Cross Fire - James Patterson [11]
Chapter 12
DENNY HATED THE SHELTER on Thirteenth Street with a passion that bordered on homicide, and particularly tonight. Lining up on the sidewalk for a bed sucked big-time, especially while the rest of the city went apeshit over their two perfect sniper hits on Eighteenth Street. What a rush! And what a waste of a good night when he and Mitch should have been celebrating.
Of course, it also made more sense than ever to be seen going about their business right now. So that’s what they were doing.
Mitch stuck close as always, shaking his head and jacking his knee up and down the way he did when he got stoked. It made him look just like any of the other basket cases who called this place home, which was fine, so long as the big man kept his mouth shut.
“Don’t talk to no one,” Denny reminded him as they filed like an army of zombies into the dorm. “Just keep your head down and get some sleep.”
“I won’t say nothing, Denny, but I’ll tell you what. I’d sure rather be sucking down a little Jim Beam about now.”
“Party starts tomorrow, Mitchie. Promise.”
Denny put Mitch on the bottom bunk for a change and took the top for himself so he could keep an eye on things from the bird’s nest.
Sure enough, not long after lights-out, Mitch was back up. Now what?
“Where you going, man?” he whispered.
“Gotta piss. I’ll be right back.”
Denny wasn’t feeling paranoid exactly — just extra cautious. He sat up and waited a minute, then followed Mitch just to make sure.
It was quiet in the hall. The place used to be a school, and these lockers were originally built to hold little kids’ lunches and book bags and whatnot. Now grown men used them to hold on to everything they owned in the world.
And what a fucked-up world it was! No doubt about that.
When Denny got to the bathroom, he found all the showers running with no one in them. Bad sign. This wasn’t good at all.
He came around the corner to where the sinks were and saw that two big guys had Mitch pushed up against a wall. He recognized them right away — Tyrone Peters and Cosmo “the Coz” Lantman. Exactly the type of scumbags who kept decent people sleeping on the street rather than risking a bed in one of these shelters. Mitch’s pockets were turned out, and there were still a few quarters on the tile floor around his feet.
“What seems to be the problem here?” Denny said.
“No problem.” Tyrone didn’t even turn around to look at him. “Now get the fuck out!”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Cosmo eyeballed him now and hunkered on over. His hands looked empty, but he was obviously palming something.
“You want in? All right, you’re in.” He put a thumb and forefinger around Denny’s throat and held up a sickle-shaped blade until it was just under his nose. “Let’s see what you got to contribute —”
Denny’s hand clamped down on the asshole’s wrist in a flash and twisted it almost three-sixty, until Cosmo had to double over to keep the arm from snapping in two. From there, it was nothing to stab the Coz with his own blade, three times fast into the ass, and even that was just a warning. The liver would have been just as easy to hit. Already, Cosmo was down and bleeding all over the floor.
Meanwhile, Mitch had gone ballistic. He got his arms around the much bigger Tyrone’s waist and pile-drove him straight into the opposite wall. Tyrone got off two fast jabs — Mitch’s nose exploded with blood — but the asshole left his own jaw wide open. Mitch saw this and drove the heel of his hand straight up into it, until Tyrone went spinning. Just for good measure, Denny grabbed him on the fly and whipped him around once so his face caught some sink on the way down. A few teeth got left behind, and also a thick red smear on the dirty porcelain.
They retrieved Mitch’s cash and took whatever else Tyrone and Cosmo had on them. Then Denny pulled the thugs back into a couple of stalls.
“Punks don’t know who they’re messing with!” Mitch crowed in the hall. His eyes were practically shining, even with blood running down over his lips and onto his shirt.