Джеймс Паттерсон - The Red Book

I grip his slimy hair in one hand and cup my other hand under his chin, yanking him backward, toward me, away from the girl he was whipping. I step back, using my body weight, pulling with every bit of force I can muster, a tug-of-war, yanking his head toward the shattered window. I keep pulling, leaving the scumbag with the choice of a broken neck or reluctant compliance.

His hands claw desperately at mine, but I have the leverage. His mouth forced shut, he is reduced to loud grunts of pain and surprise. My forearm cuts on the jagged shards of glass in the window’s frame as I yank his head through the window and keep pulling with everything I have, leaving him no options.

He tries to raise an arm free, but I yank his shoulders through the frame of the window, barely fitting, pinning his arms at his side. The upper third of his body hanging out the window, facing upward into the dark sky, pure shock on his face.

He tries to adjust, to look at me upside down. I slam my fist down on his mouth, a pronounced crack, busting teeth, popping his jaw out of place. He takes the blow badly, having no cushion to receive it, his eyes rolling back, his head lolled backward, dangling.

I pull him the rest of the way out of the car, his body limp, his feet smacking the ground, and throw him to the street, face forward. He lands like a lump of cement, not breaking his fall, a loud puff of air escaping him. Stuffed in the back of his pants, a Glock. I remove it and stuff it in mine. I take out his wallet, too, and check his ID.

Josef Alexander Sablotny.

I flip him over, a garbled cry escaping from him, the stench of body odor and tobacco and fresh blood. Facing up now, his head lolling from side to side, eyes shut in pain, his jaw off its hinges like a broken puppet. His mouth bloody red, like a wolf after devouring prey. Not as fun when you’re the hunted, not the hunter.

I drop down on top of Josef. He issues another pained grunt, which causes him to open his eyes, trying to focus on me, dumped on his torso, pinning his arms down with my knees.

“I have questions, Josef. If you answer them, you live.”

Josef’s head rolls to the side. He tries to spit out blood, but with his jaw malfunctioning, most of it dribbles onto his chin.

“Fuck…yourself,” he hisses, not moving that jaw, spraying more blood.

“You’re a tough guy, no doubt about it. Especially when you’re beating up defenseless girls.” I find the Maglite on the ground, raise it, and strike him in the chin, right where it would hurt the most. The wounded-animal cry he releases would make National Geographic proud.

I stand up, grab his arms, and pull him to a sitting position. He probably lacks the ability to fight back now. But I hope he tries.

Instead, he rocks, swoons, then vomits into his lap. That’s hard to do with a busted jaw.

I reach into my bag and pull out the photo of my Jane Doe’s ankle, the same one I showed one of his prostitutes, Cherie, an hour ago. “Tell me what you see,” I say, holding it near his face.

It takes him a while. He catches his breath, wipes his mouth tentatively, and finally focuses. I watch his face. He reacts to the photo, a change in his expression.

“You recognize it,” I say.

He closes his eyes, nods his head.

“Who runs these girls?”

“Don’t…know. I don’t, I don’t.” Raising a hand. “I…swear.” Speaking without jaw movement.

“Of course you do, Josef. They’re your competition.”

“No.” The way he says it, not a desperate denial but an assured statement of fact. “Not my comp—competition. They do not…walk streets.”

“What, they’re higher-end? Call girls? Escorts?”

He nods, still taking wet, heavy breaths.

“Where do they work? Where do they live? Who runs them? ”

“I…” He shakes his head. “I don’t—please…”

There are girls, girls I might be able to help.

These kids need me.

“Please?” I repeat. “ Please? You want mercy from me ?”

I reel back and kick him in the ribs, audible cracks, as Josef doubles over in pain, grimacing and broken, curled into the fetal position.

“You think I won’t kill you?” I shout down at him. “You think I won’t?”

“Nobody…knows,” says Josef, wincing, gritting through the pain. “Is not…my business.”

“Bullshit. Bullshit!” I remove Josef’s Glock from my waistband, crouch down over him, pressing the barrel of the gun against his left eye. “You know a name. Or a club. Or a hotel. Something. You have till the count of three, or I put a bullet through your brain.”

A moan of protest or pain or both.

“One,” I say.

Behind me, the roar of a vehicle, a flashing red light. Josef, with his free right eye, sees the lights behind us.

“That’s not gonna save you,” I say. “Two.”

Tires screeching to a halt, the flashing light now bathing us, coloring Josef’s face.

A door opening. “Police! Police officer!”

Footsteps approaching, shuffling. “Drop that weapon! Drop it!”

“No! This isn’t your business!” I shout back. I press the gun harder against his left eye. “You little fuck! Tell me! Tell me! ”

“Drop that weapon now! Now! ”

My body trembling, I hiss through my teeth. “Tell…me.”

Josef cries out, spitting more blood, coughing.

I Frisbee the gun to the street and take Josef’s jaw in my hands, like I’m going to rip it off his face. “Tell me what you know!” I shout over his high-pitched squeal of pain. “Tell me what—”

One arm wraps around my neck in a choke hold, the other under my armpit.

“No!” I shout, but I have no leverage, being pulled backward out of my crouch, wrestled backward, unable to get my feet under me. “No! Let go!”

I end up thrown against the bumper of the vehicle with the flashing light.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I spit.

Patti bends down and looks me in the eyes. “Are you out of your mind ?”

Chapter 45

PATTI DISABLES the cherry on her dashboard and tosses it in the back seat. We peel away in her car.

“You have got to get it together, little brother,” she says. “You have any idea how many ways that could’ve gone wrong? You know how lucky you are?”

“The only one who’s lucky is Josef.”

“Yeah? So what’s the plan here, Wyatt Earp? Kill every pimp in Chicago?”

My body shaking with post-event adrenaline. Still wishing I had my hands on that guy. “I didn’t kill Josef.”

“Would you have, if I hadn’t shown up?” She turns to me, concern more than anger on her face, her eyes brimming with tears.

If I had an answer to that question, I’d give it. “I told you not to get involved,” I say.

“Well, I shared a womb with you,” she says, “so I guess that makes me involved.”

I punch the side door of the car. Punch it again.

I rub my hand. My forearm, I notice for the first time, is bleeding from Josef’s busted glass window. My hands are bloody, though it’s not my blood.

“Would Val—” Patti’s throat closes. Muffled sobs. “Would Val want this?” she manages. “Throwing your life away over this?”

There are girls, girls I might be able to help.

These kids need me.

“She’d want me to find these scumbags and stop them.”

Patti swerves the car over to the side of the road and brakes hard, the seat belt locking me in place.

She puts the car in Park and turns to me, tears on her cheeks, but no grief in her expression. Determined, resolute.

“Then let’s find them and stop them,” she says. “But do it smart. Keep your eye on the prize. No bull. No china shop. No Charlie Bronson. Let’s make a plan.”