Constantine - The Novelization - Whoa is (Not)

THIRTEENFrancisco had decided to change vehicles. Someone would be looking for this one when theyfound the body. Baley had probably used some cousin's taxi.Yes, said the whisperer. That's wise. They're searching for this vehicle. But make yourchange quickly. The time is almost upon us...He'd better do this fast. He had a sense of a mission to fulfill, though he wasn't quite sure whatit was. But had the iron spike led him the wrong way so far? No. He was in America, wherehe'd always longed to be. Here there were Chicano gangs, black gangs, Italian mafias, Albanianmafias, Cuban mafias, Russian mafias; there were Chinese Tong, Armenian syndicates, Gypsysyndicates, and more powerful than all those - the syndicates of the Rich White Men.There was always room for another pig at the trough. And he would make himself head pigsomewhere....There - a car lot. Somewhere in that glassy building to one side would be a rack of keys.He abandoned the taxi in an alley several blocks away, walked over to the car lot - andimmediately found the security guard, a chunky Chicano eating a Subway sandwich and watchinga small portable television set behind the glass, with his back to Francisco. Like a gift, wrappedup and waiting for him.Francisco looked at the glass, saw no alarm wires attached to it. They counted on the securityguard. He smiled, thinking of the company counting on this oblivious, bored fat man to protecthundreds of thousands of dollars in merchandise. Like putting out a lapdog to protect againstwolves.The security guard turned, frowning, asking what he wanted in English, his voice dimmed bywindow glass.Francisco grinned, and shouted, "Ay, que pasa, carbon!" Then struck the plate glass with theiron spike, and the shards flew inward with such force and such diabolic guidance - that theypierced the security guard a dozen times. He sat there in his chair, his mouth full of sandwich,spasming, blood runneling from the corners of his mouth to mix with mayonnaise, his eyesdimming - shards of glass, all of them roughly in the shape of the iron spike, transfixing his innerorgans, some of them projecting from his neck in the front. He would be dead in moments.Francisco scarcely glanced at the dying guard as he stepped through the broken window, hisfeet crunching on glass fragments, and went to the back room. Inside, he found a padlockedcabinet. The work of a moment to use the spike on the lock - it flew apart with barely a touch,and he reached for the keys to a fast sports car.No, Francisco. Flashy would get you noticed. You would drive it too fast. The police mustnot delay you. No time to kill patrolmen. You need something more like the city’s main fleet ofcars.... That one - you feel the tingle as your hand brushes the keys? Take it, Francisco....Yes, it was better to have something a little understated, so the police didn't take notice,Francisco reflected.Two minutes later he was driving a new van through the streets... but to where? Was he towander this vast city with no destination? What was that? A whore? Perhaps he should take hispleasure....No time for that. Turn right, here, Francisco. Down this street. Left at this one. Nowanother two miles...There, that building ahead.It looked like some sort of hospital to Francisco.He wasn't touching the spike in his pocket at that moment, so he couldn't read the sign thatsaid: RAVENSCAR HOSPITAL.