Read Online The Big Bad Wolf by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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everyday problems. If something unexpected went wrong in the spacecraft, they fixed it.
And so did the Wolf.
On that sunny afternoon, he drove a black Cadillac Escalade to the northern section of Miami. He needed to see a man named Yeggy Titov about some security matters. Yeggy liked to think of himself as a world-class Web site designer and cutting-edge engineer. He had a doctorate from Cal-Berkeley and never let anyone forget it. But Yeggy was just another pervert and creep with delusions of grandeur and an attitude, a really bad attitude.
The Wolf banged on the metal door of Yeggy’s apartment in a high-riser overlooking Biscayne Bay. He was wearing a skullcap and a Miami Heat windbreaker, just in case anyone saw him visiting.
“All right, all right, hold your urine!” Yeggy shouted from inside. It took him another couple of minutes to finally open up. He had on blue-jean shorts and a tattered, faded-black novelty-store sweatshirt with Einstein’s grinning face on it. Quite the kidder, that Yeggy.
“I told you not to make me come and see you,” the Wolf said, but he was smiling broadly, as if he were making a big joke. So Yeggy smiled too. They had been business associates for about a year—which was a long time for anyone to put up with Yeggy. “Your timing is perfect,” he said.
“How lucky for me,” said the Wolf, as he strolled into the living room and immediately wanted to hold his nose. The apartment was an incredible dump—littered with fast-food wrappers and pizza boxes, empty milk cartons, and dozens, maybe a hundred, old copies of
Novoye Russkoye Slovo,
the largest Russian-language newspaper in the United States.
The odor of filth and decaying food was bad enough, but even worse was Yeggy himself, who always smelled like week-old sausages. The science man led him into a bedroom off the living room area—only it turned out not to be a bedroom at all. It was the lab of a very disorganized person. Ugly brown carpeting, three beige CPU boxes on the floor, and parts in a corner—discarded heat sinks, circuit boards, hard drives.
“You are a pig,” the Wolf said, then laughed again.
“But a very smart pig.”
In the center of the room was a modular desk. Three flat-screen displays formed a semicircle around a well-worn rumble chair. Behind the display screens was a fire hazard of intertwined cables. There was only one outside window, the blind permanently drawn.
“Your site is
very
secure now,” Yeggy said. “Primo. One hundred percent. No possible screwups. The way you like it.”
“I thought it was already secure,” the Wolf replied.
“Well, now it’s more secure. You can’t be too careful these days. Tell you what else—I finished the latest brochure. It’s a classic, instant classic.”
“Yes, and only three weeks late.”
Yeggy shrugged his bony shoulders. “So what—wait’ll you see my work. It’s genius. Can you recognize genius when you see it?
This
is genius.”
The Wolf examined the pages before he said anything to the science man. The brochure was printed on 81/2-by-11-inch glossy paper bound in a clear report cover with a red spine. Yeggy had cranked it out on his HP color laser printer. The colors were electric. The cover looked perfect. The elegance was weird, actually, as if the Wolf were looking at a Tiffany’s catalogue. It sure didn’t look like the work of a man who lived in this shit hole.
“I told you that girls number seven and seventeen were no longer with us. Dead, actually,” the Wolf finally said. “Our boy genius is forgetful, no?”
“Details, details,” said Yeggy. “Speaking of which, you owe me fifteen thousand cash on delivery. This would be considered delivery.”
The Wolf reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a Sig Sauer 210. He shot Yeggy twice between the eyes. Then, for laughs, he shot Albert Einstein between the eyes too.
“Looks like you are no longer with us, either, Mr. Titov. Details, details.”
The Wolf sat at
And so did the Wolf.
On that sunny afternoon, he drove a black Cadillac Escalade to the northern section of Miami. He needed to see a man named Yeggy Titov about some security matters. Yeggy liked to think of himself as a world-class Web site designer and cutting-edge engineer. He had a doctorate from Cal-Berkeley and never let anyone forget it. But Yeggy was just another pervert and creep with delusions of grandeur and an attitude, a really bad attitude.
The Wolf banged on the metal door of Yeggy’s apartment in a high-riser overlooking Biscayne Bay. He was wearing a skullcap and a Miami Heat windbreaker, just in case anyone saw him visiting.
“All right, all right, hold your urine!” Yeggy shouted from inside. It took him another couple of minutes to finally open up. He had on blue-jean shorts and a tattered, faded-black novelty-store sweatshirt with Einstein’s grinning face on it. Quite the kidder, that Yeggy.
“I told you not to make me come and see you,” the Wolf said, but he was smiling broadly, as if he were making a big joke. So Yeggy smiled too. They had been business associates for about a year—which was a long time for anyone to put up with Yeggy. “Your timing is perfect,” he said.
“How lucky for me,” said the Wolf, as he strolled into the living room and immediately wanted to hold his nose. The apartment was an incredible dump—littered with fast-food wrappers and pizza boxes, empty milk cartons, and dozens, maybe a hundred, old copies of
Novoye Russkoye Slovo,
the largest Russian-language newspaper in the United States.
The odor of filth and decaying food was bad enough, but even worse was Yeggy himself, who always smelled like week-old sausages. The science man led him into a bedroom off the living room area—only it turned out not to be a bedroom at all. It was the lab of a very disorganized person. Ugly brown carpeting, three beige CPU boxes on the floor, and parts in a corner—discarded heat sinks, circuit boards, hard drives.
“You are a pig,” the Wolf said, then laughed again.
“But a very smart pig.”
In the center of the room was a modular desk. Three flat-screen displays formed a semicircle around a well-worn rumble chair. Behind the display screens was a fire hazard of intertwined cables. There was only one outside window, the blind permanently drawn.
“Your site is
very
secure now,” Yeggy said. “Primo. One hundred percent. No possible screwups. The way you like it.”
“I thought it was already secure,” the Wolf replied.
“Well, now it’s more secure. You can’t be too careful these days. Tell you what else—I finished the latest brochure. It’s a classic, instant classic.”
“Yes, and only three weeks late.”
Yeggy shrugged his bony shoulders. “So what—wait’ll you see my work. It’s genius. Can you recognize genius when you see it?
This
is genius.”
The Wolf examined the pages before he said anything to the science man. The brochure was printed on 81/2-by-11-inch glossy paper bound in a clear report cover with a red spine. Yeggy had cranked it out on his HP color laser printer. The colors were electric. The cover looked perfect. The elegance was weird, actually, as if the Wolf were looking at a Tiffany’s catalogue. It sure didn’t look like the work of a man who lived in this shit hole.
“I told you that girls number seven and seventeen were no longer with us. Dead, actually,” the Wolf finally said. “Our boy genius is forgetful, no?”
“Details, details,” said Yeggy. “Speaking of which, you owe me fifteen thousand cash on delivery. This would be considered delivery.”
The Wolf reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a Sig Sauer 210. He shot Yeggy twice between the eyes. Then, for laughs, he shot Albert Einstein between the eyes too.
“Looks like you are no longer with us, either, Mr. Titov. Details, details.”
The Wolf sat at
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