Rough Justice by Andrew Klavan Page B

murder me too? I’d like to see that. I’d like to see you try.”
    I hissed through my teeth, kept silent, feeling the heat of his breath, the heat of his eyes.
    Now he grinned. “You ain’t doing nothing. You ain’t doing nothing to me. You shit-faced coward. You kill a man like Thad. He’s no fighter. When I did the streets, I had johns could’ve thrown you through a window one hand, they didn’t fuck with me. You wanna fuck with me, killer?”
    My hand flashed out before I could stop it. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
    He stuck a stiletto under my upper lip. He grinned into my face.
    â€œOh, officer,” he whispered. “He attacked me. It was self-defense.”
    I felt the cold metal against my gum. I felt the point pressing against the soft flesh. Felt the rage coming off me like waves. Heard my pulsebeat everywhere, the whole room throbbing with it.
    Then a voice from behind me. A woman’s voice. A weary voice:
    â€œKnock it off, Mark. Jesus. Aren’t things bad enough?”

11

    The kid yanked the switchblade out of my mouth. A warm trickle of blood followed it. I spat it at him, our eyes locking.
    Celia Cooper walked to us. Her flats whapped the tiled floor. She had her hand out.
    â€œGive it here,” she said.
    He didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t even look from me to her. He just handed her the stiletto. Gingerly, she pressed the blade back into the case.
    â€œWeapons are out,” said Celia Cooper. “One more weapon and you’re out.”
    He sneered at me. “Meet the man who killed Thad.”
    She didn’t turn. “I’ll deal with him,” she told the kid. “What are you supposed to be doing right now?”
    He bared his teeth. His arms tensed again, as if to strike. I braced for it. But he only answered: “I’m about to clean the windows in drop-in.”
    â€œAll right. Go on, then.”
    He nodded—not at her, he was still glaring at me. But he turned without a protest. He walked across the hall with that bouncing swagger, and disappeared through the door.
    Celia Cooper watched him go. Her chin was high, her gaze even. Only when the door closed behind him did she turn to me.
    â€œWe’re all a little upset,” she said coldly. “I’m sure you understand.”
    I stuck my tongue under my lip, tasted the fresh blood there. I dropped my cigarette on her floor and crushed it under my heel. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I understand.”
    For a moment, Celia Cooper stood silently, watching me. She studied me openly, gazing as if in a trance. Still angry, I gave the look back to her. She didn’t turn away.
    She was an impressive woman. Only medium height, and thin. In her baggy slacks and a sleeveless T-shirt, she even looked gangly, almost fragile. She was in her forties, and her short, curling black hair was turning gray, her round face was puffy and lined, the olive skin sagging. But all this—it only added to her aspect of command. Gave her a look of weary wisdom and durability. The firm, fixed gaze of her eyes and the upward tilt of her chin showed it too. She was a woman made to be in charge.
    â€œYou know,” she said now—and she was still looking me over—“I’m trying very hard to forgive you, Mr. Wells. And I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
    I pointed at the stiletto she held in one hand. “You’re doing a better job than Mark.”
    She glanced down at it, made a face. Slipped it into her pants pocket. “Mark’s relationship with Thad was special …” And here she looked me in the eye. “Although we all loved him.” She gestured toward the door through which Mark had gone. “Why don’t you come look?”
    I followed her across the hall, through the door. We came into a large, open room with two windows on the street and the dull gray day. There were more bulletin