Judgment Page 4

  Relax, Macklin told himself, his hand stinging just enough to let him know he'd hit the button too hard. He took a deep breath and stepped inside the elevator, gently pressing the third-floor button with his index finger.

  That's better.

  The doors slid shut and Macklin held his breath to avoid being assaulted by the cloud of Grey Flannel cologne that filled the elevator. It seemed to Macklin that every man in the place bathed in the stuff. The scent was so strong that whenever Corinne came to visit him she inevitably brought the odor with her.

  The elevator stopped with a lurch at the third floor. Macklin exhaled and walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway to Brooke's apartment: 312. He paused outside her door for a moment, shifted his weight, and then reached out his hand to knock. The movement made him aware of the coldness against his stomach, and he stiffened, jerking his hand back as if electrocuted by some invisible force field.

  The gun. He had forgotten about the gun.

  Macklin turned abruptly and dashed to the stairwell, taking the steps down two at a time. Fuckface! The thought of bringing the firearm, a tool of violence, inadvertently into the home where his daughter lived seemed vile to him.

  He had taken it from his father's apartment on impulse and wasn't even sure why.

  Macklin burst out of the stairwell. He slammed open the door and startled a young couple in matching sweat suits as they came through the lobby doors.

  He ignored them, bumping the man's shoulder as he slid past him to the street.

  What if Corinne had seen it? What would I have told her?

  Macklin unlocked the passenger door of the Cadillac and opened the glove compartment. What would I have told myself? Shit, what a stupid fucking thing to do. He opened the glove compartment, put the gun inside, and shoved it closed, vowing to leave the damn gun there until he could take it back to his father's place. Where it belonged.

  Macklin locked up the car and went back upstairs. When Brooke opened the door, Macklin felt the familiar longing. She wore the yellow bathrobe he had bought her for Christmas early in their marriage. He knew the moment she unwrapped it that she hated it. She pretended to like it, though, steadfastly refusing to return it or buy a new one even after they were porced.

  "Corinne's getting ready for bed," Brooke said. It was her idea of a greeting. She moved aside to let Macklin in.

  Macklin stepped past her and immediately noticed Lyle Richter, a stocky real estate agent with a fondness for turtleneck sweaters, sitting at the butcher-block table and cupping a glass of white wine in both hands.

  "Hey, Mack, I'm sorry about your father. Really." Lyle drew his tanned face into a sorrowful frown.

  "Thanks," Macklin said flatly, turning to Brooke as she closed the door. "I'll just go in and say good night to her. I won't keep her up long."

  Brooke nodded. "Fine. You're welcome to join us for some wine if you want, you know."

  Macklin glanced at Richter. The guy worked hard at the eligible-bachelor-on-the-go look, and, worst of all, he used Grey Flannel cologne. Of the several men Brooke saw on a regular basis, Macklin liked Richter the least.

  "Maybe," Macklin mumbled, meaning no, and went down the hallway to Corinne's room.

  # # # # # #

  Blinker, the magic elf, and Tommy, the ten-year-old boy who had no friends, sailed over the Candyland in the flying top hat. They weren't paying attention to where they were going. The top hat flew right into a cotton candy cloud and tipped just a bit. Tommy fell from the hat, screaming "Help! Help!"

  Tommy bounced off the Jell-O Lake and landed right in front of the Big Sucker, who gave him a chocolate kiss . . .

  Brett Macklin closed Tommy's Sweet Adventure and saw that Corinne was sleeping, her head almost buried under the blankets. Corinne didn't want to talk to Brett about JD's death. She wanted a story.

  Macklin put down the book, pulled the blankets away from her head, and kissed her on the forehead.

  "I love you," Macklin whispered hoarsely.

  He slipped quietly out of the room and gently closed the door. The water was running in the kitchen and he could hear the clatter of dishes and Brooke's absent humming.

  As he stepped into the kitchen, he saw Lyle's glass on the table, but Lyle was gone.

  "Is Cory asleep?" Brooke asked, her back to Macklin.

  "Like a rock." Macklin stood near the front door.

  Brooke turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel, drying her hands as she turned to face Macklin.

  "Lyle left a while ago." She set the towel on the counter and put her hands in her bathrobe pockets. "Would you like to stay and talk?"

  Macklin looked into her eyes and felt himself sag inside. He wanted to talk, he wanted to cry, he wanted to hold someone for the rest of the night.

  "No, Brooke. I think I need to be alone tonight," Macklin said. Staying would cost too much emotionally later. His grief was all he could deal with right now.

  "Are you sure?"

  Macklin smiled. "Yes, I'm sure." He opened the front door and lingered for a moment, fighting the desire to go to her. She seemed so vulnerable, so true, so comforting to him then.

  "Sweet dreams," Macklin said softly, closing the door behind him as he walked out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The neighborhood seemed gray and rougher to Shaw in the bright sunlight. There was nothing glossy or fresh here, nothing that could take the scrutiny of a clear day or the punishment of sweltering heat.

  Shaw and Sliran, working on his second pack of cigarettes since beginning the shift, cruised slowly down the street, the windows of their four-door Plymouth rolled down in a vain attempt to create a cooling breeze.

  No matter what color the buildings were, it seemed to Shaw that the neighborhood dulled them. These streets were color-blind. The buildings appeared flat, without character. Their merchants' signs, regardless of how much neon or plywood or paint was put on them or how recently, fell quickly into decay from age, vandalism, or lack of care.

  Shaw saw the neighborhood as a concrete reflection of its people—tired, forgotten, beaten, and yet, resilient and enduring. On hot days the people appeared to Shaw to be even more downtrodden than usual, wearily seeking the cool air offered by shadows and doorways. Crime would be up today, Shaw groaned to himself, the heavy hot air prodding the already anxious and frustrated people into violent acts of rebellion or sheer boredom or both.

  Shaw steered the car around the corner and the gray street turned suddenly black.

  No one had bothered to clean up after the fire. There was no point. The scorched streetlights twisted like vines towards the blackened skeletons of buildings claimed by the flames. Shaw drove past the rubble and slowed to a stop outside the alley where JD Macklin was set aflame.

  "What are we doing here?" Sliran whined, his eyes hidden by the ever-present pair of dark sunglasses. "I thought we were going to get a burger."

  "I want to look around."

  "What are you going to do, collect some charcoal? We've been over every inch of this street. Let's go. I'm starving."

  "Just stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes. You can gnaw on the dashboard until I get back."

  Shaw stepped out and disappeared into the alley.

  "Asshole," Sliran hissed, lighting another Marlboro.

  Shaw walked in measured steps. Can't appear too eager. The kid would be at the end of the T-shaped alley, shitting bricks. Shaw could feel his squeeze play coming together. One by one he had faced the Bounty Hunters, looking for the weakest link. He found it in lanky Tomas Cruz. Made to order. His two doped-out sisters liked to whore, like their mother, who also ran numbers and sold a few 'ludes to boot. An inner-city Brady Bunch. After JD's death Shaw began arresting the Terrible Trio every time they stepped out of the house. They couldn't breathe without being read their rights.

  Then he shadowed Cruz. Everywhere Cruz turned, there was Shaw, popping up like some supernatural specter. Shaw made it very clear. Talk, or your momma and sisters are finish
ed, one way or another, either starving on the streets or feeding the dykes in the state pen. It was up to the kid. The hard way or the easy way? Tomas was sixteen, the youngest and newest member of the gang. Not as mean as he looked or liked to believe he was. Day by day, Shaw tightened the screws.

  Shaw had never come down this hard before. He didn't like to do it. But he didn't like his friends getting fried either.

  "Lay off my momma."

  A tall, muscular boy in a white T-shirt stepped into the narrow beam of sunlight.

  "C'mon, Cruz, I didn't come down here to play games."

  "Shit, man, I can't."

  "Bye." Shaw turned.

  "Wait."

  Shaw stopped.

  "You'll lay off my momma and my sisters. You'll talk to the Man, make it easy on me."

  "Talk."

  The boy began pacing, shooting angry glances at Shaw. He wanted to kick in Shaw's face until it looked like applesauce.

  "Okay, we did it."

  "Did what?"

  "Torched the cop. We torched the damn cop."

  "Who's we?"

  The boy paced. How would you like to wear your nuts, nigger?

  Shaw sighed. "The women at the state pen are gonna love your mother. Close your eyes, Tomas. Think of the bulldykes with their fingers all over your mother's body. Inside her body. Think of it. And your sisters, well, ever see what happens to someone who gives up smack straight? Not pretty."

  He turned and walked away.

  Tomas picked up a garbage can and tossed it against a wall. "Stop, you mother-fucking son of a bitch!"

  Shaw continued to walk casually down the alley.

  "Wait!" Tomas kicked the can. "I said wait!"

  Mucus rolled out of Tomas' nose. "Esteban, Primo, Mario, Gomez, Baldo, and Jesse." Tomas fell against the wall and slid to the ground, defeated. "I didn't know they were gonna torch the cop, I didn't. I just thought we were gonna beat him up a bit, you know, cram his badge up his ass. Esteban got him to come in and Baldo, Mario, and Jesse pinned him."

  Shaw looked at Tomas. "You and Gomez were lookouts."

  "You lay off my momma now, okay? You lay off. Let my sisters and my momma alone."

  "Let's go." Shaw said.

  "Wait! Listen, man, two hours. You gotta give me two hours to settle with my family."

  Shaw looked him in the eyes. The boy was broken.

  "Please," the boy whispered.

  Shaw stood silently for a moment. "Two hours. Any longer and . . ."

  "Save it. I'll be home. Two hours."

  "Okay, give it to me again," Shaw pulled out a tape recorder. Ten minutes later Shaw walked away, leaving the boy in the darkness.

  Sliran was leaning against the hood when Shaw emerged from the alley.

  "Let's go." Shaw got in and started the car up.

  Sliran snubbed out his Marlboro and smiled. "Yes, sir."

  # # # # # #

  The man stood bloody in the middle of the street, his legs spread wide apart, his arms dangling loosely at his sides, watching with studied weariness the car speeding crazily towards him.

  The car barreled down the hot asphalt, the driver's gleeful howling making the battered Grand Prix seem like a wailing banshee just escaped from hell.

  The howl was still echoing down the street when the man slowly raised his right arm, gun in hand, aimed, and fired. The windshield shattered, and the car veered and spun in front of the man, who stepped aside as the car rolled end over end beside him and then erupted in flame.

  Wisps of fire reached for the man's emotionless face. He ran the back of his hand across his brow and walked down the street, the fire raging behind him.

  "Cut!"

  The director's voice crackled in Macklin's ear as Macklin guided the helicopter in a low sweep over the street. The camera crew behind Macklin untensed, exhaling and breaking into easy laughter.

  "Fuckin' A! I love workin' on these films," the cameraman said. "Eh, buddy?"

  Macklin looked over his shoulder and smiled.

  Yeah, great movies.

  Down the street, Nick Crecko, The Bloodmaster, as played by the notorious homosexual Brock Dale, was heading towards his motor home to take a leak, something he had been dying to do for the last three takes. He was tempted to piss on the car rather than shoot it.

  Nick Crecko: The Pissmaster. Somehow, Dale just couldn't see that drawing in those luscious box-office dollars.

  Macklin swung low over the crew and then brought the chopper down in the middle of the street. Crowds of people pushed against the ropes on either end of the block, watching the chopper, hoping to see Tom Selleck or some other celluloid god step out. No such luck.

  Macklin sat in the chopper as the crew unloaded and the engine cooled down. It had been two weeks since his father's death.

  Since he had been burned to a crisp . . .

  And still. Shaw had uncovered nothing. Not that Macklin was getting anxious. No, not anxious. Furious.

  "Do you need me anymore?" Macklin barked into the mike.

  "Ah, no, I don't think so, Brett. Thanks." The director was taken aback by Macklin's rough tone and it showed.

  Macklin mentally apologized and started the chopper up again. I'm getting to be a real asshole, he thought, a grade A asshole.

  He sailed across the sky, moving towards the setting sun. The freeways were clogged with rush-hour traffic and a thick layer of greenish gunk separated Macklin's chopper from the city below. Sometimes Macklin wished he could stay above it forever and never land. Someday, he just might try it.

  Macklin ped low over the Santa Monica coastline, the crashing surf. Sunbathers covered the sand like an army of ants attacking an unattended sandwich. As they took deep drags of the sea air, cars whizzed by thirty yards behind them, belching exhaust on the Pacific Coast Highway.

  That's fresh sea air, huh?

  The Santa Monica Airport crawled up below him, and he descended, bringing the copter down beside the Batmobile, which was parked close to Macklin's shiny Blue Yonder Airways hangar.

  Macklin hopped out of the chopper, stretched, and strode into the hangar. Mort Suderson was crouched under their plane, tinkering with it. "SAC-RI-FISSSSSSE. That's all God asks us for, a little SAC-RI-FISSSSE. Is that asking too much? Is that going overboard? Is He demanding too much? He isn't asking ENOUGH for the splendor that is His love . . ."

  A loud roar of applause rose from Mort's transistor radio.

  "Simon says PRAISE!"

  "PRAISE!" the audience echoed.

  "PRAISE!" Simon shrieked.

  "PRAISE!" the audience shrieked.

  Mort's wrench slipped off the nut and he stumbled, banging his head against the plane. "Fuckin' Christ!"

  Macklin laughed, clicking off the radio. "Don't tell me you've found Jesus."

  "Huh?" Mort peeked out from inside the plane. "Oh, it's you. He even got me to say a couple hallelujahs once."

  Macklin grinned.

  "You shoulda heard him bitchin' about the Justice Department and the FCC. He says they are Satan's puppets. Christ, that guy has balls, I'll tell ya that. He says God needs more worthship if they are going to beat the devil of bureaucracy." Mort tossed his wrench in the toolbox and walked Macklin over to their ancient refrigerator. "Wanna Tab?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  Mort reached in and pulled two out. "Anything new?"

  "Nothing," Macklin said, popping open the soda. "Not one word from Ronny. I don't like it, Mort, my friend, not one damn bit."

  "I don't blame you."

  "So, how are things going with your lady friend?"

  "Depends."

  "Depends on what?"

  "I met her boyfriend last night. You know, the urologist. Christ, I wanted to take her out and let her play a tune on my meat whistle. Anyway, she opens her door and I say hi and then this big black shadow falls over us I crane my neck up and see this tree with arms and legs towering over us. The guy looks like he picks his teeth with fuckin' two-by-fours. He'
s wearin' this sweater that must've been knit with crowbars and a pair of faded, tight Levi's that barely restrain this schmeckle the size of my entire body. His hard-on must get mistaken for the Eiffel Tower." Mort gulped down some Tab. 'This is my boyfriend, Smith,' she says. I muster up a smile and introduce myself. 'You can call me Mort,' I say. He grunts, 'I'm just Smith. Call me Smith.' I would've called him Mr. Sinatra if he wanted me to."

  Macklin smiled. "I'd get out of this mess now while you still have feeling below your neck."

  "Why should I? The Jolly Green Giant lives in Boston. Anyway, he left town today. Strapped to an aircraft carrier, I imagine."

  "So? What's the problem?"

  "Well, it's his schmeckle. If that's what she's used to, well, look—compared to this guy's fuckin' interplanetary cruise missile, I've got a soiled firecracker."

  "I see." Macklin swallowed some Tab. "Well . . . ah . . . if you were her, would you want that all the time? The thought of something . . . er . . . a bit more . . . ah . . . manageable might be comforting."

  "You might have a point there. Yes, maybe you do. He's drivin' a lumbering old Buick and I've got a sharp little Porsche, small, swift, and deadly. I think you're right."

  Macklin clapped his hand on Mort's shoulder. "Listen, I'm going to go give Ronny a call. He must have something by now."

  "I hope so, Brett, I really do."

  Macklin smiled and stepped into the cluttered office. Papers and maps and old junk mail covered the office like a forest's blanket of leaves. He dropped himself into a creaky wooden desk chair and dialed Ronny's office number.

  "Shaw, Homicide."

  "Hi, Ron. This is Brett."

  "Oh, Mack, I was just going to call you. We're closing in on the boy who killed your father."

  "Jesus, I was beginning to think all you guys in Homicide had skipped to Miami Beach or something. Tell me more."

  "We've got six guys down for it, though I wouldn't be surprised if more were involved. They're Bounty Hunters, one of a half dozen gangs that are fighting over that neighborhood."

  "Do you have them by the balls, Ronny?"

  There was a moment of silence. "I wish I could say I did, Mack. We've got a case, but it's not exactly Samsonite, if you know what I mean. One confession and a lot of circumstantial evidence."