by Lee Goldberg
The plane dropped down low and came for him.
The flames from the car sounded like a windstorm, the staccato beat of the bullets chipping away at the street a savage hail.
He raised his gun. The plane filled his vision. The engine's roar filled his ears. The bullets clamored for him.
He fired twice.
The plane vomited deep black smoke and curled sharply in a skyward arc, sputtered, and ped. Rocking uncontrollably, the plane glided unevenly toward the entrance of a parking structure behind him, as if it suddenly thought it was just a fancy Ford station wagon.
The plane's wings were ripped away as it skidded through the entranceway into the darkness on a carpet of sparks and smoke. A split second later, an explosion tore through the structure, the building splitting open like a popcorn kernel.
He lowered his gun and, as people started to peek out of the doorways and windows they had been hiding behind, walked leisurely down the street.
"That was fantastic!" Mort Suderson yelled, slapping the floor in front of the television. The film's end credits rolled across the screen as Nick Crecko, the Bloodmaster, disappeared into the sunset against the Los Angeles skyline. "Wasn't it great, Brett?"
"C'mon, Mort, it was crap," Macklin groaned, reaching toward the VCR atop the TV set.
"Wait! Don't turn it off yet. Don't you want to see our credit?" Mort looked at Macklin as if he were crazy. Macklin, raising his hands in a show of acquiescence, stepped back and watched the screen.
Aerial transportation provided by: Blue Yonder Airways
"That's us!" Mort pointed at the set, wagging his finger excitedly. "That's us, boss! We're stars!"
Macklin clicked off the VCR and hit the "eject" button, tossing the videotape onto Mort's lap. "All we did was fly the film crew around. No one is going to nominate us for an Oscar."
Mort reached up, braced himself on a couch cushion, rose to his feet and stretched. "Christ, Brett, I love hard-core police drama."
Macklin went into his kitchen, which adjoined the living room. "That was shit, Mort. C'mon, a fighter plane chasing a guy through downtown Los Angeles? Who are they kidding?"
Mort, glancing back to make sure he wasn't being watched, brushed potato chip crumbs off his faded blue jeans onto the shag carpet and then followed Macklin into the kitchen. "It's exciting. It isn't supposed to be Shakespeare."
Macklin opened the refrigerator. "What would you like, Mort?"
Mort eyed the six-pack of Schlitz longingly but knew better. Booze had already fucked up his life enough. "Gimme one of those Diet Cokes."
Macklin grabbed a beer for himself and handed Mort the diet drink. "I have a hard time separating what I know about the filmmakers from the film itself. Brock Dale, the guy who played macho Nick Crecko, is a whimpering homosexual, an egotistical little hemorrhoid in the ass of humanity."
"You've got to forget that." Mort snapped open the Diet Coke and took a big gulp. "On screen, he's the invincible Bloodmaster. Has been for years." Mort ambled into the living room and dropped himself onto Macklin's couch.
"Has-been is right." Macklin, sipping his beer, leaned against the kitchen doorway. He could hear raindrops tapping the roof. "But I have to admit, it was a nice way to kill a lazy, rainy afternoon."
"Yeah, I tell you, I'm going to fucking sue the Beach Boys," Mort said, pausing to swallow a mouthful of Diet Coke. "Did they ever mention weeklong rainstorms in their songs, huh? No. The sun was always shining and everybody was getting laid. Do you see the sunshine? Do you see me getting laid?"
Mort shifted his gaze to the Duraflame log burning in the fireplace beside the TV. "But that's going to change."
"The weather or your sex life?" Macklin quipped.
"Who gives a shit about the weather? I can't do anything about that. I can fix my sex life. I'm going to make a few changes."
"Like what?"
"I'm thinking of changing my name," Mort offered cautiously. "I've thought it out and I think I'd make a good Mortimer Neville. It's sexy, it's now, and it's a happening name. It's me."
Macklin stared silently at Mort.
"It's a great name, huh?" Mort continued, nervously filling the silence. "A real fuckable name. A guy with a name like that could get so much action he'd have to get his schlong insured against injury."
Mort stood up and started pacing in front of the fire. "Of course if I'm going to be that active with the ladies, I'm going to need an operation."
"Operation?" Macklin asked uneasily.
Mort stuck his tongue out, shoved his index finger under it, and approached Macklin. "I'm gonna have this little connection here snipped off," he slobbered. "It'll make my tongue longer. I think it's too short and I'm not adequately satisfying women with it, you know? I also plan to drop a few hundred bucks into some new clothes."
The sound of the front door slamming shut drew their attention to the entry hall. The two men turned and saw a frowning Cheshire Davis, still in her white nurse's uniform, carrying two bags of groceries into the house. "That's disgusting, Mort, nauseating."
"How long have you been standing there?" Mort said, his face reddening.
She walked past Mort into the kitchen, her eyes scolding him. "Long enough, Mort."
Macklin started to laugh.
"Ah, fuck you, Brett," Mort shot back, reaching for his pseudo-sheepskin-lined Levi's jacket lying in a heap on the floor. "It isn't funny. I was born handicapped, with a deformed tongue."
Macklin, rocking with laughter, spilled his beer on the floor. Cheshire, unpacking the groceries, began to laugh as well.
"It isn't funny!" Mort shouted. "I'm correcting a birth defect."
Realizing that he was making no headway with either of them, Mort gave up, stomping to the front door in a huff and yanking it open.
Macklin's laughter stopped abruptly. He saw Shaw standing in the doorway, his gray trench coat soaked with rain.
Mort looked over his shoulder at Brett for some kind of cue.
"See you later, Mort." Macklin caught his breath, his smile ebbing. Mort hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether to leave or not, then brushed past Shaw into the rain.
"Can I come in?" Shaw asked sheepishly.
Macklin looked over his shoulder at Cheshire, who was busy stuffing food into the refrigerator and apparently hadn't heard Shaw's voice. Macklin sighed, approaching Shaw quietly. He made no motion to invite him in.
"What is it?" Macklin demanded, careful to keep his voice low. He knew what Shaw wanted. Every morning Macklin awoke and wondered, is this the day they come for me again? The fear that his wondering might actually be longing kept him up nights.
"Mayor Stocker wants to see you," Shaw said.
Stocker wants you to pick up your gun again, a voice teased Macklin. He wants you to dig it out from under the floorboards, slip the six bullets into the chamber, and squeeze the trigger. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Macky boy? You'd like that a lot.
"No," Macklin said.
Shaw swallowed. "Look, Mack, you don't have any choice."
Macklin looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. Cheshire was out of sight, probably putting food into the refrigerator. He faced Shaw again. "My life is becoming whole again. Do you want to shatter that?" He was asking the voice inside him. Not Shaw.
"No, I don't," Shaw replied, anger seeping defensively into his voice. "You know how I feel about it. But it's not in my hands." Shaw immediately regretted the tone of his voice. None of the sympathy he actually felt came across.
To Shaw, Macklin's ocean blue eyes suddenly dimmed, his face tightening into the savage look of determination that made Shaw doubt this was the same Brett Macklin he had grown up with. The look that symbolized the man Macklin had become since his father, a beat cop, was set aflame by a street gang. The look of a killer who made sure each of those gang members ended up in a burial plot.
It was that look, and the lawlessness it represented to Shaw, that made it impossible for Shaw to ever enjoy the dee
p friendship they'd once had.
"When does he want to see me?" Macklin's words seemed to have a serrated edge.
"Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."
"All right, I'll be there." Their eyes met for a second that felt like days to Shaw. He thought he saw a spark of vulnerability in Macklin's eyes and was about to say something, to reflexively grasp for their old closeness, when Macklin slowly closed the door in his face.
CHAPTER TWO
The punker with the tangerine orange Mohawk held a sawed-off shotgun, Macklin was sure of that. Macklin had seen him out of the corner of his eye as he drove past the Quick Stop market on his way to Stocker's office.
Macklin pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The black Cadillac shot forward. At the next intersection, Macklin twisted the wheel, whipping the car into a screeching U-turn and gliding it to a stop at the street corner a quarter block up from the market. He wasn't even thinking now. His anger was doing the thinking for him.
He didn't have his gun, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. The wooden skeleton of a building under construction adjoined the garage-size Quick Stop market. Macklin assumed he could find a weapon at the construction site.
Macklin bolted out of the car and splashed through puddles on the sidewalk into the roofless structure beside the market. Crouching, Macklin searched the muddy concrete floor for a suitable weapon. He was about to settle for a damp two-by-four when he spotted a steel level lying amidst wood shavings and scattered nails. Picking it up, he swung it. The level was heavy in his hand. Yes. He smiled. This will do.
He slipped out the back of the structure into an alley and approached the market's back door. Cautiously, Macklin turned the doorknob with his left hand and slowly pushed the door open with his shoulder.
The door opened into a closet-size storeroom lined with cardboard boxes. Macklin closed the door carefully behind him and could hear voices from just outside the door across from him.
"L-look, I-I don't have the combination to the safe, r-really," Macklin heard a young man plead in a voice made shrill with fear.
"Bullshit!" the punker rasped. "Open the fucking safe, or I'll blow your head off!" The punker sounded angry and impatient. Macklin thought it was only a matter of seconds before the punker lost his cool and the cashier would be splattered all over the room.
"Open it!" the punker shouted.
Macklin eased open the storeroom door and entered the market unseen. The market was bathed in fluorescent white, three aisles running across the floor to the cashier, who was boxed in by counters cluttered with magazine displays and jars of candy. The punker, wearing snakeskin pants and a vest made of chains, shifted his weight in front of the counter, holding the shotgun six inches from the pimple-faced cashier's neck.
The cashier dumped a handful of change and curled bills onto the countertop in front of the punker.
"Here, that's all we have in the register," the boy stammered. "I don't know the combination to the safe, you have to believe me."
"You got two seconds to learn it, maggot," the punker barked.
Macklin stepped into the aisle behind the punker and crept forward, raising the level over his head. The cashier caught the movement behind the punker and, for an instant, stared right at Macklin.
Macklin frantically waved his hand, motioning the cashier to look away.
"Time's up, asshole, open it!" The punker jabbed the shotgun into the cashier's stomach. Macklin was two feet away.
"You're unbalanced, buddy," Macklin hissed.
The punker whirled around. Macklin swung the level at the punker's head like a baseball bat and felt the dull smack of steel against flesh. The punker fell, reflexively squeezing the trigger. The shotgun jerked, spitting fire. Macklin threw himself sideways into the candy rack, and the cashier screamed, leaping back against the Slurpee machine.
Macklin felt the shotgun pellets scorch past his right ear and heard them chew into the ceiling. Bits of plaster rained down like snowflakes.
Bracing himself against a shelf of Baby Ruth bars, Macklin rose carefully, deafened by the ringing echoes of the shotgun blast. Brushing plaster off his shoulders, he looked down at the twitching punker. Blood seeped out in frothy rivers from the left side of the punker's head, which now had the unnatural curve of a peanut shell.
Macklin shifted his gaze from the punker to the cashier, who cowered in shocked silence against the Slurpee machine. Cherry-colored ice fell out of the machine in huge globs.
"Are you okay?" Macklin asked, stepping up to the counter.
The boy nodded as if in a trance.
Macklin rested the level against his right shoulder and smiled reassuringly at the boy. "Why don't you stop leaning on the machine and come here for a second?"
The boy stared quizzically at Macklin for a moment and then suddenly realized his back was against the Slurpee lever. The boy jumped forward as if electrocuted, his back coated with red ice. A smile that shifted rapidly between embarrassment and relief filled his pimple-scarred face.
"Thanks. You . . . ah . . . saved my life."
"No problem," Macklin said. "Would you do me a favor?"
"Of course!" the cashier eagerly responded.
"When the police ask you what I look like, tell 'em I'm about five foot four, three hundred fifty pounds, and Asian. Get my drift?"
The cashier looked confused. "S-sure. Anything." Macklin smiled. "Thanks." He stepped toward the door and then stopped, returning to the counter.
"Listen, could I have a large coffee?"
"Yeah, sure, a large coffee." The cashier spun around, grabbed for the coffeepot, and poured Macklin a cup. The coffee spilled out in a rush and flowed over the rim of the disposable cup. The cashier didn't notice. He set the pot down and, forcing a broad smile, shakily handed Macklin the cup of coffee.
Macklin, the level in one hand and the coffee in the other, turned his back on the cashier, stepped over the punker, and strode to the door. "See you later. Thanks for the coffee."
"W-wait," the boy yelled as Macklin pushed open the front door with his shoulder. "Who are you?"
Macklin, his back to the cashier, smiled to himself. "The jury."
# # # # # #
It was 9:45 when Macklin flung open Mayor Stocker's office door and sauntered in.
"I said nine o'clock, Macklin," Stocker barked, rising from behind his desk. Shaw, sitting on the vinyl couch against the wall to Stocker's right, groaned inside. The meeting was getting off to a great start.
Macklin shrugged. "I got held up."
"Well, I don't give a shit." Stocker jerked a finger toward the two chairs fronting his desk. "Sit down, Macklin."
Macklin stayed where he was, in the center of the room, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his Levi's 501s.
"Make it quick, Mayor." Macklin's words came out with measured evenness. It gave Shaw an unsettling chill.
Shaw glanced at Stocker, expecting an angry retort at Macklin's impudence, but none came. Stocker slid past the state flag and sat on the edge of his desk.
"Sergeant, tell Macklin our problem."
Macklin glanced at Shaw.
No, it's your problem, Stocker, Shaw thought. I can take care of this within the law. I don't want Macklin involved.
"Three little girls have been raped and strangled in the last month." Shaw looked at Stocker as he spoke, avoiding Macklin. Shaw felt if he directed his words to Macklin, he was somehow condoning the actions Macklin was going to be asked to take.
"Go on, Sergeant," Stocker prodded impatiently.
Shaw sighed, straightening up. "We know who's doing it," he continued reluctantly. "A psychopathic pedophile named Wesley Saputo. Five years ago, Saputo was in the kiddie-porn film business. Backed by Crocker Orlock, a wealthy magazine distributor, Saputo made hundreds of low-low-budget films and then released them worldwide through a complex underground pedophile network."
Shaw paused, glancing at Macklin to gauge his reaction. There was no change in t
he pilot's hard expression. "We were able to arrest Saputo and a couple of his cronies when his cameraman, a greasy character named Lyle Franken, was caught in an LAPD sting operation trying to sell kid-porn photos. One of the photos was a blowup from a Saputo film. It was a picture of a twelve-year-old girl who had recently been found raped and strangled."
Macklin turned to his left, his back to Shaw and Stocker, and stared out the window at the city's skyline. The buildings poked out through a thin layer of smog. Sunlight fought in vain to break through the noxious haze.
"Franken became a nonstop talker under pressure and we were able to send Saputo away on kiddie-porn charges. We couldn't pin a thing on Orlock," Shaw said. "He managed to keep himself at arm's length from the operation. But he was behind it, no doubt about that."
Shaw paused, his feelings of frustration regarding the Saputo case stoked again by the retelling. He found himself getting caught up in the sort of anger that drove Macklin. The tension wrapped itself, boa-like, around his neck, and squeezed. He fought against it, striving for cool detachment.
Shaw didn't want to feel like a part of what was going to take place in this office. "Saputo was labeled by the state shrinks as a mentally disordered sex offender, spent some time at Patton State Hospital, and then at Soledad. He was released on parole in September. The murders began in November."
"That's a fascinating story, gentlemen," Macklin said, his eyes scanning the city's steel peaks and asphalt valleys. "What does it have to do with me?"
"Kid porn has been nearly dead in this city for five years," Stocker replied. "Orlock had the money, but his talent was behind bars. Saputo is out now, and Orlock isn't about to let his star filmmaker get caught again. Orlock's cadre of high-powered Century City attorneys jumped on us and wrangled a court order that forbids us from harassing Saputo. We get within ten miles of him, and his lawyers drag us into court.
"Saputo has to be stopped before he kills again, Macklin," Stocker said evenly.
Macklin turned slowly to face Stocker. An amused smile played on Macklin's lips. "What you want me to do is kill him."