Judgment (19 page)

"I'm here for a few months, at least until the gubernatorial race is over. I'm gonna help Elliot Wells clobber that son of a bitch Lucas Breen."

"Vengeance is sweet," Shaw said, looking Macklin in the eye.

"Damn right it is," Jeffries said. "I've been waiting for a shot at old Prickface for a long time."

"What exactly happened between you two?" Macklin asked. "You never did spell it out for me."

Jeffries held up his hand, signaling a pause while he swallowed a mouthful of chicken. "Breen hired two guys to do a number on Francis Reed, that councilman that ran against Breen in the mayor's race. These guys followed Reed around night and day and got some pictures of him screwing his secretary. Reed was married at the time, had two kids at UCLA. Breen came into my office one day, ranting about how he had Reed beat. He tossed the photos to Reed and told him to pull out or else he'd give the photos to the press. When Breen left the office I burned the fucking photos."

"Shit," Macklin muttered.

"Not shit, a shitstorm. Reed yelled my head off, fired my ass, and told me I had just kissed my career good-bye."

Shaw shook his head in disbelief. "Why didn't you go to the press, tell them what you knew?"

"C'mon, Ronny, it would have blown up in my face. It would have brought Breen down, you're right about that, but it would have tainted us all. Besides, I haven't always been a saint myself. I just never stooped
that
low."

"Old Prickface," Jeffries continued, "is going to lose, boys. So, if I were you, I'd get some money down in this campaign."

"Speaking of money"—Shaw pulled apart a wing—"you must be bathing in it."

"Hell, yes, don't know what to do with it all. Frankly, I'd do this work for free." Jeffries started chomping on the chicken bone. "It's a game to me, making the statistics into gemstones for me and turds for the other guys."

The bone swallowed, Jeffries leaned forward and contemplated the bucket. "What can I do with money? I could buy bigger cigars, I guess, get new hubcaps for my Jag every month, piss it away on overpriced food and overrated women.

"Hey, I'm a simple guy, you know?" He threw his hands up and raised his eyebrows as if to say "See, look at me from head to toe, I really am simple."

Jeffries took a leg from the bucket and nearly swallowed the whole thing, bone and all, in one eager bite. "As long as I can keep the old brain stoked, I'm happy."

"You don't care what the candidate stands for?" Shaw asked.

"So the candidate's a Democrat. Republican? A homosexual cat-hating, schmuck-baiting, leisure-suit-wearing Martian? It means nothing to me. Work with any of them if it's a challenge. Unless it's a small-time asshole like Lucas Breen."

"You sound happy," Macklin said.

"I am." Jeffries wiped his face with a yellow Chicken Shack napkin.

"Remember when we all worked on that cheerleader's campaign for student body president?" Shaw asked.

"We were all trying to sleep with her," Macklin added.

"I
did
," Jeffries said proudly, poking himself in the chest with his thumb.

"Bullshit." Macklin grinned at Shaw. Shaw looked away. Macklin self-consciously sustained the smile.

"Sure did," Jeffries said. "I was so happy about it I got drunk afterwards and tried to piss off the ninth-floor dormitory ledge."

"It's a good thing you were wearing that hooded sweatshirt," Macklin said.

"Yep, otherwise you would have grabbed a handful of air and I'd be part of the dormitory landscaping." Jeffries laughed. "Boy, I wish I was twenty again."

Macklin was distracted by the sound of tires skidding on the street. He saw a brown pickup truck, with three scruffy guys in the bed, make a screeching U-turn in front of the Chicken Shack and then bounce into the parking lot to Macklin's right at high speed.

"What the hell?" Shaw muttered, dropping his chicken and looking over his shoulder.

Macklin watched the truck smash through the row of motorcycles beside them and skid behind the Chicken Shack. The three passengers in the truck squealed with delight.

Macklin stood up just as the truck reappeared around the opposite end of the shack and saw one of the youths toss a flaming bottle towards them.

"Duck!" Macklin yelled, throwing himself down against the picnic table. He sensed the Molotov cocktail streak over his head and heard it shatter inside Shaw's car behind him.

Macklin turned and saw the flames licking the upholstery he had worked so carefully to restore. Jeffries bolted up from under the table and scrambled towards the Chicken Shack, running low past the wrecked motorcycles.

Macklin saw the truck whip around, screeching on a parallel path beside Jeffries. A youth raised another firebomb in his hand.

"Stop, Kirk!" Macklin yelled.

The firebomb landed among the motorcycles and exploded. He saw his friend hurled through the Chicken Shack window by the force of the blast.

Shaw, crouched beside the picnic table, sprang up, gun in hand, and fired at the truck, which skidded behind the building again.

Enough is fucking enough.
Macklin's anger took control of him. Enraged, he pushed through the frenzied crowd and ran towards the other side of the Chicken Shack. The truck fishtailed around the edge of the building. Macklin took a running leap onto the hood of a parked car and then flung himself into the speeding truck. He slammed into a man poised to throw another lighted Molotov cocktail and knocked him over the side of the truck.

Macklin, lying stunned on his side, saw the burning man roll screaming in the truck's wake. One of the two remaining men jumped on Macklin, pinching Macklin's head between his hands. He slammed the back of Macklin's head against the floor of the truck, which sped into the street across the path of opposing traffic.

Macklin reached out for his assailant's neck, digging his thumbs into the soft flesh. The man's eyes bulged. He let go of Macklin's head and grabbed at Macklin's wrists, gurgling as he tried to loosen the choking grip.

Macklin felt himself thrown from side to side as the truck swerved sharply, weaving in and out of westbound traffic on Hollywood Boulevard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Macklin saw the other man swinging a bottle down towards his face and reacted instantly. Macklin jerked his choking assailant down on top of him. The bottle shattered against the assailant's head.

Macklin rolled out from under the unconscious man and fell against the tailgate, his back jammed into the right corner.

The remaining man, on his knees, looked from his bloodied friend to Macklin.

"You son of a bitch," the man shrieked, lunging at him.

Macklin yanked the tailgate handle with his left hand. The tailgate opened and Macklin fell back, desperately grabbing hold of the truck with his right hand. The man slid past Macklin and out of the truck headfirst, splattering like an insect against a motor home's shiny grillwork.

Macklin's body dangled over the passing road, his feet skipping on the asphalt. The racing truck snaked wildly around cars, whipping Macklin back and forth as he struggled to pull himself back in.

The car careened to the right and Macklin's body swung to the left, allowing him to lift his leg onto the tailgate and pull himself aboard.

Macklin, gasping for breath, crawled up the bed to the cab, braced himself against the side of the truck, and shoved his foot through the window behind the driver's head.

The driver yelped, twisting the wheel. The truck rammed against the side of a Hollywood Tour bus, jarring Macklin and flinging him to the opposite side of the bed.

"Look, it's the Fall Guy," a pregnant bus passenger from Wenatchee, Washington, squealed, excitedly snapping pictures of Macklin as he reached inside the cab and tried to take the wheel of the speeding truck.

The truck slammed against the bus again. The passenger rocked, watching Macklin push the driver's head away with one hand and grab the steering wheel with the other.

The bus driver braked and the truck careened sideways across the bus's path into oncoming traffic. A Datsun glanced off the passenger side of the truck and sent it spinning out of control through the front window of Frederick's of Hollywood in a storm of glass, plaster, and lingerie.

Time stopped on Hollywood Boulevard like a movie freeze-frame.

Then, out of the settling dirt and debris of Frederick's gaudy purple building, a figure emerged, staggered, and collapsed on the Walk of Fame.

Two police cars, sirens blaring, screeched to the curb. The car doors flew open and the officers burst out, guns drawn. Three ran into the crumbling storefront while the other went to Macklin, who lay twisted on Jack Palance's star, moving slightly and groaning as if shaking off the last remnants of a Sunday morning sleep-in. Macklin opened his eyes and saw a policeman leaning over him.

"Jesus," the officer said, holstering his gun. "Take it easy, an ambulance is on the way."

The officer scurried back to the squad car to call for backup and rescue units.

"Fuck the ambulance," Macklin mumbled, his face smeared with blood, plaster, and flecks of glass. He propped himself up on an elbow, fought back the dizziness, and then stood up shakily.

A large crowd had formed around the store and Macklin stumbled into it, the people moving out of his way as if he had a deadly infection.

"Hey, you, wait!" he heard the officer yell through the gathering crowd behind him.

Macklin turned to a taxi parked at the curb, glanced at the surprised, obese driver, yanked open the door, and ped in the backseat.

"Take me down to the Chicken Shack," Macklin coughed, lying down on the seat. The police officer, who had lost sight of Macklin in the crowd, ran past the taxi.

The driver glanced at Macklin in the rearview mirror, "After
that
, you wanna eat?"

"Are you gonna drive or do I walk?"

The driver stared at Macklin a moment longer, looked at the confusion of the street, and then sighed, turning the ignition and pumping the gas. "A fare's a fare," he mumbled.

Macklin closed his eyes as the car pulled away from the curb and pressed his face against the seat, hoping the worn cushion would deaden the throbbing pain in his head.

The accident had happened so fast. The truck had burst through the glass like a rocket, slamming into a gold-painted pillar and folding into it like an accordion, crushing the driver. Macklin remembered sailing through the windshield on impact, landing in a cluster of nightgown-clad mannequins.

"Hey, guy, you ain't puking on my seats, are you?" the driver barked.

"Please drive, okay?" Macklin sat up and looked out the rear window. The pandemonium on the street was now several blocks behind them.

"You look like hell, mister."

"It's okay," Macklin groaned. "I got another hour or so before my act at Chippendales."

"If it's like your last act, I hope the audience is armed," the driver said.

Macklin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. It felt like someone was pounding a stake through the middle of his head.

He thought about the days since his father's funeral. Tranquility given way to an endless succession of bloodshed. In his old world, his old life, people didn't throw Molotov cocktails at him while he ate dinner.

It didn't make sense.

Opening his eyes, he saw a long line of cars stopped in front of the taxi. Billows of smoke colored the sky brown about two blocks away.

The driver threw up his hands. "This is as far as you go. I can't get any closer."

"Okay." Macklin said, pushing open the door and stepping out onto the street. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. Just stop bleeding in my cab."

"Thanks." Macklin closed the door and walked down the street towards the smoke. Each step brought stabs of pain in his left side, his right knee, and his head.

As he neared the Chicken Shack he could see the parking lot was thick with smoke from the exploding motorcycles and the flames feeding off Shaw's Cadillac.

Two motorcycle cops growled into the parking lot, followed by a fire truck. Macklin, pushing through the crowd of onlookers, saw Shaw run from inside the Chicken Shack to meet the policemen. Raising his arm over his face to shield himself from the heat and smoke, Macklin dashed across the parking lot behind Shaw's back.

Squinting, Macklin made his way to the Chicken Shack hut. He stumbled through the doorway and saw Jeffries lying on a bed of shattered glass and fried chicken.

He leaned over his friend, scanning the rotund body for injuries. A mean gash cut across the right side of Jeffries face, from his forehead down to his chin. A jagged piece of bone, starkly white and speckled with blood, tore through the skin of his twisted right arm.

"I'm still alive, if that's what you're wondering," Jeffries whispered, his voice tinged with fear.

"Welcome to LA." Macklin picked shards of glass off Jeffries' face. "How do you feel?"

"Horrible. It hurts like hell. You wouldn't have some aspirin on you, would ya?"

"Nope."

"Ah, fuck it. I'll just suffer. I'll be a martyr, a war hero."

Macklin grinned with relief. Now he knew Jeffries was okay. "Don't you think you're going overboard? A war hero?"

"Hell no. Los Angeles is under siege. You can't eat in this town without risking your life. The last guy Wells brought in was gunned down at a Chinese restaurant, for Christ's sake."

Jeffries suddenly drew in his breath sharply, his eyes closed tightly. Macklin put his hand on Jeffries' shoulder as his friend untensed.

"Take it easy, Kirk. It's just pain."

Jeffries chuckled, the wave of pain appearing to ebb. "It's only pain. You're such an asshole, Brett."

"Kirk, did you tell anyone you were going to be here?" Macklin asked, not sure why.

"Nope. Just you."

Macklin felt an off, light-headed feeling, completely different from the dizziness he'd felt before. It dulled his pain and sent adrenaline surging through his veins. His heartbeat quickened.

"Are you sure?"

"Ya, I'm sure."