Thriller by James Patterson Page A

my stomach, rather than the more vulnerable kidneys.
    I exhaled hard when his fist landed. Saw stars.
    He stepped away to pop me in the face. Rather than tense
    up, I relaxed, trying to absorb the contact by letting my neck
    snap back.
    It still hurt like hell.
    I tasted blood, wasn’t sure if it came from my nose or my
    mouth. Probably both. My left eye had already swollen shut.
    56
    “Hijo calvo de una perra!”
    You bald son of a bitch. Real original. His breath was ragged
    now, shoulders slumping, face glowing with sweat.
    Gangbangers these days aren’t in very good shape. I blame TV
    and junk food.
    One final punch—a halfhearted smack to my broken nose—
    and then I was released.
    I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The
    three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they
    strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high fives.
    When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a
    Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark,
    quiet. I felt something scurry over my foot.
    Rats, licking up my dripping blood.
    Nice neighborhood.
    I hurt a lot, but pain and I were old acquaintances. I took a
    deep breath, let it out slow, did some poking and prodding.
    Nothing seemed seriously damaged.
    I’d been lucky.
    I spat. The bloody saliva clung to my swollen lower lip and
    dribbled onto my T-shirt. I tried a few steps forward, managed
    to keep my balance, and continued to walk out of the alley, onto
    the sidewalk, and to the corner bus stop.
    I sat.
    The Kings took my wallet, which had no ID or credit cards,
    but did have a few hundred in cash. I kept an emergency fiver
    in my shoe. The bus arrived, and the portly driver raised an eyebrow at my appearance.
    “Do you need a doctor, buddy?”
    “I’ve got plenty of doctors.”
    He shrugged and took my money.
    On the ride back, my fellow passengers made heroic efforts to
    avoid looking at me. I leaned forward, so the blood pooled between my feet rather than stained my clothing any further. These
    were my good jeans.
    57
    When my stop came up, I gave everyone a cheery wave goodbye and stumbled out of the bus.
    The corner of State and Cermak was all lit up, twinkling in
    both English and Chinese. Unlike NYC and L.A., each of which
    had sprawling Chinatowns, Chicago has more of a Chinablock .
    Blink while you’re driving west on Twenty-second and you’ll
    miss it.
    Though Caucasian, I found a kind of peace in Chinatown
    that I didn’t find among the Anglos. Since my diagnosis, I’ve
    pretty much disowned society. Living here was like living in a
    foreign country—or a least a square block of a foreign country.
    I kept a room at the Lucky Lucky Hotel, tucked between a
    crumbling apartment building and a Chinese butcher shop, on
    State and Twenty-fifth. The hotel did most of its business at an
    hourly rate, though I couldn’t think of a more repulsive place to
    take a woman, even if you were renting her as well as the room.
    The halls stank like mildew and worse, the plaster snowed on
    you when you climbed the stairs, obscene graffiti lined the halls
    and the whole building leaned slightly to the right.
    I got a decent rent: free—as long as I kept out the drug dealers. Which I did, except for the ones who dealt to me.
    I nodded at the proprietor, Kenny-Jen-Bang-Ko, and asked for
    my key. Kenny was three times my age, clean-shaven save for several black moles on his cheeks that sprouted long, white hairs.
    He tugged at these hairs while contemplating me.
    “How is other guy?” Kenny asked.
    “Drinking a forty of malt liquor that he bought with my
    money.”
    He nodded, as if that was the answer he’d been expecting. “You
    want pizza?”
    Kenny gestured to a box on the counter. The slices were so
    old and shrunken they looked like Doritos.
    “I thought the Chinese hated fast food.”
    “Pizza not fast. Took thirty minutes. Anchovy and red pepper.”
    I declined.
    58
    My room was one squeaky stair flight