The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [78]
The racing chair’s wheels were lifting off the ground at each crack. It was dangerous, because the chair was so light it could go over.
“Hey, you!…Hey! Hey!… Grave Dancer!”
The two bodyguards had stopped moving. They didn’t seem to believe what they were watching up ahead. They were definitely looking his way, though. Stefanovitch had their undivided attention.
They both touched their jackets, feeling for handguns. What the hell was this coming down the street?
Alexandre St.-Germain slowly turned as he was getting into the backseat of the limousine. The blond hair, the smoothly handsome face, came back into view. The Grave Dancer was only a few yards away from Stefanovitch.
St.-Germain straightened to his full height. He stared up the sidewalk, at the man coming in the wheelchair, coming pretty fast, too.
Stefanovitch could feel the Grave Dancer’s eyes burning into his skull. He was slightly out of control, wired to his limit. He’d been waiting so long for this moment. It seemed bizarre and unreal now that it was here.
“Yeah, you. I’m talking to you,” he called out again.
He couldn’t help himself anymore. He was exploding forward on a burst of adrenaline and emotion.
None of his instincts, no common sense was working for him. It was a dangerous time. Christ, St.-Germain was blond and handsome. He looked like the good guy.
Stefanovitch’s thoughts were silent screams. They echoed around the caverns in his head… Revenge… Some kind of justice was what he had in mind. Like smashing the fucker’s face for starters.
When the wheelchair got close, Alexandre St.-Germain finally spoke. He talked in a low, even voice, like someone addressing an excitable child.
“Are you yelling at me for some reason?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am. I’m John Stefanovitch with the New York police. I’m yelling at you.”
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“We met a few years ago. We sort of met on the back streets of Long Beach. You gave me this wheelchair to remember you by.”
Stefanovitch’s hands were clamped down hard on the arms of his chair. He was out of line, and he knew it. He just couldn’t stop himself. There was no way he could stop this thing from being played out.
“I never got to thank you in person, to see you like this, man to man. Actually, there are a couple of reasons I wanted to meet you one day.”
The Grave Dancer interrupted. “Well, you’ve had your long-awaited pleasure. I’m afraid that I have some business meetings to attend this morning. You’re very welcome for your present, the one given to you at Long Beach. It seems that maybe you’ll deserve another present soon.”
Alexandre St.-Germain started to slide into the shiny black limousine.
A hand grabbed onto his shoulder. The hand crushed the soft padding of his expensive suit jacket. Then Stefanovitch suddenly yanked St.-Germain backward.
Both of his bodyguards moved forward, but St.-Germain waved them off. His throat and cheeks were bright red, swollen with blood. His blond hair had been mussed in the scuffle, little twists standing on end.
“Take your hand off my arm,” he said to Stefanovitch. “You knew the rules. You decided to break them. You wanted to play in the big game, the big leagues.”
“Those were your fucking rules,” Stefanovitch shouted. “Now you’re going to hear my rules.”
Stefanovitch held on to the Grave Dancer as tightly as he could. This was a street fight; there couldn’t be any backing down from here on.
“No matter what else happens, we’re going to shut you down, motherfucker. I’m going to shut down your Midnight Club. I’m going to get you.”
Stefanovitch let go of Alexandre St.-Germain. He jerked the wheelchair around, a move he’d seen kids pull on skate-boards.
His back was to Alexandre St.-Germain and the bodyguards. The wheelchair was squeaking—skee-skee-skee-skee. The sound was absurd. It was as if the chair were mocking him, mocking everything he was attempting to do, but especially his trying to be a cop again.
Back at the car, Isiah Parker was sitting in the front seat, his legs still propped up. He looked as if he