slipped his Colt
from the back of his Levi’s and aimed the handgun down at Edwina’s
blonde wig. Time for Lady Justice to be
served, man , he thought as movement and
perception shifted down into super slow-motion.
As if privy to the thought,
the Chilean glanced up from unzipping Declan’s jeans with a
frightened expression, just a long moment before the trigger
squeeze and the sharp crack of the .357.
This time Declan had
inserted two pieces of cotton into his ears. Protected from the
deafening crack of the weapon, he watched the kneeling man slump
forward at his feet. Slowly, he moved back to a dumpster, selected
a sheet of cardboard, and covered the skimpily-dressed
transvestite. Again, he felt little emotion. He realized that
Edwina Sanchez had been terminated as one unit, a small part of a
larger plan—a self-sacrificing volunteer.
Time, perception, and
movement all quickly returned to normal as Declan slipped away from
the dead body. He paused at the mouth of the alley to ensure
bypassers had not heard the shot. No one paid him any attention as
he left the alley and headed for his apartment.
The figure materialized on
the grey screen, her scales perfectly
balanced.
Declan was jumpy the
next evening, worrying the police would
come by. He didn’t want them picking him up and interrupting his
participation in Lady Justice’s secret operation. Not now, he prayed
silently. I am finally doing something
worthwhile, something good. Yes,
indeed.
At 9:00 p.m. he went out to
walk off his unease.
It was Friday night and the
‘loin was rocking. The sidewalks were crowded with people shouting,
laughing, buying and selling; music blared from the bars and second
story open windows along the street. Cars squealed, braking and
honking. Buses deposited clouds of diesel fumes over it all. Noisy,
sweaty, smelly.
Declan wandered for a few
minutes, ending up at the alley near Homeboy’s, surprised there was
no crime scene yellow tape around the site. He glanced down the
alley; the cardboard shroud was gone, the body of the dead
transvestite obviously removed. Apparently no big deal, no big
loss…almost like it hadn’t really happened.
The last thought struck a
negative chord.
Declan could hear Ms. L’s
admonition about taking his meds very clearly over the street
hubbub: You will freak out again, hear and
see shit that isn’t really there .
Jesus, was he just freaking
out again?
Maybe the whole thing was
just in his head—seeing Lady Justice on his blank TV, the Law of
Catastrophic Isostasy, the whole special operation. Summarized
simply like that, it did sound kind of crazy.
Could that be?
For a moment, Declan was
confused. Then he recovered his poise and told himself
emphatically, “No, Ms. L. is wrong!”
Declan was one hundred
percent sure he’d scored the Colt from a street hustler, Big Henry,
the previous week over on Turk Street. He was positive that a week
ago he’d really terminated the Pak family. Last night he’d shot
Edwina, too.
“ Whassup, man?”
The dude in the Army cams
had come out of Homeboy’s with his brown bag and slipped up quietly
enough to startle Declan.
“ You a Marine?” the guy
asked, gesturing toward the faded USMC patch on Declan’s field
jacket.
“ Yeah, I was
once.”
“ You do the Gulf and the
Storm?”
Declan nodded.
“ What unit?”
“ Force Recon.”
“ Heavy,” the guy said, as
if approving the answer. “I did the Storm, too, but as regular Army
infantry. Buy you a drink?” He held up the brown bag and gestured
toward the alley.
Declan hesitated a
second—he’d drunk no alcohol since becoming part of the secret
operation. Why not?
“ Sure.”
He followed the Storm vet a
few steps into the darkness. The dude slipped the brown paper bag
down off his bottle, unscrewed the top off the half-empty
forty-ouncer, then wiped the mouth clean before he handed it over
to Declan.
Declan nodded, accepted the
bag, and took a long pull on the Old English
from the back of his Levi’s and aimed the handgun down at Edwina’s
blonde wig. Time for Lady Justice to be
served, man , he thought as movement and
perception shifted down into super slow-motion.
As if privy to the thought,
the Chilean glanced up from unzipping Declan’s jeans with a
frightened expression, just a long moment before the trigger
squeeze and the sharp crack of the .357.
This time Declan had
inserted two pieces of cotton into his ears. Protected from the
deafening crack of the weapon, he watched the kneeling man slump
forward at his feet. Slowly, he moved back to a dumpster, selected
a sheet of cardboard, and covered the skimpily-dressed
transvestite. Again, he felt little emotion. He realized that
Edwina Sanchez had been terminated as one unit, a small part of a
larger plan—a self-sacrificing volunteer.
Time, perception, and
movement all quickly returned to normal as Declan slipped away from
the dead body. He paused at the mouth of the alley to ensure
bypassers had not heard the shot. No one paid him any attention as
he left the alley and headed for his apartment.
The figure materialized on
the grey screen, her scales perfectly
balanced.
Declan was jumpy the
next evening, worrying the police would
come by. He didn’t want them picking him up and interrupting his
participation in Lady Justice’s secret operation. Not now, he prayed
silently. I am finally doing something
worthwhile, something good. Yes,
indeed.
At 9:00 p.m. he went out to
walk off his unease.
It was Friday night and the
‘loin was rocking. The sidewalks were crowded with people shouting,
laughing, buying and selling; music blared from the bars and second
story open windows along the street. Cars squealed, braking and
honking. Buses deposited clouds of diesel fumes over it all. Noisy,
sweaty, smelly.
Declan wandered for a few
minutes, ending up at the alley near Homeboy’s, surprised there was
no crime scene yellow tape around the site. He glanced down the
alley; the cardboard shroud was gone, the body of the dead
transvestite obviously removed. Apparently no big deal, no big
loss…almost like it hadn’t really happened.
The last thought struck a
negative chord.
Declan could hear Ms. L’s
admonition about taking his meds very clearly over the street
hubbub: You will freak out again, hear and
see shit that isn’t really there .
Jesus, was he just freaking
out again?
Maybe the whole thing was
just in his head—seeing Lady Justice on his blank TV, the Law of
Catastrophic Isostasy, the whole special operation. Summarized
simply like that, it did sound kind of crazy.
Could that be?
For a moment, Declan was
confused. Then he recovered his poise and told himself
emphatically, “No, Ms. L. is wrong!”
Declan was one hundred
percent sure he’d scored the Colt from a street hustler, Big Henry,
the previous week over on Turk Street. He was positive that a week
ago he’d really terminated the Pak family. Last night he’d shot
Edwina, too.
“ Whassup, man?”
The dude in the Army cams
had come out of Homeboy’s with his brown bag and slipped up quietly
enough to startle Declan.
“ You a Marine?” the guy
asked, gesturing toward the faded USMC patch on Declan’s field
jacket.
“ Yeah, I was
once.”
“ You do the Gulf and the
Storm?”
Declan nodded.
“ What unit?”
“ Force Recon.”
“ Heavy,” the guy said, as
if approving the answer. “I did the Storm, too, but as regular Army
infantry. Buy you a drink?” He held up the brown bag and gestured
toward the alley.
Declan hesitated a
second—he’d drunk no alcohol since becoming part of the secret
operation. Why not?
“ Sure.”
He followed the Storm vet a
few steps into the darkness. The dude slipped the brown paper bag
down off his bottle, unscrewed the top off the half-empty
forty-ouncer, then wiped the mouth clean before he handed it over
to Declan.
Declan nodded, accepted the
bag, and took a long pull on the Old English
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