Judgment (16 page)

Esteban knew his value to the gang was not as a violent commando. He was an errand boy and a punching bag. It was a perilous existence, but he liked to see people scared. He enjoyed it when they set that cop on fire. It made him feel strong. Made him feel like he had balls like Primo and Baldo. Sometimes it even made him come.

His allegiance was to anyone who could protect him and keep him entertained in this fashion. Primo and the gang did both exceedingly well. But there was another who did it better, who offered him more and gave him some sense of power. Someone who, until Mr. Jury came along, scared him more than Primo.

He saw the flames when he turned the corner. A crowd of people lined the fence of the scrap yard, and police cars were parked everywhere. Panic stormed through his guts.
Not Primo!
he thought to himself. Primo was too macho, too tough. Without thinking, Esteban stepped off the curb and walked across the street.

He heard the loud wail of a horn. Turning his head, he saw a pair of headlights closing on him. The coroner's wagon screeched to a halt inches from him.

"Watch out, boy, you're going to get hurt," a white-clad driver yelled. Esteban fled without looking back. He fled until his chest was tight with pain and his legs felt like lead.

Lost, scared, and out of breath, Esteban felt his bladder opening and then the warm wetness trickling down the side of his leg.

"Oh God," Esteban whined. "I'm next."

After what seemed like hours, his breathing slowly returned to normal. The shaking became chilly, infrequent quivers, and the pain ebbed in his chest. Esteban realized he had to think his way out of this. He wasn't like the others Mr. Jury killed. Esteban had an ally. A powerful ally. He would go to him for help.

Yes, he would help me, Esteban thought, straightening up.
I won't die.

Esteban, comforted now, opened his eyes and turned away from the wall. And stared straight into a gun barrel. Esteban shrieked, throwing his hands up in front of his face.

Brett Macklin cocked the gun.

"Wait! Wait!" Esteban pleaded, his voice cracking. "Look, I'm not the one you want, man. Look, I'm small-time, okay?"

"Convince me," Macklin said softly.

"It's bigger man, really, it's bigger. I'll help you. Look, the cop wasn't burned 'cause of us. See, the mayor wanted him killed. The mayor told us to kill the cop."

Macklin touched the gun to Esteban's forehead. "You'll have to do better than that."

Esteban moved backward, his shoulder scraping the wall. "You're making a big mistake if you waste me. Look, I can help you. Get me safe and I'll talk."

Macklin kept silent.

"Huh? Okay?! I'll talk, just get me safe."

Macklin stared into Esteban's eyes. "You want me to swallow this bullshit about Lucas Breen? Breen didn't stroll down here and ask you to kill my father."

"No!" Esteban squealed, nodding his head up and down, eager to please Macklin. "But someone did for him, really, I know, so for Christ's sake keep me alive to prove it. I'm better for you alive. Christ, you can always kill me later, right?"

Macklin lowered his gun and grabbed Esteban by the collar. "All right, punk, this story had better be good. Your life depends on it."

"Yeah, yeah, it'll be good." He looked fearfully into Macklin's eyes.

He released Esteban and started walking down the street. Pushing Esteban in front of him.

"Why was my father killed?" Macklin asked.

Esteban swallowed. "Look, alls I know is that he was asking too many questions. He wanted to know everything about what every gang was doing. You know? Everything he heard on the street he wanted double-checked."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Like if he heard the Black Belts messed up with the Cougars, he wanted me to find him someone who saw it happen. Someone who could prove to him that it was true."

"Why?" Macklin roared, grabbing Esteban by the arm and dragging him closer.

"I don't know!" Esteban yelled frantically. "I just did what he asked, you know?"

"What does this have to do with Lucas Breen?"

Before Esteban could answer, a gunshot rang out from across the street. Macklin dove behind a parked car, dragging Esteban down with him.

Macklin hadn't been quick enough. The right side of Esteban's head was gaping open, blood gurgling through a splintered mess of hair and bone. Esteban's body rattled, splashing blood on the car.

Macklin raised his gun and peeked around the front of the car. He could barely see the gunman standing in the shadows beside the building directly across the street. Macklin bolted up, firing the Magnum twice in the same motion.

The bullets glanced off the brick beside the gunman, who ducked and returned Macklin's fire.

Macklin pulled back as one bullet ricocheted off the car's front grill and another shattered the windshield.

Macklin heard the footfalls as the gun man abandoned his cover and ran down the alley. Macklin rose and sprinted across the street, hugging the walls of the building for cover as he dashed down the alley after the assailant.

He saw the gunman dart out of the alley and take cover behind a car. Macklin hurled himself against the wall as the gunman fired and felt the hot bite of the bullet slashing his forehead.

Macklin fell forward on his knees, blinded by the pain, blood streaming down his face. He blinked open his eyes and, reaching back to the wall to steady himself, stood up.

Wiping the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand, he slid along the wall to the street. Remaining in the shadows, he scanned the street. Parked cars lined both sides. No one was in sight.

Cautiously, he emerged from the alley and stepped dizzily into the street, the gun held shakily in his hand. The street was quiet. Macklin lowered his gun and sighed. Whoever it was had escaped.

Then Macklin heard a roar down the street to his left. He spun and saw a sedan racing towards him. He spread out his legs to brace himself and aimed the gun carefully in front of him, firing twice into the windshield of the oncoming sedan before leaping out of its path onto the hood of a parked car.

As the sedan thundered past, Macklin caught a quick glimpse of the driver before he tumbled off the hood and onto the sidewalk.

Macklin stood up slowly, swayed unsteadily, and watched the car screech around the corner and disappear. Blackness closed in on him and he fell against the parked car, sliding to the sidewalk.

Groaning, Macklin willed himself to stand. He grabbed the car door and pulled himself up, his eyes closed, a fleeting image of the gunman flashing in his head. Macklin couldn't hold the image long enough to identify the man, but he knew one thing. The gunman was no stranger.

Macklin heard the echo of footsteps from the alley. The police must have been drawn to the gunfire. Macklin trudged down the street in the same direction the speeding sedan had gone.

He turned the corner and quickened his pace, his strides smoothing as the pain in his head waned and his sense of balance returned. Gradually, his walk became a sprint, his battered body protesting with innumerable aches as he forced it to move quickly through the night.

When he was certain no one was following him, he jogged along the twisting, circuitous route to his car, which he had parked a mile away from Primo's scrap yard. His face was twisted in anger. He had expected to be free of this whole nightmare by this evening, his father's death avenged, his life assuming some semblance of normalcy.

The gunman changed all that.

Macklin drove himself faster, straining his legs, trying to run the deep disappointment, the physical pain, and the burning rage out of him. Running for Macklin was like flying, a sort of freedom, a perch above it all from which to reflect. It gave him the distance to observe things more clearly.

But nothing was clear anymore.

The facts just didn't make any sense to him.

He had thought his father had been just another victim of a sadistic gang folly. Now it appeared to be more than that. Melody and Saul had told him his father had been puzzled by gang violence in the neighborhood.

What was it Melody had said?
Macklin asked himself. Something about rumors, lies, that were sparking gang violence. Yes, that was it. People were acting on rumors about events that never occurred. Gangs were exacting deadly retribution from rival gangs over affronts and attacks that never happened.

JD was investigating those rumors, where they were coming from and why, when he was killed.

Macklin was falling into his rhythm now, his feet padding gently and softly on the pavement, his body shifting into that exertion-fed physical and emotional high.

Now Melody and Saul were both dead. Macklin had no doubt it was because they had talked to him. Why were they killed? What danger did they pose, and to whom?

Again the gunman's fleeting image toyed with Macklin.
I've been a fool,
he thought. Someone is following me, picking off anyone that can get me closer to the truth about my father. How long has the killer been on my tail? Why and for whom?

Why am I still alive? Surely, he's had dozens of opportunities to kill me.
That question, for the moment, seemed the most puzzling. Why hadn't the gunman killed him along with Melody, Saul, and Moe? Was the bullet that killed Esteban meant for him?

Macklin slowed a few yards short of the Batmobile, parked beside the gray rubble of a demolished building.

The killing wasn't over—that was clear to him. Macklin tried again to hold the gunman's image long enough to recognize it. Find the gunman, Macklin knew, and he'd find his answers. And his freedom.

Then again, it occurred to him, he might not have to find the gunman. The gunman might find him.

Brett Macklin lived in the sort of single-story house a child might draw—symmetrical, a front door flanked by two windows and topped with a pointed roof.

The sea breeze that cooled Macklin now as he rose from the Batmobile had done its subtle damage to his home, gradually stripping off the white paint in tiny flakes and exposing the turquoise underneath.

Three old Cadillacs rested on his unkempt front lawn like tired, grazing cattle. The neighbors were constantly complaining about it, threatening to legally force him to get rid of the "ugly relics," but so far they were all bark and no bite.

One of the cars was a mere skeleton, a rusted four-door body on blocks that Macklin had hoped to transform into a blazing red classic. He stood beside it and tried to rekindle his enthusiasm, remembering how excited Shaw had been when Macklin gave him the blue Cadillac convertible. It was pointless. The Brett Macklin who had been childishly eager about the project was gone. Those sorts of visions seemed beyond his reach now.

He took the Magnum out and tossed it inside the gutted hulk and then trudged up the front steps, inserted the key in the deadbolt, and turned the knob. Wearily, he pushed open the door and stepped over a pile of mail, closed the door, and switched on the light.

Macklin went into the closet-size hall bathroom under the stairs and looked at his face in the mirror. His hair was stuck to the caked blood on his forehead.

"Shit, do you look like hell," he told his reflection. He twisted on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water.

The water refreshed him and washed away the blood. When Macklin looked into the mirror again, he was surprised to see that the bullet had barely nicked his forehead.

"It's always the little ones that bleed the most," he said to himself. After drying his face off with a towel, he clicked off the light and went into the kitchen.

A week's worth of dishes sat soaking in the sink, nearly submerged in brownish water, soggy bran flakes, and bits of fat. It gave the compact kitchen a sour smell.

The cupboards looked bleached, badly in need of restaining, and the countertops, yellowed with age, wouldn't shine if soaked for a month in Formula 409. The floor, however, was brand-new, designed to look like a cobblestone path. Because Macklin rarely swept the floor, it was easy to mistake it for one.

Cleanliness was of little concern to Macklin. There were only two rooms in the house Macklin cared about anyway—the bedroom and the garage. The rest of the house was just space to throw his stuff.

Macklin sauntered over to the refrigerator, opened it, and searched for the makings of a quick meal. He discovered some leftover pepperoni pizza wrapped in foil. He pulled out the pizza and a Schlitz, and closed the refrigerator door with his rear end. As he carried the food to the table, he noticed the light blinking on his telephone answering machine on the counter. So he hit the "play" button with his elbow as he passed the machine.

He dragged a wooden chair out from under the small butcher block with his foot and sat down.

Beep.
"Hi, Brett, this is Cheshire. I haven't heard from you. Let's get together, okay? Gimme a call at home or at the hospital. Bye!"

Beep.
"Fred Jenkins here. You have just won $1,000 worth of savings for just $39.95. That's right Mr. . . . ah . . . Mr. Brett Macklin. Our coupon book, being held in your name for a limited time, will entitle you to a treasure trove of values, $1,000 worth, for just a piddling $39.95. Call me, Fred Jenkins, at 555-7497 to claim your $1,000 in spending power!"

Beep
. "I think the warp drive is busted on my Caddy. Scotty, can you give it a look-see? " It was Macklin's former brother-in-law, the proud owner of one of Macklin's rebuilt '59 Cadillacs. He smiled as he chewed a mouthful of pizza. "The thing shakes 'n' groans and the rockets in the back just aren't spitting out the flaming thrust I'm used to. See ya. Bye."

Beep
. Static.
Click.

A hanger-upper.
Asshole.
Macklin swallowed some beer and took another big bite out of the pizza slice.

Beep
. "Hey, old buddy, it's me, a haunting voice from your past, eh?" Kirk Jeffries still sounded as though someone had just poured a can of Drano down his throat. Macklin remembered the last time he saw Jeffries, two years ago, soaking in the rain waiting to see a
Dirty Harry
movie. "I'll be making my triumphant return to the sunny southland tomorrow. I've been having wet dreams about the Chicken Shack, so what do you say we meet there tomorrow night at seven thirty? Grab Ron and we can relive our college days. If you can't make it, gimme a call at the Beverly Wilshire."