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  JUDGMENT

  By Lee Goldberg

  Copyright © 2009 by Lewis Perdue and Lee Goldberg

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Originally published in paperback as .357 Vigilante #1 under the pen name "Ian Ludlow" by Pinnacle Books, March 1985

  Special thanks to Jeroen Ten Berge for the cover art and Eileen Chetti for proofreading.

  For Linda and Tod, who know better.

  PROLOGUE

  Esther Radcliff was trying to pull a fast one on Father Time, Mother Nature, and the human eye. And was failing.

  One morning five months ago Esther looked in the mirror and saw a wrinkled, gray-haired, sixty-eight-year-old widow with age spots staring back at her. That day she declared war. She enrolled in the Beverly Hills Nautilus, saw a doctor about her aging breasts and age-beaten face, and spent $4,293.37 on shiny, satin polyester jumpsuits, Head sportswear, leg warmers, Chic jeans, Fila sweat suits, Izod polo shirts, Nike tennis shoes, and three pairs of high-heeled leather boots.

  She bought herself a twenty-two-year-old bisexual, blond-haired struggling actor to sleep with and be seen with, read Harold Robbins and Judith Krantz and Sidney Sheldon, discussed orgasm and California politics at the Hard Rock Cafe and Ma Maison, and roamed the streets of nearby Westwood on weekends to soak up the college scene.

  She signed up for aerobics, trying to work off decades of scrambled eggs drowning in butter every morning, traded in her Cadillac Seville for a BMW 633, and even went to an X concert. Yet, she could still hear Father Time laughing at her. Laughing hard.

  Esther's skin was now golden brown, her face stretched tight, her breasts firm, full, and high, her body covered with the right names, and she thought and talked about all the right things. But one aspect of Esther Radcliff hadn't changed—she still walked her dog, Samuel, every morning, rain or shine, good or unhealthy air quality.

  It was 11:15 Thursday morning and already 101 degrees. The brutal Santa Ana winds seemed to sweep down on the city from some giant, unseen '67 Chevy's exhaust pipe. Esther coaxed Samuel from his Tudor doghouse, fitted his bony legs into blue doggie leg warmers, clipped on his leash, and led him to the street.

  She put on her headphones and flicked on her belt-clipped Walkman, luxuriating in the few moments of silent tape before the latest from Oingo Boingo blared in her head.

  Her Samuel seemed go get slower every morning. She tried to instill in Samuel the same youth she had acquired but it didn't seem to work. He just refused to get excited about his doggie designer jeans, rhinestone collars, and private beautician. He just kept on growing old. And sick. And that made Esther very uneasy.

  For now, though, she was content just to get him walking and get through her morning ritual. Somehow listening to Oingo Boingo and all the other new music seemed easier if she did it while walking Samuel. Sometimes she would imagine she was listening to Ol'Blue Eyes singing "Fly Me to the Moon" and she wouldn't hear Oingo Boingo, wouldn't notice the street, wouldn't care about her problems, and wouldn't come out of it until Samuel whined and she discovered she had been dragging the poor thing for blocks.

  Esther was falling into one of those trances again this morning. Sammy Davis was singing "That Old Black Magic" to her, and her body was naturally slim and sleek—the tan came from San Monique and her smile came from genuine self-satisfaction. She didn't notice the metallic blue Monte Carlo slide around the corner behind her, low and growling.

  Samuel stopped and whipped his head around. The passenger-side window rolled down slowly. A round, smooth face smiled behind the descending glass. Esther pulled Samuel down the sidewalk, his nails scratching white marks in the cement. That old black magic had Esther in its spell . . .

  The round-faced boy laughed with the others in the car and aimed his Saturday night special at the label on Esther's gray jumpsuit. Right on her surgically refined ass.

  Esther hardly noticed that first, sudden gunshot until the slug slammed into her and lifted her off her feet.

  The car was alongside her when the second bullet exploded "That Old Black Magic" and blazed a trail of fire through her stomach and into her neck. She saw the beautiful red rose blossom on her chest and heard Frank Sinatra call her from the bottomless black pit. She swan ped into the blackness and waited to feel his arms around her.

  Samuel scampered down the street, his leash drawing a thin red trail on the sidewalk.

  The boys were delirious with laughter. The gunner closed one eye and looked down the barrel of the Saturday night special with the other.

  "This is for ten points, man," someone said in the backseat, snickering.

  He fired at the dog and missed, raising a pot on someone's front lawn. Samuel yelped and kept running.

  "Fuck!" The boy aimed again. "The goddamn son of a bitch . . ." He pulled the trigger just as Samuel dashed around the corner. The bullet ricocheted off the pavement.

  "Shit!" The boy slammed his palm against the driver's head. "Faster, asshole."

  The Monte Carlo screeched around the corner, fishtailed, and then roared down the road after Samuel. The dog looked back and the boy fired, tearing off Samuel's head just above the rhinestone collar. The four leg warmers strutted to the edge of the sidewalk and then buckled under what was left of the tiny body.

  The Monte Carlo jumped the sidewalk, crushed the headless torso, and skidded off down the street, leaving a trail of blood, rubber, and laughter in its wake.

  # # # # # #

  Two days after Esther Radcliff settled her bets with Father Time and Mother Nature, Oscar Lee was blowing kisses to Lady Luck—for once his friends and family weren't the only ones having dinner at his restaurant. He didn't know how, but finally the Bit of Italy had been noticed. And in a big way. There were actually people waiting to be seated.

  Oscar knew it would happen, eventually. After all, the restaurant wasn't exactly new. It used to be Vito Sorrento's Bit of Italy, a buffet that featured pizza, spaghetti, ravioli, minestrone soup, salad, and a low price. It sat just on the edge of Chinatown and did a good business. The picture on the sign, of a fat Italian eating an oversize wedge of combination pizza, was practically a neighborhood landmark. So when Oscar bought old Sorrento out, he kept the name, kept the sign, and kept the Italian cuisine. But the only bit of Italian in his buffet was some thin sausage-and-cheese pizza wedges squeezed between the chashu and Mandarin beef.

  Oscar didn't kid himself: there was frozen pizza that tasted better than his. The Chinese cuisine, however, was top-notch for the greasy-spoon trade. He had his mother and wife in the kitchen supervising the cooking. They were experts.

  Oscar smiled at the waiting patrons. He could actually smell the money in their pockets. He looked at his customers stuffing themselves on overflowing plates resting on "Great Sights of Italy" place mats. If Lady Luck walked into the Bit of Italy, he'd escort her to a table and then make savage love to her on one of those place mats.

  At the table of honor (or as he called it, the "Big Spenders Table"), the big table under the gondola-shaped chandelier, were four three-piece-suit-clad executives. Young, clean shaven, well paid. He liked them because they were talking a lot, eating little, and ordering lots of booze. At the worst table, the one in the corner near the kitchen door, sat an overweight family of seven who Oscar was certain were stuffing food in their pockets, purses, and cleavage when his back was turned.

  The "pizza wheel" buffet table beside Oscar was filled with steaming entrees in wedge-shaped trays, and pe
ople were waiting two-deep to get at it. Oscar smiled again. They were even eating the pizza.

  For a moment Oscar let himself drown in the pleasant clanking of silverware, animated discussion, and people milling around the cash register.

  A scream rose above the comforting sounds of success. It was the unmistakable voice of agony.

  A deep silence fell like a shroud over the dining room. Oscar's bowels rolled. He looked at the obese family, frozen like propped-up mannequins in their seats. A glass broke in the kitchen. Then there was a loud crash, a cry, pots and pans clanking against one another to the floor.

  Lady Luck blew a kiss to Oscar and kicked him in the cojones.

  As Oscar stepped forward, eight grinning youths, eyes alight with malevolent joy, burst through the kitchen doors and began firing into the crowd. A waterfall of bullets swept through the room, upending tables, riddling the walls, splattering glass, and twisting people across the floor in obscene, blood-splashing dances.

  Two bullets tore into Oscar's chest, spinning him around like a top and bouncing him off the buffet table. Oscar, feeling little pain, grieved for himself as he lay on his side and felt the hot flush of his fleeting mortality.

  The slugs caught the four executives and slammed them against the wall. They slid slowly to the floor, covering the wall with bloody self-portraits of violent death.

  The storm passed for a second. The boys, in their sleeveless T-shirts and faded jeans, hard faces and grim smiles, took in the scene with a breath. Sweat glistened on their faces and dampened their chests.

  Lady Luck, in a red nightgown, lay down beside Oscar and pressed herself against him.

  # # # # # #

  "Fuck, JD, that goofball in the White House is tryin' to kill me. I swear t' God he's got a picture of me on the wall he tosses darts at." Moe, sitting on a stool in front of Saul's tiny hot-dog stand, slurped down his Coke and scratched his belly, which hung over his belt and hid his Pacific Railroad buckle. Every so often Moe would lift the flab and show whomever was occupying the stool next to him the silver buckle he got after working the rails for twenty-five years.

  It didn't look like it was worth twenty-five years. Then again, neither did the silver star on JD Macklin's hard, rigid chest. The big cop, sitting beside Moe, rested his elbows on the counter and rested his head on his hands. Macklin shared a weary grin with Saul Rosencranz, whose grin always seemed weary.

  "Between that nut and the railroad it's a miracle I'm still alive today. I'm lucky I got twelve cents in my pocket. Damn lucky." Moe tilted the glass until a mound of crushed ice slid into his mouth. Moe, short and cherubic in a Munsingwear cardigan and double-knit, green polyester slacks, practically lived at Saul's hot-dog stand. Day or night, Moe was there dishing out his own brand of political commentary. "The president should stop pussyfooting around and just line up all us poor old folks, all the niggers, all them pregnant girls, all them Mexican fruit pickers, and just gun us all down. Bang, bang, bang! That's what he'd like to do—bang, bang, bang!"

  Macklin's stomach growled loudly, which was good, because Saul's food tasted good to him only when he was ravenously hungry. Saul, his pants buckled just under his pigeon chest, handed Macklin a chili dog and leaned forward on his elbows. "Isn't this a beautiful night, JD?"

  The searing Santa Ana winds had pushed the thick smog out of the Los Angeles basin, leaving a soothing, clear pocket of air over the city. The stars shone brightly and the city was framed by mountains usually hidden by the brownish haze. Macklin felt warm, the sort of soothing warmth he felt while nestled in bed on a cool morning.

  "Sure is, Saul." Macklin took a bite out of his hot dog, catching the chili dribbling down his chin with a napkin. "Why don't you close up early and walk with me?"

  Saul smiled. "And who'll guard your patrol car while you're gone?"

  "Moe." Macklin grinned, knowing Saul would have another excuse. He always did.

  "And who will keep him company while he's guarding your car?" They laughed the easy laughter of long friendship.

  Saul looked beyond Macklin to the peaks of downtown Los Angeles, the dark monoliths against the moonlit clouds.

  Towering in front of them all was the Silver Tabernacle, which reflected the night skies and the city lights in its stories of shimmering mirrored glass. Looking at it made Saul feel old, insignificant, and weary. Always weary.

  "How much you think that fella Simon spent on that Silver Tabernacle?" Saul asked.

  "Shit, it's not what he spent—it's what those suckers who watch him on TV spent," Moe said, chewing ice. "I heard the guy is gay. A fairy, you know?"

  Macklin grinned. "The guy is smooth—you have to give him that. Real smooth. That TV preacher has style."

  "Style, shmyle. That guy doesn't impress me. I agree with Moe. That mission of his down the street is nothing but a den of thieves. I wish that schmuck would stay in his silver tower and keep his missions out of our neighborhood."

  "C'mon, Saul, there isn't anything I can do about that mission. They haven't committed any crimes. Christ, I'd rather see a dozen of those missions than one bar like the Pistol Dawn or one Nat's Pawn Shop, you know."

  "If he said, 'Simon says cut off your wang,' three million people would drop their pants and reach for a meat cleaver. Ain't that criminal?" Moe said. "The way he talks, you'd think God was a fuckin' bank."

  Macklin reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill and some change. "Say, Saul, gimme another one of those chili dogs, will you? I'm in the health-food mood tonight."

  Saul swept the money into his hand, joking, "JD here is gonna put me through college."

  They laughed again and Moe asked for a second helping of ice. When the chili dog was ready, Macklin scooped it up and ate it as he walked down the street. Monday was winding down. Shopkeepers were drawing their barred curtains across the outside of their windows and padlocking them. Waving to Macklin as he passed.

  Emil the shoe shiner gave Macklin his nightly nod. "How ya doin', JD?"

  "Real good, Emil. How was business today?" The tall black man wore a flowered shirt over his hunched torso and had wisps of gray in his hair.

  "I'm gonna eat," Emil laughed. "Some days, that's enough." He turned and shuffled away. Macklin kept walking, munching on the chili dog.

  He paused outside the Pistol Dawn and peered through the window. Fat Tommy smiled from behind the bar and motioned Macklin inside with broad arcs of his arm. A large group of guys huddled under the television set watching football. Macklin smiled his thanks and moved on. Tommy shrugged his shoulders. Cops made him nervous anyway.

  A couple of kids on the street skirted Macklin as if he were a great white, not wanting him to chide them about being on the streets this late. Macklin grinned. He and the neighborhood were one and the same, and he liked it. No, he loved it, especially at night, when they looked at him with that familiarity, that respect, that security. That look, more than the gun strapped to his waist or the badge on his chest, gave him the strength he needed to maintain a semblance of law and order on the streets.

  He had long since given up the idea of ever getting ahead of the crime. It was just a matter of keeping things reasonably in check. But lately, Macklin realized, things were getting bad. Rumors of gang violence kept getting back to him, and each story he heard was worse than the last. He resolved to get to the bottom of it, at least the part of it that happened on his beat.

  Macklin still believed that being a police officer meant something, that it was a social responsibility accepted with pride and honor. He didn't see any reason why Sergeant Joe Friday or those fine boys riding around in Adam-12 couldn't exist. It was a stereotype he embraced.

  He could have been a detective by now, a desk boy, a gray four-door Plymouth Fury kind of guy if he had wanted it. He didn't. Above all else, police work always meant the streets to him, a blue uniform and a gun holstered securely against your side. The few guys still around who had attended the academy with him made a point of ign
oring him, not wanting to associate with some nut who willingly flattens pavement when he could let his fingers to the walking from the fifteenth floor of Parker Center.

  "Hey, Joe."

  The voice was almost a whisper but broke through Macklin's thoughts like a scream. He broke his stride and stopped, listening for another sound.

  "JD?" The voice implored from the alley Macklin had just passed, "C'mere, I gotta talk with you."

  Macklin sighed, turning back and walking to the alley's mouth. He recognized the squeamish tentativeness behind the words. It was Enrico Esteban, the Bounty Hunters gang's nervous errand boy. Every now and then someone would put a scare into Esteban and he'd go running to Macklin for help. In return, Macklin pumped Esteban for information on gang activities. Lately, Macklin had been using Esteban to ferret out the truth behind the rumors the cop was hearing on the streets.

  Esteban's constant nervousness made Macklin uneasy. The cop tried to keep their meetings as short, and infrequent, as possible.

  Macklin peered into the darkness. "Where the hell are you, kid?"

  "Back here, man." Esteban was scared, Macklin realized. So what else was new?

  "All right, I'm coming." Macklin reluctantly swallowed the remainder of his chili dog and stepped into the shadows. The moon cast a narrow beam on Esteban's pockmarked cheeks and large, frantic brown eyes. The kid had a fleeting, uncomfortable smile on his face.

  "What's your problem, Esteban?"

  "I got no problems, JD." The smile jittered. "But you do."

  Macklin's internal alarm went off too late. As he reached for his gun, someone grabbed his arm from behind, wrenching it back until his tendons screamed. Before Macklin could react defensively, two guys sprang on him from the darkness and spun him around.

  He saw the alley closing in on him and then felt his nose smash apart like an egg, bursting with blood and cartilage. Intense pain bore deep into his head like a screw, leaving him limp and disoriented in his captors' grip. The alley walls whirled past him and he found himself facing a dark-complexioned youth, just over five feet tall, a tight sneer underscoring his pencil-thin mustache. His hands were behind his back and he shifted his weight anxiously.