Judgment

by Lee Goldberg

  People on the streets moved aside for him, sensing the violence in his walk. Macklin didn't even see them. The only faces he would register belonged to the Bounty Hunters.

  Macklin rounded a corner and saw three figures under a streetlight. A hawk-nosed man, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sat on the hood of a red '68 Trans Am. The man, clad in a white undershirt, black baggie pants with exaggerated pleats, and shiny black shoes, gestured broadly with his hands as he spoke to two guys standing on the sidewalk.

  One of the duo was Macklin's height, six feet tall, and thin, with a jet-black Mohawk that ran from the top of his forehead to the nape of his neck. He looked like a scrawny Chicano imitation of Mr. T. Tight Sassoon jeans hugged his lanky legs right down to high Converse high-top tennis shoes. Shirtless under a denim vest, his hairless chest was adorned with a dozen brassy-looking dime-store necklaces.

  The other was a sparsely bearded youth in a red fleece sweatshirt, the hooded jacket unzipped to his sternum. A scar cut a jagged line across the bridge of his nose and down under his right eye.

  They noticed Macklin before their friend did.

  Macklin ignored them. It was the hawk-nosed man he wanted.

  Jesse Ortega muttered. Cigarette smoke seeped out of his pointed nose and curled upwards. "It's him."

  "Who?" the scarred man asked.

  "The asshole from the courthouse, Julio, that's who." Ortega tossed away his cigarette and stood up.

  "Shit," Mr. T. laughed.

  Ortega, flanked by Julio and Mr. T., blocked Macklin's path. Macklin stopped just in front of them, perspiration beading between his shoulder blades forming an itchy wet spot.

  "Hey, look, Faustino, it's Charles fuckin' Bronson." Ortega grinned at the man with the Mohawk. Julio circled Macklin, appraising him. Macklin eyed him warily.

  The sound of something slicing the air drew Macklin's attention away from Julio. Faustino smiled menacingly at Macklin and twirled a crudely made nunchucks in his hand.

  Macklin was familiar with the Okinawa weapon, made with two heavy sticks connected by a small chain. His father had brought home a few he took from kids on the street. It was a popular weapon among the gangs because it was easily made, concealed, and brandished.

  Macklin took a deep breath. Sweat rolled down his back. He could sense the urgent tension in the air, the imminent violence, explosive needing only the igniting spark.

  He heard the slap of flesh and glanced back at Julio, who stood tapping the palm of his hand with a small Dodgers' souvenir bat. Macklin arched an eyebrow in surprise. Where had that come from?

  Smiling, Macklin faced Ortega and Faustino. "Aren't you boys out past your bedtime?" he asked casually.

  "Maybe you wanna take a swan pe off an overpass, motherfucker," Ortega hissed with a tight grin.

  Macklin sighed. "If you're looking for trouble, little man, you just bumped into the West Coast distributor." He shot a grin over his shoulder at Julio. "Why don't you all crawl back under your rock before you get hurt?" That was the spark.

  Faustino moved first, swinging the nunchucks at Macklin's head. He ducked and hammered his fist into Faustino's stomach. Faustino buckled, the air escaping from his lungs with an audible, gagging cough. Macklin jabbed his elbow into Faustino's head, knocking him aside.

  Macklin turned swiftly and saw the bat crashing down towards his head. He sidestepped Julio's blow, grabbing him by the shoulders, and rammed his knee into the man's groin, feeling the testicles flatten against the rigid pubic bone.

  Julio screamed in agony and folded over against Macklin's chest.

  Then Faustino threw the nunchucks around Macklin's neck and yanked back fiercely. Macklin choked for air and grabbed at the cold links, desperately trying to free himself before Faustino could snap his neck open like a walnut between the sticks.

  Faustino grunted, wrenching Macklin around by the neck to face Ortega. Macklin's head pulsed from lack of air and felt as though it might burst.

  Ortega's eyes were alight with fury. "You made a big mistake coming down here like you fucking own the place, Mr. Big Man."

  Faustino tightened his grip. Macklin winced, pulling at the chain.

  His chest ached under the vice-like pressure of his lungs straining for oxygen.

  "I'm gonna slit you open, motherfucker." A switchblade flashed in Ortega's hand. Smiling, Ortega stepped towards him, knife held out.

  Macklin reacted without thinking. He reached back and grabbed Faustino's neck, lifting himself up and lashing out at Ortega with both legs. Macklin's feet slammed into Ortega's chest and sent him reeling. Faustino fell backwards, bringing Macklin with him.

  Their impact against the cement jarred Faustino's hold on the nunchucks, and Macklin rolled free, pulling the Magnum out from his belt in the same motion and firing at Julio and Faustino.

  The powerful report of the .357 echoed twice from the graffiti-smeared walls around them. Gray, smeary blobs of brain tissue blended with a spray-can-painted message.

  Crouched, he aimed the gun at Ortega and breathed in the air hungrily. To Macklin's surprise, he felt good. Light-headed, exhilarated.

  Macklin stood slowly, the throbbing in his head waning, and stepped past the two bodies toward Ortega.

  "If I were you, little man, I would run."

  Ortega back-trotted nervously, uncertain if Macklin would shoot him in the back if he turned.

  "I said run, boy."

  Ortega turned and burst into a full, weaving run. Macklin shoved the gun back under his belt and watched Ortega flee. It was another concession to his anger. He wanted to play with Ortega a bit. Macklin wanted Ortega to taste the terror his father must have felt.

  Ortega, just rounding the corner, looked over his shoulder and saw Macklin bolt towards him like a low-flying missile.

  "Shit," Ortega hissed, spittle dampening the edges of his mouth. He ran, sucking in air in rhythmic huffs, hard and deep, like a locomotive, spewing spit and snot. Nearly tripping over himself, Ortega careened to his right into an alley and into the shadows. He could hear the steady, even clop of Macklin's feet in his wake.

  The alley fed into a parking lot. The expanse was bathed in a yellowish light from bulbs dangling overhead from a crisscross of wires that stretched between two tired buildings. Ortega ran across the open lot, under the network of lights, weaving between parked cars to the next alley.

  Ortega, his body quaking with his labored breaths, looked madly over his shoulder for Macklin, hoping he couldn't keep up.

  Macklin sprinted smoothly into the parking lot, grinning, the gun held casually in his right hand.

  Ortega turned, fear tightening his face, and stretched his legs forward into the alley. Each breath was a hot dagger thrust down his throat. His feet slapped a puddle and he stumbled forward, his arms flailing.

  He recovered clumsily, looking back again as he fell into a run. The darkness ahead was split by a shaft of moonlight that shone on a cyclone fence cutting across the alley. Ortega leaped towards it. His hands twisted like claws. The fence rocked against his weight as he slammed high into it, grabbed hold, and crawled up. He straddled the fence between his legs and glanced back.

  A man's shadow stretched on the alley floor towards the fence. Footfalls echoed in the darkness.

  "Damn the motherfucker." Ortega jumped from the fence, turned, and saw Macklin break out of the shadows.

  "You're mine," Macklin yelled as he scaled the fence.

  "Fuck you!" Ortega flipped Macklin off and bolted out of the alley into the street, right in front of a taxi.

  The car skidded and hit Ortega a glancing blow. The youth sprawled across the pavement.

  "Hey!" The baseball-capped driver shoved his head out the window. "Watch it, dumb fuck!"

  Macklin dropped off the fence and saw Ortega pick himself up and limp across the street to a decaying, boarded-up tenement. Ortega jumped up and pulled down the fire-escape ladder, climbing it furiously until he reached the third-floor landing.

/>   Macklin waited until the taxi drove away before emerging from the dark cover of the alley. He saw Ortega force open the double-sashed window and pe inside the building. No thoughts burdened Macklin as he slowly crossed the street to the age-beaten, colorless structure, long ago abandoned and left for dead.

  Macklin scaled the ladder carefully, paused on the landing, and cocked his head towards the dark hallway beyond the window. All he could hear was the creaking of the door swaying in the night breeze. He stepped to the right edge of the window, pressed his back to the wall, and peered with a sideways glance down the length of the hallway. Moonlight spilled through a cracked window at the far end. The rest was blackness.

  Macklin crossed quickly to the opposite side of the window, holding the gun up beside his head, and looked inside again. All he saw was more darkness. He sighed and looked down through the iron grating at the alleyway below. It was now or never.

  He turned. A face stared back at him through the window. It was his reflection in the glass. The face didn't seem like his own: humorless, rigid, a disquieting smile playing on the lips.

  Macklin closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tightened his grip on the gun. A second later he swung his leg over the sill, paused, and pulled himself through, ready to shoot anything that upset the darkness. Nothing did.

  He moved slowly towards the cracked window at the end of the hallway, both hands around the gun, muzzle tip up and held out confidently in front of him. His eyes darted from side to side, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound.

  Ortega lashed out of the darkness, slashing Macklin's gun hand with a switchblade. Macklin's hand tightened reflexively, the loud crack of gunfire splitting the night as the blade sliced open his hand.

  Macklin stumbled backwards, startled, the Magnum slipping out of his injured hand and clattering to the floor. Suddenly Ortega was an inch away from his face, ready to plunge the knife into his neck. Macklin sidestepped and felt the blade sliding smoothly into the flesh of his upper right shoulder.

  They tumbled backwards towards the cracked window. Ortega drove his knee into Macklin's chest, knocked him straight up, and then hit him across the face with a hard right punch.

  Macklin slammed back against the wall. The impact jarred the air out of his lungs. He fell forward and took a feeble right swing at Ortega's head.

  Ortega, grinning, dodged the blow and drove his fist into Macklin's stomach.

  Macklin doubled over, gagging for air. Ortega whipped his knee into Macklin's chin. A blinding white pain erupted in Macklin's head. He no longer sensed his body. He was just a weightless pain sailing through the air.

  A second later he could feel his limbs again and knew he was lying on the floor. He could hear Ortega panting for breath. Macklin's vision was a blur.

  Ortega's shape leaned over him in slow motion, though Macklin knew it was all passing in an instant. Macklin was aware of the searing pain in his shoulder.

  He could vaguely sense Ortega crouching over him, raising the knife, savoring the brief moment before plunging it again and again into Macklin's chest.

  He's going to kill me.

  The realization slapped him. For a split second, his head cleared. Macklin twisted to the left and dodged Ortega's savage knife thrust.

  Macklin kicked Ortega's knees and heard a crack. Ortega cried out, reeling backwards and dropping the knife.

  Macklin stood up quickly. He was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea and dizziness and nearly fell again. Swaying, Macklin saw Ortega crawling for the switchblade. Rage took Macklin over, consuming his pain and momentarily revitalizing him.

  He kicked Ortega in the side with a loud grunt. Ortega rolled into the wall and scrambled to his feet. Macklin faced Ortega and smiled.

  "C'mon, little man," Macklin hissed.

  Ortega swung wildly with his right hand. Macklin ducked and grabbed Ortega's arm, pinned it behind Ortega's back, and pushed Ortega headfirst through one of the few window panes to escape vandals' rocks.

  Ortega's scream mingled with the sound of shattering glass. Macklin pulled him out quickly. Jagged glass stuck up from the sill like teeth.

  Macklin twisted Ortega's arm with one hand, gripped the man's head with the other, and thrust him slowly through the window again. He stopped when Ortega's neck nearly rested on the pointed glass shard sticking up from the sill. Blood streamed down Ortega's cheeks and dripped onto the glass bits.

  "Who killed the cop?" Macklin stared into the back of Ortega's head and forced the words out through deep, raspy breaths. "Who? Who killed him?"

  "Go fuck yourself, asshole," Ortega groaned.

  Macklin twisted Ortega's arm up and forced his neck down against the shard. Ortega's body thrashed under him as the glass touched his skin, drawing blood.

  "Are you getting the point? Huh? I want answers. Who killed the cop?"

  Ortega stiffened, afraid the slightest movement would drive the sharp glass deeper into his neck.

  "Talk to me," Macklin said, "or the next time you make a sound it will be out of both sides of your throat."

  "I-it was Primo. P-Primo torched the pig."

  "Where can I find him?"

  Ortega hesitated. Macklin pushed Ortega's head down against the shard.

  Ortega whimpered. "Okay, okay," he whined, "the scrap yard two blocks o-over, h-his old man owns it. Y-you can find Primo there."

  "How about the others, where can I find them?"

  "Shit, I-I can't tell you that . . ."

  "Talk or I'll impale you right now."

  Ortega spilled out the information in one long, agonized breath.

  Macklin lifted Ortega off the shard and tossed him against the wall.

  Ortega grunted painfully and slid to the floor. Macklin walked down the hallway, picking up his gun and the crimson switchblade. His bloody shirt clung to his chest and his shoulder pulsed with pain.

  "You're crazy, man, a goddamned crazy motherfuckin' lunatic," Ortega yelled. Macklin kept walking, his back to Ortega.

  Macklin turned slowly.

  His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "You're a tombstone, buddy."

  He raised the Magnum slowly, saw Ortega's eyes widen in fear, and then pulled the trigger.

  Ortega's head exploded, splashing blood and brain against the wall.

  Macklin stood locked in place. The gunshot echoed off the walls. His stomach contorted, and bile bubbled inside him, struggling to get out. He had just killed a man, not in self-defense, but in cold blood.

  Macklin winced, fighting back the urge to vomit.

  When he opened his eyes again he could only stare at what was left of Ortega—the splintered head and the greenish goo dripping off the wall onto the bloodstained torso.

  The shakes started in Macklin's knees and spread up his body. He shivered like a naked man in a snow flurry.

  What have I done? he asked himself meekly.

  Only gave the scum what he deserved. The reply was strong, self-assured, as if coming from a different man hiding behind his conscious mind.

  The shakes disappeared and Macklin was in control again. His body was bathed in sweat and the pain was coming back. Soon it would be too strong . . . Macklin turned away and walked weakly down the hallway into the night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  His body spiraled through a tunnel of thick fog. Wisps of mist whirled in front of his eyes. The fog suddenly split and a black wall closed in on him. The impact, rather than smashing him, left him floating motionless in darkness. Light began to seep into his dark world and he became aware of the coldness underneath him.

  He began to sense the contours of his body. A flame burned deep inside his left shoulder. His head pounded in time with his heart. The light cut the darkness into indistinct gray shapes.

  "Brett? Can you hear me?"

  The gray melted and gave way to dimension and color. Macklin stretched his hands and felt wood underneath him. A table.

  Macklin blinked hard, concentrating on tuning in his vis
ion as if it were a television picture.

  When he opened his eyes he saw Mort Suderson leaning over him.

  "Good morning." Mort smiled grimly.

  "Hi." The reply scratched Macklin's dry throat.

  "You look like hell." Mort's breath looked like smoke in the cold air.

  "I always do in the morning." Macklin leaned upwards, and Mort, seeing Macklin wanted to sit up, wrapped his arm around Macklin's shoulders and guided him.

  Macklin closed his eyes, feeling nauseous. The nausea subsided and he opened his eyes again. He sat on the edge of the table, facing Mort. Behind Mort he saw his Cessna and realized he was in his hangar at the Santa Monica Airport. The hangar was always freezing in the morning.

  Macklin fingered his shirt. It wasn't damp with blood. He wore fresh clothes.

  "How did you get here? Where did these clothes come from?"

  Mort dragged over a stool and sat down in front of Macklin. "You don't remember?"

  "Remember what?" Macklin mumbled, running his tongue over a loose tooth on the upper right side of his mouth.

  Mort frowned. "I found you about an hour ago, just after six a.m., lying against your car. You were bloody and beat to hell. You were mumbling all sorts of unintelligible shit. When I mentioned taking you to a hospital you started screaming 'no' and passed out."

  Macklin lightly poked his cheeks. They were sore to the touch and were slightly swollen.

  "So I carried you in here, cleaned you up as best I could, and put you in some clothes I found in your office." Mort sniffled. "You've got to see a doctor. Those knife wounds are nasty and my spit 'n' glue patchwork isn't going to be enough."

  "No doctors, not yet."

  "Sure, sure." Mort waved Macklin away and started pacing in front of him. "Guess you had a rough night."

  "Uh-huh," Macklin groaned.

  "Uh-huh," Mort mimicked. "That's it? Just uh-huh? Listen, pal, I think you owe me more of an explanation than that. What the fuck is going on?"

  Macklin looked into his friend's eyes. "Mort, let's forget it. I—"