Free Code to Zero by Follett Ken Page A

appearances, he was not an alcoholic. At some point in his life he had been involved in clandestine work. And he knew the words of “What a Friend we have in Jesus.” It was pathetically little.
    He had been walking around looking for a police station, but he had not come across one. He decided to ask for directions. A minute later, as he passed a vacant lot fenced with broken corrugated-iron sheeting, he saw a uniformed cop step through a gap in the sheeting onto the sidewalk. Seizing the chance, Luke said to him, “How do I get to the nearest precinct house?”
    The cop was a beefy man with a sandy moustache. He gave Luke a look of contempt and said, “In the trunk of my cruiser, if you don’t get the fuck out of my sight.”
    Luke was startled by the violence of his language. What was the man’s problem? But he was tired of tramping the streets and he needed directions, so he persisted. “I just need to know where the station house is.”
    “I won’t tell you again, shitbrain.”
    Luke was annoyed. Who did he think he was? “I asked you a polite question, mister,” he snapped.
    The cop moved surprisingly fast for a heavy man. He grabbed Luke by the lapels of his ragged coat and shoved him through the gap in the sheeting. Luke staggered and fell on a patch of rough concrete, hurting his arm.
    To his surprise he was not alone. Just inside the lot was a young woman. She had dyed blonde hair and heavy makeup, and she wore a long coat open over a loose dress. She had high-heeled evening shoes and torn stockings. She was pulling up her panties. Luke realized she was a prostitute who had just serviced the patrolman.
    The cop came through the gap and kicked Luke in the stomach.
    He heard the whore say, “For Christ’s sake, Sid, what did he do, spit on the sidewalk? Leave the poor bum alone!”
    “Fucker has to learn some respect,” the cop said thickly.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw him draw his nightstick and raise it. As the blow came down, Luke rolled to one side. He was not quite fast enough, and the end of the stick glanced off his left shoulder, numbing his arm momentarily. The cop raised the nightstick again.
    A circuit closed in Luke’s brain.
    Instead of rolling away, he threw himself toward the cop. The man’s forward momentum brought him crashing to the ground, and he dropped the nightstick. Luke sprang up nimbly. As the cop got up, Luke stepped close to him, waltzing inside his reach so that the man could not punch him. He grabbed the lapels of the uniform coat, pulled the man forward with a sharp jerk, and butted him in the face. There was a snapping sound as the cop’s nose broke. The man roared with pain.
    Luke released his grip on the lapels, pirouetted on one foot, and kicked the man in the side of the knee. His battered shoes were not rigid enough to break bones, but the knee has little resistance to a blow from the side, and the cop fell.
    A part of Luke’s mind wondered where the hell he had learned to fight like this.
    The cop was bleeding from the nose and mouth, but he raised himself on his left elbow and drew his gun with his right hand.
    Before it was out of the holster, Luke was on him. Grabbing the man’s right forearm, he banged the hand on the concrete once, very hard. The gun immediately fell from his grasp. Then he pulled the cop upright and twisted the arm so that he rolled onto his front. Bending the arm up behind the man’s back, he dropped, driving both knees into the small of the man’s back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Finally, he took the forefinger and bent it all the way back.
    The cop screamed. Luke bent the finger farther. He heard it snap, and the cop fainted.
    “You won’t beat up any more bums for a while,” Luke said. “Shitbrain.”
    He stood up. He picked up the gun, ejected all the shells, and threw them across the lot.
    The whore was staring at him. “Who the fuck are you, Elliott Ness?” she said.
    Luke looked back at her. She was