James Patterson: Run For Your Life

Stick and move, he thought, wrenching the ten-speed high into the air to bunny-hop a construction plate.

And this disguise had another beauty of its own. It was bursting with irony and symbolism. Because he was delivering one mother of a message this morning.

To: World

From: The Teacher

Subject: Existence, the Universe, the Meaninglessness of Life

Like background music to his thoughts, a cacophony of car horns on full blast rose from the vehicles clogged motionless in the narrow trench of the street as a delivery truck tried to parallel-park.

“Shaddup, ya dirty scumbags!” the truck’s ape-faced driver was yelling out the window.

You have a nice day, too, the Teacher thought, lasering the bike through the mess.

The stink of garbage and piss assaulted his nostrils as he sailed past a waist-high line of black Hefty trash bags piled along the curb. Or was it coming from the hot dog cart beside them? Hard to tell. He spotted a parking sign with the pleasant greeting DON’T EVEN THINK OF PARKING HERE! Jesus – why not just cut to the chase and say, COMMIT SUICIDE?

He gaped in disbelief at the gutless herds of secretaries and businesspeople milling around on the corners, waiting like sheep for the stoplights that controlled their lives. How could they even pretend that this living hell they were zombie-shuffling through was acceptable? Legions of the walking dead, with a brainlessness that defied reason.

But wait. They weren’t necessarily brainless, or even stupid – that was a bit harsh. They were ignorant. Uninstructed.

And that was where he came in: to show them the way.

He brought the bike to a skidding, tire-squealing stop in front of a restaurant on the north side of the street.

This morning’s second lesson was going to be even more impressive than the first one.

The line of jockey statues on the 21 Club’s balcony looked down arrogantly as he slipped his OnGuard lock over his head and chained the Frejus to the wrought-iron railing. As he maneuvered through the throng of well-dressed businesspeople under the awning, a barrage of new scents wafted to him – this time, rich cigar smoke, succulent steak, and expensive perfume. Stepping inside the place was like entering another dimension, one of muted lighting and classy jazz, of fireplaces and draperies and wingback chairs.

For just a second, his will wavered. For the slightest of moments, he was tempted to keep on walking to the dark wood-paneled bar in the back – to order a cold, stiff, alcoholic drink, to lay down his burden at one of the plush red leather banquettes, to put aside the mighty cup of his destiny.

He steeled himself. The cup was heavy, yes – it would crush most men. Only an equally strong resolve, like his own, could bear it. That resolve would not fail.

“Excuse me! Whoa!” a voice said. The Teacher turned to see a tall maître d’ zeroing in on him like a smart bomb. “Jackets are required and restrooms are for customers only. If you’re making a delivery, use the service entrance.”

“This is the Twenty-one Club, right?” the Teacher said.

The mâitre d’s lips curved in an icy smile. “Very good. What company do you work for? I’ll be sure to use it next time I need a very clever delivery boy.”

The Teacher ignored the sneer as if he didn’t notice it. “Package for a Mr. Joe Miller,” he said, opening the flap of his Chrome courier bag.

“I’m Joe Miller. You sure? I’m not expecting anything.”

“Maybe somebody wants to surprise you.” The Teacher winked as he lifted a large envelope from the pouch. “Maybe you impressed one of your lady customers more than you know.”

Miller obviously found that an interesting thought. “All right, thanks. But next time, the service entrance, got it?”

The Teacher nodded solemnly. “Without a doubt.” You bet, buddy. As if there was going to be a next time.

“Here you go,” Miller said, thumbing a couple of dollar bills out of his wallet.

“Oh, no, I can’t take tips,” the Teacher said. “But I’m supposed to wait for a response.” He winked again as he handed Miller the envelope. “You might not want to open this in front of all those people, if you know what I mean.”

The mâitre d’ glanced around. The crowd waiting to be seated was growing. But his curiosity won out. Impatiently, he stepped into a small anteroom beside the reservation desk. The Teacher followed him, waiting at the doorway.

He watched as Miller tore open the envelope and stared at the letter it held. The maître d’s haughty face looked puzzled.

“?‘Your blood is my paint’?” he said. “?‘Your flesh is my clay’? What the hell is this crap?” He looked up at the Teacher, getting angry now. “Who sent this?”

The Teacher stepped into the room with him.

“Actually,” he said, pulling a silenced.22-caliber Colt Woodsman pistol from his bag and placing the barrel against the sycophant’s empty heart, “I did.”

He waited the split second it took for comprehension to dawn in the other man’s eyes. Then, before Miller could so much as blink, the Teacher pulled the trigger twice.

Even in the small room, the sound was inconsequential, like someone clearing his throat.

As the maitre d’ collapsed in a heap of dead flesh, the Teacher eased him into a chair, then quickly righted a sheaf of menus that had started spilling off a shelf. He tucked the bloody missive between the man’s shoes. Anyone who glanced in would think that Miller had sat down for a moment to read.

Shielding the gun from sight, the Teacher turned to the open doorway and scanned the scene outside. He preferred stealth, but he was more than happy to shoot his way out if he had to.

But in both the crowded dining room and bar, people continued to laugh and drink, talk and eat, like the pointless animatronic jackasses they were. The carnival wheel continued to spin. Nobody had noticed a thing. What else was new?

He slipped the warm gun into his bag, and a few steps later he was back outside, straddling his ten-speed. There was still nobody paying any attention to him. He shrugged. Might as well update the list. He took out his Treo, brought up the Plan on its glowing screen, and deleted “-Self-satisfied Prick at 21.”

“Hey, is that the 750?” a man’s voice said. A sleek, dressed-to-the-nines Wall Street type, jawing a hundred-dollar Havana, pulled out his own smart phone from his pin-striped jacket. “Treos kick ass, boyeee,” he said.

Boyeee? Even Wall Street Journal-reading, Ivy League bond traders were talking like crack dealers these days. It was bad enough that society had become a bunch of amoral, money-grubbing shitheads, but how had it turned into gangsta wannabes, too?

“Yeah, um, word to your moms, home slice,” the Teacher said, and gave the asshole a thumbs-up as he rolled the Frejus out into the street.

My official NYPD vehicle was in the shop for repairs, so I was reduced to using the family car. It was a sturdy, battle-tested Dodge van, bought used a few months ago, although the way my luck was running, the horn would go any second now, like on the VW in Little Miss Sunshine.

I was on my way to 72nd Street, steering with one hand and knotting my tie with the other, when Chief of Detectives McGinnis called my cell.

“Where the hell are you, Bennett?” His voice was forceful enough to burst a blood vessel.

“Moving as fast as I can, Chief,” I said. “I’ll be there within five. What’s up?”

“The maître d’ at the Twenty-one Club just got popped!”

I felt an all-too-familiar twisting in the pit of my stomach. The Polo store and now 21? Two murders, at two of the city’s highest-profile places, within an hour of each other? This was starting to look as bad as last night, and maybe worse.