Los Angeles
Tuesday, June 11, 1:38 a.m.
The day had been the shits for Brett Macklin. His checks were bouncing at the bank and bills were clogging his mailbox. All the hours he had spent going through the books at his Blue Yonder Airways, his charter airline, didn't make things any better. In fact, they were getting steadily worse.
He was already a half hour late to pick up Jessica Mordente at the Los Angeles Times when his '59 Cadillac ran out of gas. Now, with $20 in his wallet, his savings account tapped, his girlfriend probably pissed, and night giving way to morning, he was stuck in the middle of downtown LA pumping his own goddamn gas.
The Chevron station was sandwiched between the dark, iron skeleton of an emerging high-rise and the Harbor Freeway off-ramp. The asphalt around the station was cracked and rippled, as if buckled by the tight squeeze. The streetlamp buzzed and flickered, the light being smothered by the surrounding darkness.
The porcine gas station attendant who was supposed to be washing Macklin's windshield was, instead, smearing the glass with the greasy shirt stretched over his stomach and ashes from his cigar. Macklin saw the name "Earl" embroidered on the man's bulging shirt pocket, smudged by oily fingerprints.
Macklin jerked his thumb at the big "NO SMOKING" sign over the gas pumps behind him. "Hey, Earl, can't you read your own sign? It's dangerous to smoke here."
Earl shrugged. "I like to live on the edge."
A white VW rabbit sputtered up on the other side of the pump island. A bespectacled teenager in corduroy shorts and a rugby shirt burst out of the car and dashed past them to the men's room.
Earl yelled, "The crapper's for customers only." But, it was wasted breath; the kid had already disappeared inside, leaving his VW shivering and choking.
"Shit, every whore and bum in town thinks that's their private crapper." Earl ambled over to Macklin and let his hand glide over the car, up over the teardrop-shaped cab and down along the sharp, arching fins. "Piss 'n' run, piss 'n' run. I gotta sell rubbers and dildos in there just so I can afford to clean up the place, you know?"
Earl leaned against the gas pump to Macklin's left, flicked his cigar, and stuck it between his plump lips. "Nice night, huh?"
"Oh yeah," Macklin groaned. "Nice night." He looked past Earl. The night trembled, like a movie when the film fails to catch on the projector's sprockets. The picture wasn't quite right. Macklin narrowed his eyes. A warm breeze blew scraps of paper across the deserted street like tumbleweeds. Then he saw the three blacks, illuminated in the lightning flash of the faulty streetlamp. One carried a bat, the others swung chains.
"A real nice night," Macklin muttered wearily.
He slowly turned to his right. Four more men peeled off from the darkness carrying crowbars and chains, led by a Michael Jackson clone. The gang leader wore reflective sunglasses, a white sequined glove, and a broad-shouldered red jacket Macklin guessed had been stolen off the doorman at the Westwood Marquis.
Earl followed Macklin's gaze and his eyes bulged with fear. "Th-The Bloodhawks," he stammered. The seven Bloodhawks formed a loose circle around the property.
Macklin kept pumping his gas.
Michael Jackson, bobbing to the beat of a private song, grinned and dismissed the station with his gloved hand. "Trash it," he said.
The three gang members behind Michael Jackson strolled up to the building, appraised it for a moment, and then smashed the windows out with their crowbars. The Bloodhawks spilled into the office. They bashed the shelves off the wall, whacked apart the candy machine, and tossed the desk into the street.
A black GI Joe wearing a beret and army fatigues strutted to the Sparkletts water cooler and swung his crowbar at the glass bottle. It exploded aqua blue, splashing the walls with water and glass.
At that moment, the teenager in shorts emerged from the bathroom. Before Macklin could react, GI Joe whirled, swinging at the teenager's head like it was another Sparkletts bottle. His skull broke like pottery and his body slapped against the wet wall, splattering it red.
"You're next, motherfucker." The Michael Jackson clone pointed a sequined finger at Macklin. "I've seen your fucking hearse before. You're the dogshit that's been coming onto our turf and kicking ass."
Macklin shrugged.
Michael Jackson whipped a switchblade from his back pocket and waved it in front of Macklin's impassive face. "Motherfucker, you're dead."
Macklin yanked the gas nozzle from his car and swung it in front Michael Jackson, spraying him with fuel. The man recoiled, spat, and charged blindly towards Macklin, who grabbed the cigar from Earl's mouth and tossed it at him.
Michael Jackson burst into flame. Shrieking with agony, he did a skittish moonwalk and tripped over his burning feet. He hit the ground rolling, screaming as he tried to smother the fire that consumed his body.
The gang members let out angry cries and ran at Macklin with their weapons raised. Macklin casually pulled the .357 Magnum from under his jacket and cocked it. Killing was becoming a reflex.
"Would anyone here like some .357 dental work?" he asked.
The men closing in on either side of him froze. The acrid stench of burned flesh filled the air. The only sound was the gang leader, crackling and bubbling.
"You can't kill us all," a gang member said defiantly.
Macklin shrugged. "Maybe it's my lucky day."
There was a long moment of indecision. Macklin could hear Earl's labored, anxious breaths.
"This isn't over, asshole," GI Joe hissed, holding his bloody crowbar out like a sword.
"It is for you." Macklin shot him. The bullet punched GI Joe in the chest and tossed him back onto the flaming corpse. GI Joe's crowbar clattered on the pavement.
Macklin sighed. "Who's next?"
The gang members looked at one another. They reached an unspoken agreement and suddenly scattered, leaving their two friends smoldering on the pavement.
Macklin holstered his gun, stuffed a crumpled $20 bill in Earl's breast pocket, and got into his car.
He started the engine and smiled through the open window at Earl's pale face.
"I like to live on the edge."
# # # # # #
2:00 a.m.
"Being a vigilante is costing me a fortune," Brett Macklin said, his voice echoing off the bathroom walls. He sat on his toilet eating his double bacon chili cheeseburger and watching Jessica Mordente's naked body through the shower's frosted glass door.
"While I'm out on the streets, my airline business is going to hell. Things are even worse now that Mort, my only pilot, is down in Mexico." He slurped on his chocolate shake and set it on the toilet tank behind him. "Christ, do you know how much bullets cost?"
"So quit." Jessica scrubbed her shoulders with her Buf-Puf. "Go back to being a normal human being again." Steam spilled out of the shower stall and fogged the bathroom mirrors.
It's too late, Macky boy. It's a part of you now.
Macklin held the burger tightly in his hands and took a big bite. A glob of chili spurted out between the buns and dribbled down his shirt.
You can never go back, never . . .
Mordente pressed herself against the door and peered over the top at Macklin. "I didn't hear your clever retort."
He shrugged. His mouth was full.
She groaned melodramatically and turned away, letting the hot water beat against her chest. She luxuriated in the warm water, and Macklin, staring blankly at the floor, ate his Fatburger. The only sounds were the rushing water and the whirring fan.
"Have you heard of the Transformational Awareness Life Church?" she asked.
"That isn't the answer. I won't join." He swallowed his mouthful of food. "I don't want to become one of those EST-holes."
"I don't want you to join, and it isn't EST," she said. "I'm doing a story on them. It's one of those self-awareness, self-realization programs. A guy named Fraser Nebbins runs it. They have their own little community out in the desert."
"Yeah, so what's the story? There's dozens of weirdo groups like that in Los Angeles. They franchise them like McDonald's. I hear it's quite chic."
"The kids who join TALC go in but never come out."
"Uh-huh." Macklin finished the shake and dumped the paper cup amidst the pizza crust, Kleenex, and yogurt containers in the thin wicker basket beside the toilet.
"I'm joining them."
Macklin stared at her through the frosted glass. Her body was straight, and she was looking at him in an aloof, distant way.
"I want to find out exactly what's happening to those kids," she said.
"Yeah, that sounds great," he said. "But in practice it's pretty stupid. They are going to play around with your head. They're probably experts at it. You'll go in there as Ms. Gung-ho Journalist and come out as their publicity director."
"I know that, Brett," she said in a patronizing tone. "I'm taking precautions."
"There are other ways to tell the story. You don't need to go undercover."
"That's the way I want to do it."
The phone rang on the nightstand by the bed. Macklin glared at the phone as if that would shut it up. He glanced at Mordente, set his burger on the toilet tank, and reluctantly trudged out to the bedroom.
"Hello," he snapped.
"It's me," replied LAPD Sergeant Ronald Shaw, "the guy who should be home sleeping but is cleaning up your mess at the Chevron station instead."
The black homicide detective and Macklin had grown up together. It was Shaw, with Los Angeles mayor Jed Stocker's approval, who kept the LAPD from probing too deeply into Mr. Jury—the vigilante who had crushed a homicidal street gang, destroyed a ring of psychopathic pedophiles, and decimated a racist cult of deranged killers. The vigilante Brett Macklin had become.
Macklin turned and saw Mordente standing naked in front of the toilet, holding his hamburger with disdain over the toilet bowl.
"The attendant says the guys you toasted knew you," Shaw said.
She smiled at Macklin, dropped the burger in the toilet, and flushed it. Macklin grinned and turned his back to her.
"Yeah, they did."
"Shit, Mack, if the gangs know you're Mr. Jury, they're not going to rest until they've chopped you into little pieces," Shaw said. "You need protection."
Macklin glanced at his shoulder holster draped over a chair across the room. "Ronny, I've got all the protection I need."
"Give me a break, Mack. You aren't an invincible superhero. Tonight you were lucky. Tomorrow you may not be."
Macklin felt Mordente press her damp body against his back. She let her hands glide down his broad chest and over his flat stomach to his waist.
"It's time for you to give up this vigilante lunacy," Shaw said. "It's over. Move to another city or something and start again."
There were four dull pops as Mordente split open the buttons of his Levi's 501 jeans.
"Ronny, I've got to go." Her warm hands slipped under his bikini briefs. "Something just came up."