Judgment

by Lee Goldberg

  "No," Mort interrupted, staring into Macklin's eyes. Macklin had never seen such angry determination in his friend before. "Tell me now or I'll walk to that phone and call you an ambulance."

  "Have you heard about Mr. Jury?" Macklin asked wearily.

  "Yeah, so?"

  "You're looking at him."

  Mort pursed his lips and exhaled his breath in a dull whistle.

  A loud screech outside caused them both to turn their heads towards the hangar door. Macklin heard a car door slam shut and the clap of feet on the pavement. He glanced at Mort just as Sergeant Sliran, a cigarette dangling from his lips, yanked open the hangar door.

  "Good morning, Sergeant," Macklin chirped, pushing himself off the table. The nausea rose in him again. "What are you doing here?"

  Sliran tossed his cigarette away and stormed up to within inches of Macklin's face. "Make it easy on me, Macklin. Gimme the gun and assume the position against your plane."

  "Watch out, it's supercop." Mort grinned.

  Sliran glared at Mort. "Don't push it, Suderson. I'll serve you your teeth for breakfast."

  "C'mon, Sliran, we get the point. You're a real tough asshole. We're petrified. Get to the point or get the hell out."

  "Last night you went downtown and blew Jesse Ortega's brains out."

  "Really?" Macklin stared into Sliran's eyes. "Gee, and I thought I was here last night with Mort, working on the plane." Macklin maintained eye contact with Sliran, overcoming the urge to glance at Mort. His heartbeat quickened.

  How far would his friend go to cover for him? One contradictory word or expression from Mort, and Macklin was ruined.

  "Jesse Ortega was acquitted, you know, for torching your daddy," Sliran said.

  "I know," Macklin said evenly.

  "That's motive."

  "Sure is. Only problem is I didn't do it."

  "Coincidence, huh?" Sliran sneered.

  "Sounds like it to me. I know it's hard to accept, Ortega being such a saint and all. Who would want to hurt him?"

  "Mr. Jury. The bullet that blasted open Ortega's head came from the same gun used on Hector Gomez and Teobaldo Villanueva. Funny, so far Mr. Jury has only killed people on your shitlist. Quite a coincidence."

  "So call That's Incredible! Arrest me or get the hell out of my hangar."

  Sliran scratched his neck. "Look over your shoulder, Macklin. You so much as spit and I'll haul your ass behind bars."

  "Out." Macklin smiled. "Now."

  Sliran stomped out, slamming the door behind him. Macklin turned slowly towards Mort and then fell back against the table.

  Mort licked his lips. "Did you kill Ortega?"

  "Yes." Macklin sighed. He didn't know what more to say. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep. Macklin moved away from the table and stumbled toward his office.

  "I'm gonna sleep for a few hours in my office, okay?"

  "Sure," Mort mumbled.

  Macklin shuffled into the office and sat down carefully on the torn reclining chair behind his desk. His whole body sagged, aching everywhere all at once.

  He leaned forward, pulled open his desk drawer, and rummaged around the pencils and paper clips and folders until he found a small plastic bottle of Tylenol. He emptied the pills out in the drawer. Three open Tab cans lay amidst the clutter on his desk. He reached for one, shook it, and heard some liquid swirl inside. Macklin placed two pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of flat, sweet soda.

  Macklin sat back in the seat, rested his feet on the desk, and closed his eyes. Sleep caught up with him quickly.

  His dream took him back to the tenement. To Ortega. Again there was the fight, the shattered glass, the blood. Again the .357 Magnum spit fire. But this time it was Macklin's head that burst, a stream of blood shooting out of his neck like a geyser. The blood became a shape. The shape became a name. The man was Brett Macklin's twin.

  The scum got what he deserved.

  The scum . . . the scum . . . the scum . . . deserved . . . deserved.

  "Wake up, Mack."

  He was being shaken. Pain pushed the sleep away and he opened his eyes. Shaw stood above him, unsmiling.

  Oh shit, not again.

  "What time is it, Ron?"

  "Noon."

  Macklin had slept for about four hours. He felt like he needed a couple more days.

  "Oh shit. I was working late last night and, well, I guess my body sort of closed up shop." Macklin tried to sit up smoothly, quickly, to hide his pain. He hid it from Shaw. The charade didn't work as well on himself. It was all he could do not to wince.

  "Someone showed up downtown last night, raised hell, and killed Jesse Ortega."

  "So Sliran told me."

  "Yeah, Sliran woke me up this morning with the news."

  "Are you a suspect, too?"

  "Oh, I guess so." Shaw pulled up a chair. "Internal Affairs has decided to go all the way with the beating thing. I've got a long haul."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," Shaw snapped. "Listen, Brett, we don't need some Lone Ranger coming down and turning the streets into a war zone. People can get hurt."

  "Why are you telling me this, Ron?"

  He ignored Macklin. "People like your father."

  Macklin's face reddened. "People like my father are and have been getting hurt. Every single day. At least this Mr. Jury is doing something about it. At least someone is fighting back. What the hell are you doing about it?"

  "Oh, c'mon, Mack. Don't give me that old police-can't-do-the-job bullshit. You're smarter than that," he said.

  "Listen, Ron, save your speech for someone else. I'm not your Mr. Jury."

  Shaw stood up and headed towards the office door. "You aren't some superhero, Mack. You'll bleed just like the rest of us."

  He turned and walked out.

  Macklin sighed and stood up. He saw Mort leaning against the doorway. "He has a point, Brett."

  "Mort, my friend, put yourself in my shoes. What would you do?" Macklin asked.

  "Blow the fuckers away."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two large breasts pressed into Brett Macklin's face. He could see her nipples, hardened by the coolness of the hangar, poking against the fabric of her white uniform. He felt her fingers gently brush his chest. His eyes were drawn to her deep cleavage, tantalizingly exposed by a zipper open to her sternum.

  "Ouch!" Macklin yelled, a sharp pain in his shoulder shattering his calm. "That hurt worse than the damn knife did in the first place."

  "You'll thank me later," Cheshire Davis said as she removed the syringe from Macklin's shoulder and stepped back.

  Macklin, sitting shirtless on the edge of the hangar table, heard Mort approaching from the office behind him. "Hey, Cheshire, he should be thanking you now. We owe you one."

  Mort held out a Tab to Cheshire and shot Macklin a scolding look. Macklin tried to shrug; the pain made him wince.

  "Forget it, Mort. Without your sister I don't know whether I would be a nurse today. I practically rode through school on her shoulders." Cheshire chuckled, shifting her gaze to Macklin. "Actually, Brett, you're being very good. We'll give the anesthetic a chance to sink in, and then we'll start sewing you up."

  "Terrific," Macklin deadpanned, already feeling his shoulder tingling. Mort laughed.

  "Well, wish I could stay and see the action, but I have a lunch date." Mort smiled at Cheshire. "Thanks again, Cheshire."

  "Like I said, no problem." She set down the can of Tab beside Macklin and reached into her handbag, pulling out the curved needle and brown catgut thread.

  "Mack, I'll leave you to settle the bill." Mort waved and walked out the door.

  Macklin sighed. The awkwardness of the situation made him feel uneasy. He was left at the mercy of a complete, albeit attractive, stranger. His uneasiness made the silence in Mort's wake tangible, and the hangar became cavernous.

  She moved close to him again, her breasts filling his view. It only made him more uncomfor
table. He glanced up into her friendly brown eyes. "I'm sorry if I seem rude. I really do appreciate you coming down here so quick."

  He was vaguely aware of the needle piercing the skin around his wound.

  "I had nothing to do for lunch, anyway." She smiled. "Mort said you couldn't see a doctor. Something about protecting a friend."

  "Yeah, a buddy of mine got bad drunk, you know, started waving a knife around. I tried to take it away from him and he accidentally stabbed me." Macklin, afraid she'd see the lie in his eyes, gazed at her bosom. "If I went to the emergency room, there would be questions, maybe the police. I really don't want to get the guy in trouble. It was heavy troubles that got him that drunk in the first place."

  "Yeah, I see your point. You're being very good about it."

  Macklin didn't say anything and spent the next minute or two shifting his eyes between her face and her breasts.

  "You keep yourself rather fit, Brett."

  "Thanks."

  "How do you do it?"

  "Jesus," Macklin said evenly.

  "Huh?" She stopped sewing for a moment, looking at him oddly.

  "I put all my faith in Jesus. Through him, both my body and soul are revitalized."

  "Jesus," she muttered narrowing her eyes.

  "Our savior," Macklin added.

  "Ah-huh." She pulled a stitch harder than she had to. "You know something, Brett?"

  "What?"

  "You're full of shit." A big smile lit up her face and they both started laughing.

  She finished treating Macklin's wounds fifteen minutes later. As she hurriedly gathered her things, glancing at her watch, Macklin slipped on his shirt and stood up.

  "What do I owe you?" Macklin asked.

  "Owe me?" She arched an eyebrow quizzically and rubbed her chin. "Dinner."

  "Dinner?" Macklin smiled.

  "Yeah, dinner." She nodded, pleased with herself. "How about tonight?"

  Macklin chuckled. "All right, tonight it is. Where would you like to go?"

  "My apartment. I'm the best cook I know."

  They reached the door. Macklin opened it for her.

  She told him her address. "It's right on the beach. You can't miss it. Come by at seven."

  "I wouldn't miss it."

  She grinned and Macklin understood how she'd gotten her name.

  # # # # # #

  Cheshire purred.

  "Oh, you are beautiful, Brett Macklin," she whispered, her eyes closed, her body rocking in the waves of pleasure radiating from between her legs. He thrust gently, keenly aware of her body undulating as her enjoyment grew.

  She didn't sense his emotional distance, only his glistening skin and his sexual artfulness, the mounting pleasure that brought a flush to her body and swelled her breasts.

  Macklin could feel her orgasm coming, the pleasure intensifying and the tension growing more difficult for her to bear. She arched her back, pushing her hips against him. Her hands tightly grasping the rungs of the brass headboard behind her.

  She began to thrash as the pleasure blossomed, flaring out and touching her everywhere. Cheshire stiffened suddenly, exhaling slowly, her lips stretched into a surprised, satisfied grin.

  And then she fell back, the grin becoming a laugh. She wrapped her arms around Macklin and pulled him down to her.

  "You little shit, you," she said, biting his lip. "Trying to kill me, are you?"

  Macklin kissed her lips, her cheeks, her neck.

  "Your game hens and wild rice were an aphrodisiac," he said. "And I think you put something in the wine."

  Cheshire stiffened again and held her breath as Macklin slid one strong hand between her legs and explored the wetness there, moving from one silky fold to the next.

  "Oh Jesus," she moaned. "You're still hard."

  "Uh-huh." He smiled, stroking her.

  Cheshire shook her head. "Brett, you've got to be kidding. You don't think . . . my body can't take it!" She laughed.

  "Again," he purred, licking her nipples and thrusting slowly.

  It was one a.m. when Cheshire fell asleep, exhausted. That was what Macklin wanted. He was wide awake, sticky with sweat, listening to the waves breaking against the shore. When he was sure she was solidly asleep, he slipped silently out from under her heavy brown comforter, dressed quickly, and left the apartment. He took the stairwell to the street, careful to avoid being seen.

  The Batmobile was parked across the street against the backdrop of the crashing surf. The grill glistened like moist teeth in the moonlight. Macklin ran to the car, started it up, and drove away, reaching out with his right hand to open the glove compartment.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Time had not been kind to the Grand View theater. Its tiny ticket booth was barely standing, serving as a trash can for passersby and a urinal for every street urchin wanting to take a piss.

  Bits of glass from the shattered marquee crunched under Macklin's feet as he walked carefully on the cracked tile of the theater's entranceway. He looked at the soiled plywood sheets nailed haphazardly over the lobby doors. Taking a deep breath, he felt the coolness of the gun against his stomach. Macklin would rather have been lying snug under Cheshire's heavy comforter, her body curled against his, than standing outside the crumbling theater. But his compulsion nagged at him. His need for revenge overwhelmed his need for peace. The abandoned Grand View was now Mario Carrera's home. Ortega had told him that before swallowing a bullet.

  Macklin slopped around the right edge of the windowless building to the back exit, stepping into the darkened recess to test the doorknob. It was unlocked.

  Macklin frowned and looked at the door, hoping God would suddenly bless him with X-ray vision. He hated not knowing what was beyond the door.

  Suspense only twisted his stomach and made him want to shit. He pressed his shoulder against the cold steel, unzipped his leather flight jacket, and drew his gun from under his belt.

  The door creaked as he cautiously eased it open an inch. He stopped abruptly and listened. Sweat tickled his face.

  He heard nothing. Oh sure, nothing. Macklin scolded himself. The last time he thought there was nothing, he was nearly stabbed to death.

  He struggled and leaned against the door. The rusty hinges of the metal door complained loudly in the darkness. Suddenly Macklin heard a roar from behind the door, and an instant later a maelstrom hailed against the door and slammed it shut. Macklin stood for a moment, his heart beating in his throat, and then ran hand over the tiny bulges in the steel.

  The son of a bitch has a shotgun.

  Macklin stepped four paces back and, using his good shoulder, hurled himself against the door. ping into the theater, he rolled into a row of seats as the shotgun exploded from above, the pellets rebounding off the wall behind him.

  Macklin, curled against the seats, panted for breath. The theater smelled of age, musty and damp. He gave his eyes a second or two to adjust to the dark. Judging from the wide dispersal of pellets embedded in the door, Macklin thought Carrera couldn't have been too close, perhaps near the lobby. But where is he now?

  There was only one way to find out. Macklin bolted up and fired into the darkness. The theater quaked and he saw a flash to his left, about ten feet up, in the center of the theater. He ducked as the blast tore off a chunk of the seat beside him. Macklin took a deep breath and pumped three bullets to the right of where he had seen the muzzle flash. An agonized scream mingled with the sound of his gunshots.

  Macklin dropped back behind the seats, listening. Was Carrera dead, injured, or lurking somewhere nearby? His stomach ached. Macklin licked his lips and sprang into the aisle, gun forward, ready to fire. Darkness and silence greeted him. Crouched, Macklin moved slowly up the aisle. He expected Carrera to leap out in front of him, the shotgun spitting death.

  His stitches itched, blood seeping out between the strands. A painful reminder of his last foray into the shadows. Fear pressed in on him, building walls and making the large theater feel claustropho
bic. Macklin stopped as the incline peaked. His heart pounded as he touched the lobby door with the tip of his gun.

  Macklin imagined Carrera behind it, a sadistic smile on his face, the shotgun lovingly cradled in his arms and pointed at the double doors. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and crouched like a linebacker squaring off against a defensive end.

  Macklin burst through the doors, knees bent, his arms forming a triangle with the gun at its point.

  He spun, trying to catch the slightest movement in the shadows. Macklin untensed, grateful Carrera wasn't there. To his left, the ruins of the refreshment stand crouched in the corner, a twisted relic of tortured metal and broken glass. The light from a streetlamp outside filtered though a crack in the plywood-covered entranceway and cast an eerie glow over the thick layer of dust on the floor, illuminating a smear of footprints leading to a staircase on the right.

  Macklin warily eyed the staircase, shrouded in the shadows. His entrance into the lobby had been loud. He feared Carrera must know exactly where he was now. As he moved towards the stairs, he saw that the first flight led to a landing. The second flight, hidden from his view, he assumed stretched up and back towards the lobby.

  Macklin thought out the risks. If he went up the first flight, he could curl around the landing and walk right into a shotgun blast. He strained to see more, knowing it was impossible. Hugging the right-hand side of the stairs, Macklin moved carefully up, step by step, his back pressed against the wall. If Carrera was around the corner, Macklin was a dead man. I'll take the asshole with me.

  Macklin sprang onto the landing and slammed against the wall with a loud thud. An empty staircase reached up to the second floor. A weak light moving back and forth escaped under the projection room door. Macklin stared at the door as he moved up the flight of stairs.

  The guesswork was over. Carrera is in the projection room, Macklin thought, and he knows I'm coming through the door.

  Macklin glided across the floor and stopped beside the door, his ear pressed to the wall. He heard Carrera's raspy breaths. Macklin's shirt clung damply to his chest and back.

  He stepped back from the wall and positioned himself in front of the door.