Free Echo Burning by Lee Child

asked.
    The guy took a step forward. His reflection grew disproportionately larger.
    â€œLatinos,” he said. “Eat beans all the time.”
    â€œLatina,” Reacher said. “With an a . Gender counts with inflected languages. And she had iced coffee. Haven’t seen her eat a bean all day.”
    â€œYou some kind of a smart guy?”
    Reacher finished and zipped up with a sigh. Didn’t flush. A place like that, it didn’t seem like standard practice. He just turned to the sink and operated the faucet.
    â€œWell, I’m smarter than you,” he said. “That’s for damn sure. But then, that’s not saying much. This roll of paper towels is smarter than you. A lot smarter. Each sheet on its own is practically a genius, compared to you. They could stroll into Harvard, one by one, full scholarships for each of them, while you’re still struggling with your GED.”
    It was like taunting a dinosaur. Some kind of a brontosaurus, where the brain is a very long distance from anyplace else. The sound went in, and some time later it was received and understood. Four or five seconds, until it showed in the guy’s face. Four or five seconds after that, he swung with his right. It was a ponderous slow swing with a big bunched fist on the end of a big heavy arm, aiming wide and high for Reacher’s head. It could have caused some damage, if it had landed. But it didn’t land. Reacher caught the guy’s wrist in his left palm and stopped the swing dead. A loud wet smack echoed off the bathroom tile.
    â€œThe bacteria on this floor are smarter than you,” he said.
    He twisted his hips ninety degrees so his groin was protected and he squeezed the guy’s wrist with his hand. There had been a time when he could break bones by squeezing with his hand. It was more about blind determination than sheer strength.
    But right then, he didn’t feel it.
    â€œThis is your lucky day,” he said. “All I know, you could be a cop. So I’m going to let you go.”
    The guy was staring desperately at his wrist, watching it get crushed. The clammy flesh was swelling and going red.
    â€œAfter you apologize,” Reacher said.
    The guy stared on, four or five seconds. Like a dinosaur.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “I apologize.”
    â€œNot to me, asshole,” Reacher said. “To the lady.”
    The guy said nothing. Reacher turned up the pressure. Felt his thumb go slick with sweat, sliding up over the tip of his index finger. Felt the bones in the guy’s wrist click and move. The radius and the ulna, getting closer than nature intended.
    â€œO.K.,” the guy gasped. “Enough.”
    Reacher released the wrist. The guy snatched it back and cradled his hand, panting, looking up, looking down.
    â€œGive me the keys to your truck,” Reacher said.
    The guy twisted awkwardly to get into his right pocket with his left hand. Held out a large bunch of keys.
    â€œNow go wait for me in the parking lot,” Reacher said.
    The guy unlocked the door left-handed and shuffled out. Reacher dropped the keys in the unflushed urinal and washed his hands again. Dried them carefully with the paper towels and left the bathroom behind him. He found the guy out in the lot, halfway between the diner door and the Cadillac.
    â€œBe real nice, now,” Reacher called to him. “Maybe offer to wash her car or something. She’ll say no, but it’s the thought that counts, right? If you’re creative enough, you get your keys back. Otherwise, you’re walking home.”
    He could see through the tinted glass that she was watching them approach, not understanding. He motioned with his hand that she should let her window down. A circular motion, like winding a handle. She buzzed the glass down, maybe two inches, just wide enough to frame her eyes. They were wide and worried.
    â€œThis guy’s got something to say to