by Chris Bauer
Consenting adults, Judge reminded himself.
‘Unimpressed’ was too positive a term. Mr. GQ Perfect Posture’s jaw muscles started tightening. He was loading up, readying for a confrontation about Judge’s appearance. Absent his dogs, Judge was vulnerable. Upscale B&B, conservative patrons, with both flat screens tuned to a sermon by televangelist Higby Hunt, a blustery Texas preacher with a nationwide ministry. Okay, Judge got it, so maybe he could have asked the kitchen staff to put together a plate for him to eat upstairs. Too late. Out of respect, he ate quickly. This only added to the man’s agitation, since it looked like Judge hadn’t eaten in days.
“Looks like you had a tough night, fella,” GQ said to him. “I’ll give you one hundred dollars if you leave right now.” His stare drilled into the side of Judge’s head. If Judge had sideburns, or any hair for that matter, his head would have ignited.
Custom-fitted, tight white dress shirt, each collar bearing a “JESUS” stickpin in gold block letters, the guy and his health-club physique looked a tad precious, much more Lucille Roberts than Gold’s Gym. Gold tips decorated his bolo tie, its etched, oval Western slide in gold as well. Above the collar was a body-shop tan and a silver-flecked blond mustache. In contrast Judge looked like he’d spent a night in a landfill and was in need of a hazmat scrub.
“One hundred dollars,” GQ repeated. “Take it outside, and when I’m finished eating you’ll get your money. How’s that sound, old man?”
Good diction. A smirk-laden, condescending pal-o’-mine delivery. A presence. The guy had done this before and gotten his way. And whomever he’d suckered into the offer had never seen the money.
Hell, Judge was game. “So if I stop eating right now, and I wait outside, you’ll come out when you’re finished your quiche and give me some money? You know, champ, you’re right. My bad. A poor choice on my part, ruining breakfast for the rest of these nice folks.” Judge drained his coffee and pushed his chair back. “But as far as you and your girlfriend here are concerned,” he stood, producing his wallet, “I couldn’t give a shit.” He slapped two one-hundred-dollar bills onto GQ’s table. “To reimburse you for your stay. Old man.”
The money next to the man’s half-eaten fruit cup should have been statement enough, but Judge felt feisty. He dropped another bill onto the woman’s plate.
“And for you, young lady, here’s a twenty in case he didn’t tip you for, you know, renting your cu…cu…”
He got stuck on the hard “c,” which tangled his throat up, nearly choking him while he tried to hold back the rest of a mounting verbal assault.
“…cuh, cuh, cuh…”
His subconscious loaded up for an explosion of shit-talk, readying a barrage of streaming profanity set to sprint off his tongue into an abyss of deranged utterances unfit for human consumption, offensive to all within earshot if they got out.
“…cun, cun, cun-cun-cun…”
To those nearby, he presented as a stuttering adult trying hard to complete a sentence, not what he was, a guy with a severe potty-mouth disorder about to bust a gasket trying to dam up the diarrhea.
GQ’s date was super pissed, which made GQ super pissed, which made him toss his napkin and get to his feet.
Judge powered through the pending barrage, defused it by locating his rabbit’s foot keychain. He finally squeezed out the last word like he was passing a kidney stone.
“…companionship.”
There. Whew. Judge smiled at him. All better now.
It might as well have been the c-word; the sentiment was the same. Mr. GQ’s manliness got the better of him. The two men were now nose to nose, and they were gonna go.
From over Judge’s shoulder: “Mister Drury! Please!”
A silver-haired man in a Kiss-The-Cook bib apron separated them with arms to their chests. The cook’s younger partner, also male, pulled Judge aside. “I’m sorry, Mister Drury, but I can’t have you upsetting our other guests like this. I think it best that you leave. We’ll refund your deposit. I’m sure you understand.”
It was as much a plea as it was a directive. The fear in the man’s eyes made Judge back off, and he was about to apologize for scaring him when his partner’s nervous glances past Judge’s shoulder said he was less afraid of Judge and more afraid of Mr. GQ. The man’s dress, his confidence, and his need to assert himself. This was a self-righteous conservative who could make trouble for this gay couple trying to make a living in Texas, the straightest state in the Union, or so its residents wanted everyone to believe.
So be it. GQ got to keep his dignity and his balls because of Judge’s read of the situation. He went upstairs to collect Maeby.
Saddled up in the van, Judge reached behind Maeby’s ears and gave her a quick scratch. Finding another place to stay that was pet friendly on short notice would be a challenge. Nothing within twenty miles, and he was deathbed tired. Against his better judgment he keyed in a certain phone number. After many rings:
“…mgglumph…”
“Owen. Judge Drury.”
“…orggg.”
“Wake up, Owen.”
“Leave me the hell alone, Evans. I filed the story. I accept your edits, whatever the hell they are.”
“Owen, it’s not your editor. It’s Judge Drury, the bounty hunter. I need a favor.”
“What.”
“I need a place to stay for a few days.”
“Fine. Door’s open. I’m going back to sleep.”
The answer he expected. God help him.
Owen’s front door wasn’t open. Judge walked his dogs, both leashed, around back. Deep-throated moos and other animal noises greeted them from the edge of the property. They also got an ominous snort from Señor Q, his black bull eyes following them. The monster looked bigger than he did yesterday, all eighteen- hundred of his pounds full of mean. The sliding glass door to the family room was ajar. With some effort Judge ushered his dogs inside.
No welcome from Owen, only snoring from another room. Judge cleaned off one of the couches and lay down. The dogs settled in next to him on the cluttered floor, exhausted.
Judge woke up, his face full of cat. Bruce retreated.
From his space on the couch Judge smelled bacon, then saw bacon, greasy undercooked strips of it silhouetted against an overhead light in the kitchen, dangling from each of Owen’s hands until he released them into the dogs’ patiently waiting mouths. Judge checked his phone. One-thirty p.m. Afour-hour nap would have to do. Owen was now dressed in street clothes with bib jeans and a yellow tee. Much better than his Cowboy Black Bart clown outfit. Without the cowboy hat, his dreads were in full display. Not a bad look for him.
“You’re going to make my dogs sick, Owen. They’ll shit when and where you don’t want them to. No more greasy bacon.”
“How about you? Want some? I’ll microwave another pound. I’m starving.”
He declined, and asked if there was coffee. Owen’s chin directed him to a Keurig at the end of the counter. Five minutes and eight consumed ounces later, Judge was alert enough to remember he was a day and a half overdue for a shower.
“Guest bathroom is down the hall, on the right. Enough of the plumbing works so keep your mouth shut about the rest of it, capisce? I had a girlfriend a while back. It was her bathroom. We didn’t part on good terms.”
Judge grabbed his toiletry kit. Owen called after him. “Oh. And I think I got all the broken glass, if that crosses your mind.”
Two white sinks, a dripping spigot. Brown hair, strands and stubs of it, in both sink drains; it was also on the floor, the light-colored walls, and the sweating toilet tank. A wide mirror spanned both sinks, with cracks spidering away from a bulls-eye impact at eye level. Shelves with women’s cosmetics. And splashes and drips of glow-in-the-dark nail polish everywhere, the bottles not in evidence.
Jackson Pollock’s bathroom, in 3-D. Judge planned on taking the quickest shower ever, and with his eyes closed.
“She did like my genitals,” Owen vol
unteered when he returned from the shower, “after I validated the black myth for her. But you know the type, Judge. ‘I love you, you’re perfect, now change.’ For some reason she thought she could make me taller. Or maybe she wanted me to quit drinking. Can’t remember which. Either way, she lost. By the way, Frannie Kitchens called.”
“And he would be…?”
“Glenn Heights Chief of Police. We’ve known each other since we were kids. You can have your gun back, you’re cleared. Oh, and he liked my column this morning. I could have made you an Internet hero if you’d let me use your name.”
“No thanks. You still drunk?”
“No, unfortunately.”
“Good. Let’s go get my gun and ask some questions.” Owen grabbed his sequined ten-gallon hat, snapped it onto his head, his dreads hanging to his shoulders. Judge stared him down. “You need to lose that. You look like a walking condom.”
“Heard it before.” He dented the top of the hat. This only solidified the penis image. “The hat’s subliminal. Impresses the women. Shut up and drive.”
TEN
The flight touched down at Dulles Airport. Naomi awakened to find her head cradled against a pillow. The pillow’s placement was a good thing. Her neck would have been stiff without it. She’d thank their attentive business class flight attendant for her kindness on the way out.
But when they reached the exit there was no flight attendant to thank. Naomi strained to look past Mr. Trenton. Their attendant flipped open the overhead bin to stow Naomi’s pillow away. She stopped short, a pillow already there. After an about face, the attendant stuffed the pillow in its rightful place, the empty bin above Mr. Trenton’s seat.
Edward White Paw Trenton. An attentive, kind, and gentle giant of a man.
Naomi liked him.
“Washington, D.C.,” Larinda said, speaking into her phone. “Motel 6. Yes,” she answered when prompted. She made the reservation with one of the six or so credit cards in her possession, none of which were hers. At four p.m. in Knoxville, Tennessee, Larinda was still on Route 40 in the rain, a downpour, almost twelve hours after she first got on the road, but the rain was letting up.
Her intent: drive through to D.C. tonight, arrive around eleven, crash in a motel. Tomorrow she’d change her hair color again, scope out the area, and check into the process for gaining admission to the Supreme Court while it was in session.
The Court had its own police, and in the courtroom itself, security was prohibitively extreme. Outside the courtroom but inside the building, it was more tourist-friendly. Other than that, when a justice traveled on official business, the U.S. Marshal Service was engaged. But when justices circulated among the general citizenry, it was dial nine-oneone.
Incidents of violence against Supreme Court justices that she was aware of, because she’d looked them up: Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a purse snatching; David Souter, a mugging by two men while he jogged in D.C.; Stephen Breyer, robbed at his vacation home in St. Kitts by a machete-wielding intruder, then robbed again in Georgetown the same year. Wrong place, wrong time for all three of these justices, each act directed against them as general citizens, not against them as members of the Supreme Court.
And then there was Justice Byron White, deceased, who’d been far from a wallflower. “Whizzer” White in college, he was a football star who played professionally for Pittsburgh in the 1930s and 1940s. He served in WWII, returned home and graduated Yale Law. In 1982 he was attacked while he gave a speech in Utah. According to reports, the sixty-four-year-old Supreme Court justice “cleaned the attacker’s clock.” Gutsy and admirable, and certainly not a typical outcome from an attack on a senior. Regardless, soon after the attack, the U.S. Marshal Service began protecting traveling Supreme Court justices.
Justice White was also one of the two dissenters in Roe vs. Wade. This, for Larinda, made him gutsy and admirable times two.
The newest judge was neither gutsy nor admirable; she was a disease. A heathen savage worse than an atheist. Assassinating her would be the first such act against a Supreme Court justice in history. No special thrill, no laurels, only the satisfaction that with this attack the Church Hammer would have smitten forty years of atrocious, immoral acts in the name of an abominable 1973 court decision.
The rain picked up again, pounding the windshield. She tapped at the brakes, negotiated the interstate amid Knoxville’s rush hour traffic now complicated by severe weather. Her hand wound bled through the gauze again. At the next rest stop, she’d repack it.
Apartments, condos, townhouses, rentals or owned, the justices’ residences were all within commuting car service distance to D.C., but there was little else Larinda knew about where they lived. The locations of their residences weren’t publicized. She’d need help in determining her target’s address. But it wouldn’t come from any contact with The Faithful. She wanted the assassination to be a surprise to them. A gift, for all they’d done for her.
ELEVEN
Judge returned his Glock to the holster in the small of his back, underneath his tee shirt, the gun having suffered no observable repercussions from whatever ballistics were performed on it. The police chief seemed like a good guy but wasn’t forthcoming like Owen said he’d be. He talked with them near his dispatcher’s desk, inside the combination police station/town government building. The cops occupied the basement. It was around four p.m. Judge’s dogs were in the van.
“No, Chigger. No access.”
“Look. Chief. Frannie.” If Owen weren’t a little person, this would have been the point when he’d put his arm around his friend the chief’s shoulder in full schmooze mode. Regardless, apparently his balls were just as big as he claimed. “A favor. Just let us see Miss Jordan’s place. My buddy here has dogs. Trained military working dogs. They find shit people miss.”
Owen had no idea what he was talking about but Judge let him muddle through it. Maeby was a bomb-sniffing expert and a tracker, Judge’s partner in the Marines, and she was damn good at all of it. J.D. was an eighty-pound savage takedown artist, apprentice bomb-sniffer and tracker, but not military; a pound puppy both he and Maeby trained. His deputies were taught to restrain, maim and/or kill, and they’d done all three. But aside from bombs and bad guys, finding things police detectives missed, like clues, was a stretch.
“So you’re saying my detective is incompetent. You’re not helping yourself here, Chigger. You sure you’re sober?”
A red-haired guy with glasses two desks away was keenly interested in Owen’s response. “Your detective, he, ah, looks competent enough to me, Frannie, so no, that’s not what I’m saying, but yes, sorry to say, I am sober.”
The chief turned to Judge for confirmation about the sobriety. Not that he should believe a complete stranger, but Judge had been elevated to hero status because of last night’s efforts. He nodded affirmation.
“Fine then.” The chief eyed Owen’s hat. “Lose that black phallus and I’ll let you in my office.” Under a whiney protest the high-rise black Stetson didn’t accompany them inside, was instead parked on a credenza just outside.
Chief Frannie Kitchens’ desk was polished mahogany, long and narrow, and clean except for two tight paper piles, one left, one right, and a pen and legal pad front and center. Starched navy blue cop uniform, ice blue eyes, with a gray-blond crew cut waxed and standing at attention just above his forehead. Judge didn’t press it, but this guy had ex-military written all over him. Younger, maybe mid-forties, and in kick-ass shape. His hair and chiseled face gave him the look of a Butch or a Bull or a Bo, not a Frannie. Owen declined a seat, stayed on his feet in front of the chief’s desk. Judge took the seat offered. They faced their host.
An autographed eight-by-ten glossy of Chief Kitchens and one Owen “Chigger” Wingert together hung on the left wall, left of center among many photos. In it Owen cradled his hat in his arm like in a photo from the Old West, his other hand shaking the chief’s. At bottom: “Byte this, Frannie. Never losing the hat. Your friend, Chigger.
”
“You will stay out of our way,” the chief stated rather than asked, emphasis on ‘will.’ “And you will cooperate, and you will share information. And you will not write about it in your column. Not until we make a collar. Otherwise, no deal.”
“You have our word, Frannie. On my mother’s grave.”
“Your mother was cremated, Chigger. Her ashes are on your mantle. And you hated her.”
“Fine, Frannie, whatever. We promise all of it, right, Judge?”
“Cross my heart.”
The chief called ahead, then confirmed the address LeVander already gave Judge for the bounty’s apartment in a Dallas suburb, plus the plate number for her Ford SUV. They also learned a local pastor had put up her bail. Chief Kitchens provided a list of aliases that appeared on the bogus OxyContin prescriptions the police had found at her place. No weapons were located, although the chief did share one peculiar detail about the murders.
“The bullets were R.I.P. bullets. Some nasty high-tech stuff that fragments into pieces once they poke a hole into body tissue. They blew holes through the sheet metal and the trailer’s composite walls before they entered its interior. Expensive ammunition, purchased from a hunting accessories store in Dallas.
“One other thing. She left her teacher’s job in the Tulsa Catholic school system to become a nun. Some time after that, she ended up in Dallas.”
If it weren’t for the proximity and timing of the three murders, with someone placing this person at the church just before the pastor was killed, Frannie said she wouldn’t have been considered a suspect in any of this.
Soon as they exited the chief’s office, Owen went off. “All right you bastards, who took my Stetson?”
His outburst got him two sets of shoulder shrugs from uniformed officers and another if-looks-could-kill death stare from the redheaded detective in plainclothes. The fourth cop, the dispatcher, was on a call. She thumbed him in the direction of the station’s galley kitchen.