I knew his sister."

"So what was the big secret?" he said.

"He said it wasn’t a thousand dollars a year," I said. "He said it was a thousand dollars a week."

"A thousand dollars a week?" Finlay said. "A week? Is that possible?"

"I don’t know," I said. "At the time, I assumed the old guy was crazy. But now, I think he was just telling the truth."

"A thousand a week?" he said again. "That’s a hell of a business grant. That’s fifty-two thousand bucks a year. That’s a hell of a lot of money, Reacher."

I thought about it. Pointed at the total on Gray’s audit.

"They’d need figures like that," I said. "If this is how much they’re spending, they’d need figures like that just to get rid of it all."

Finlay was pensive. Thinking it through.

"They’ve bought the whole town," he said. "Very slowly, very quietly. They’ve bought the whole town for a grand a week, here and there."

"Right," I said. "The Kliner Foundation has become the golden goose. Nobody will run the risk of killing it. They all keep their mouths shut and look away from whatever needs looking away from."

"Right," he said. "The Kliners could get away with murder."

I looked at him.

"They have got away with murder," I said.

"So what do we do about it?" Finlay said.

"First we figure out exactly what the hell they’re doing," I said.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

"We know what they’re doing, right?" he said. "They’re printing a shitload of funny money up in that warehouse."

I shook my head at him.

"No, they’re not," I said. "There’s no serious manufacture of counterfeit money in the U.S. Joe put a stop to all that. The only place it happens is abroad."

"So what’s going on?" Finlay asked. "I thought this was all about counterfeit money. Why else would Joe be involved?"

Roscoe looked over at us from the bench in the window.

"It is all about counterfeit money," she said. "I know exactly what it’s all about. Every last little detail."

She held up Gray’s file in one hand.

"Part of the answer is in here," she said.

Then she picked up the barbers’ daily newspaper with the other hand.

"And the rest of the answer is in here," she said.

Finlay and I joined her on the bench. Studied the file she’d been reading. It was a surveillance report. Gray had hidden out under the highway cloverleaf and watched the truck traffic in and out of the warehouses. Thirty-two separate days. The results were carefully listed, in three parts. On the first eleven occasions, he’d seen one truck a day incoming from the south, arriving early in the morning. He’d seen outgoing trucks all day long, heading north and west. He’d listed the outgoing trucks by destination, according to their license plates. He must have been using field glasses. The list of destinations was all over the place. A complete spread, from California all the way up and over to Massachusetts. Those first eleven days, he’d logged eleven incoming trucks and sixty-seven outgoing. An average of one truck a day coming in, six going out, small trucks, maybe a ton of cargo in a week.