Judgment (6 page)

"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."

"But you've got them."

"We've got them."

"Hey." Macklin's voice was unsteady for a moment. He paused, and then continued. "Thanks. I—"

"Listen, Mack, why don't you come by tonight and have a bite with Sunny and me?"

Dinner with them usually meant sprouts, exotic wine made in somebody's basement or something, avocado things, alfalfa stuff, and protein drinks.

"I think I'll pass this time. The Batmobile needs some attention tonight."

"Okay, another time, then."

"You got it. Gimme a call. I wanna see these guys go down."

"Sure thing, Mack."

Shaw set down the phone gently on the cradle. Sliran came up behind him.

"That patrol car you sent to that kid's house just called in."

Shaw swiveled around in his chair. "Uh-huh?"

"The kid's not there."

"Shit." Shaw glanced at his watch. Where had the two hours gone? He felt a twinge of dread. Did Cruz double-cross him and run? Shaw ran his hands through his hair. "We've got to canvas the neighborhood. Cruz has to be found."

"All right, all right, calm down." Sliran scratched his cheek. "Listen, we've got the other guys, we'll get him. What's the big deal?"

"You're right." Shaw fingered a cassette on his desk. "With this, the case is tied up anyway."

"Tied up all right." Sliran walked away. "Like a noose." He sat down at his desk and looked through the clutter for a moment. Then he reached for the phone. "This is Sliran, Homicide. Have your boys check out the alley on Morrison. That's right. Ah-huh. The alley where Macklin bought it."

Saul and Moe stood beside the ambulance, unable to see over the crush of people what all the excitement was in the alley. Moe chewed on some ice, the paper cup tilted over his face like a muzzle.

"What's happening to our neighborhood?" Saul said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Open your eyes, Saul. Nothing's changed. Nothing at all," Moe said, nearly spitting a mouthful of ice on Saul's shoulder.

"JD's gone."

Their faces were long and tired. Two old basset hounds, sleepy eyed with age. They were falling prey to the gulling, sapping forces of the neighborhood.

Saul and Moe were caught suddenly in the glare of headlights as a car skidded to a stop at their feet. Shaw bolted out of the car and broke through the crowd. Sliran emerged casually, pulling out a pack of Marlboros.

"What's going on here, Officer?" Moe asked.

Sliran lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Saul and Moe. They declined. "A kid, one of those ones we think killed Macklin, was roughed up a bit in the alley."

"Is he dead?" Saul asked hopefully.

"No." Sliran slipped through the crowd and walked slowly down the alley towards the huddle of uniforms at the end.

Shaw was kneeling in the grime beside Tomas, the youth's face a smear of blood and dirt. His arms and legs were twisted at obscene angles, his T-shirt in filthy tatters.

"Jesus . . . ," Shaw muttered. "Tomas, Tomas, can you hear me? Who did this to you?"

Cruz was sobbing. "Get away from me," he sputtered.

"Tomas, I want to help you. Who did this to you?"

"G-get away from me!" he shrieked, suddenly stiffening with pain.

Shaw felt a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, we gotta take this guy away now," the paramedic said. "Save the questions for later."

Shaw sighed. A flash from a camera illuminated the scene, the broken body amidst the trash and dirt.

"Sir, please."

Shaw stepped away as they gently picked up Tomas and put him on a stretcher.

Sliran came up behind Shaw.

"I hope they brought a few baggies," Sliran snickered, idly tossing a bloodied finger in his hand.

# # # # # #

Dr. Ralph "Cheeks" Beddicker was losing. Baby after baby hit the ground with a splat.

He hunkered down in the plastic chair, his face pressed against his wristwatch. Another baby went splat.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Beddicker barked, his cheeks billowing.
Splat.

Shaw opened the lounge door. His eyes were bloodshot, his tie loose at the collar, and his hair askew. "I need to talk with you a sec."

Splat.
"Could you hang on?" He took a deep breath, angered at the break in his concentration. No matter how fast he hit the little button, his fireman never made it to the burning building on time. Another baby kissed the pavement. The game beeped at him.
Splat.

"This damn watch." Beddicker cursed and finally looked up at Shaw."My son gave it to me for Christmas. It's driving me nuts." He stared silently at Shaw, concentrating on his face like he was going to paint it from memory someday. Finally, he said, "So what can I do for you?"

"How's the boy?"

"Huh? Oh, the mess you guys brought in a few hours ago. Cruz, right?"

"Tomas Cruz. How is he? When can I talk to him?"

"He's alive. He won't run any marathons, though. Both his legs are broken, a couple splintered ribs scratching up his internal organs. He's missing a piece of one finger and he's got a hairline skull fracture.

"Any idea what happened to him?"

Beddicker laughed, his famous cheeks enlarging like blowfish. "He was run over by a freight train." Beddicker shook his head disapprovingly. "Someone slapped the kid around with a block of cement. I dunno. You're the detective. Look around for a blunt object. Like a wall or something."

"When can I talk to him?"

Beddicker stretched. "As far as I'm concerned, anytime you want."

"Thanks, Cheeks." Shaw smiled and dashed out.

Beddicker glanced at his watch. "You're gonna ruin me."

Shaw ran up the stairwell to the fifth floor, bolted out the door, and nearly sprinted to Tomas' room.

"Hold it, Sergeant," a voice yelled.

"Shit," he groaned.

Slimy Sam Dexter, the used-car salesman of attorneys, in his lime green suit and orange tie, swung his empty briefcase cockily as he stepped up to Shaw. "You're not getting near that boy, understand, not until I talk to him." Behind Dexter was Tomas' mother, Hilda, her yellow smile filling her face.

Shaw and Dexter had clashed many times. So far the score was even. Dexter thrived on the low-income, repeat-offender crowd, putting them in debt for life. They preferred Dexter's talons to twenty years of making big rocks into little ones.

"Why don't you rest those gumshoes of yours while I talk to my client?" Dexter swung his briefcase in the direction of the waiting area.

Shaw had no choice. He reluctantly went to the coffee machine and dropped in some change.

"Mrs. Cruz, I'll take care of things now. You go home and I'll swing by later." Dexter patted her on the shoulder.

Dexter walked spritely down the hallway, paused at Tomas' door to see Shaw sitting down with a cup of coffee, smiled, and stepped inside.

The room was dark. Tomas lay in the bed, both legs in traction, his head wrapped tightly in gauze and padding. His eyes were swollen shut and his lips were dark, red scabs barely clinging to his bruised face.

"Hey, Tomas!"

Tomas moaned.

Dexter pulled up a chair beside the bed, "It's me, Tomas, Sam Dexter. Uncle Sam." Dexter laughed. "I'm gonna get you out of this Tomas, just like before."

"It hurts," he whispered.

"I know it does, boy, I know. Now, we've got to talk. The cops are taking numbers outside to see you. We have to get your story straight."

"Uh-huh."

"Now, tell me everything."

It took thirty minutes for Tomas to croak it out, but he did. He told Dexter about calling Shaw, about meeting him in the alley, about taping a confession so his mother and sisters wouldn't fall prey to the Man.

"Who beat you up?" Dexter asked. He was smiling. He could see this case shaping up. Nicely.

"The brothers. I was leaving the alley." Tomas paused, his body shaking with pain. "They were blocking the way, Primo, Baldo, and Jesse. They hit me. They just kept hitting me . . ."

Tomas started to cry, which only made it hurt more.

"Tomas, Tomas, listen to me,
listen
." Dexter leaned closer. "Did Shaw touch you?"

Tomas sobbed.

Dexter nudged him. Tomas cried out.

"Did Shaw touch you? Rough you up a bit?"

"No."

"No?"

"The cop didn't touch me."

Dexter sat silently for a moment while Tomas whimpered.

"Yes, he did."

"What?"

"Shaw came into the alley and beat that confession out of you."

Tomas stopped whimpering. He turned his sightless eyes slowly, painfully towards Dexter's voice. "But my momma and sisters . . ."

"Listen, you just listen to me, boy, and do
exactly
what I tell you. Do as I say and you and your momma and your sisters will be back doin' what you been doin' and Shaw won't bother anyone anymore."

Brett Macklin sat in the courtroom staring at the gang members with undisguised hatred. The judge could see it. So could the jury. His hatred was so strong you could almost touch it.

Tomas Cruz could feel it but dared not look over his shoulder. He sat still in his wheelchair, his head bandaged and his legs, in casts, sticking out straight in front of him. His facial swelling had gone down just enough so that he could see Dexter beside him, nervously adjusting his paisley tie and brushing imaginary dust off his red jacket.

Primo Manriquez was like a kid at a carnival. To him, this wasn't a murder trial but a
big fuckin' joke.
And the biggest laugh of all was sitting in the first row trying to look
bad
.

"Look at that stupid motherfucker," Primo said, playing with his thin mustache. "Hey, Esteban, look at him."

Enrico Esteban stole a quick glance at Macklin. Suddenly he was glad there were armed officers in the room.

Primo laughed. "Oooooh, he's scaring me. Ooooh."

Teobaldo "Baldo" Villanueva sat stoically. The tall, balding Chicano wasn't worried. Things just happened. If things looked as though they weren't going to work out for Teobaldo Villanueva, well, he'd just have to
make
things work out for Teobaldo Villanueva. That's all.

In Teobaldo Villanueva's world, Brett Macklin didn't exist. For now.

Mario Carrera, snoring loudly, faked sleep.

Jesse Ortega smiled at Primo. To Jesse, Primo was just about the coolest guy around. Next to himself. And Fred Williamson, of course.

Hector Gomez, his arms crossed over his chest, hunched down low in his seat and watched Blake Yates, the prosecuting attorney, as he strolled in front of the jury box carefully reciting his opening statement.