The Subtle Art of Brutality

If that is your best, Jeremiah, I will take it...but I will also pray for you.

Casually, without a care in the world, the Judge crossed right leg over left on his thigh. The heaviness of the weapon, steel and plastic, lead and brass, calmed him. From here, if need be, he could yank his jeans, clear the gun before Bassi realized what was happening, put a couple rounds center mass, and be out the door before too many heartbeats had passed.

The heat grew, magnified by Bassi’s stillness. Sweat popped on the Judge’s skin.

“You okay, Your Honor?”

Sure, he wanted to say. Except I might have to blast this prick bloody because I don’t know what he’s doing, but I damn sure know everything’s vibing wrong. Instead, he said, “Fine, thank you for asking.” He crunched more ice, flooded his mouth with the cold. “A bit warm today.”

“A bit warm?” the detective asked. “What are you—Judge, this is Barefield. A bit warm? It’s a hundred damned degrees.”

In the truck, Bassi moved his arm from the window and a second later, the cab door opened slowly.

In the thick air, the Judge heard an imaginary orchestra, playing the lost, lonely strains of Ennio Morricone’s music. The sound track to Italian deserts heavy with cowboys while two men faced off. Music for those about to die in a hail of bullets, for the dispossessed.

The door stayed open, nothing else moving. Cars and trucks passed on Big Spring Street, going deeper into, and further out of, the heart of Barefield. Their clank banged through the air, stumbled off the sides of buildings.

Still Bassi sat. If it was Bassi in the truck. Hell, given Bassi’s bad decision making, he could be long since dead, his body heaved into a ditch or pulverized down the drill hole of an oil rig. This might be some other cowboy looking to jack up the Judge and snag the entire shipment for himself.

Come on, the Judge thought. Fucking come on.

The traffic quieted, the clink of silverware against plates quieted, even the breath of Johnny’s customers quieted.

Lay your hand, damnit. Let’s see your cards.

The Judge bit his tongue, swallowed into a throat of grit.

And finally, Bassi jumped from the cab. He landed, flat-footed, hard on the asphalt. He stared at the Judge, but eventually closed the cab door. It thunked, a hammering metallic sound.

The Judge swallowed his ice, laid a hand on his boot.

Bassi’s chest rose and fell, his T-shirt stained at the pits.

For the first time, the Judge was uncertain. Bassi had always been Bassi, easy to handle, but every criminal in the world made a move at some point, didn’t they? Every criminal, be it the cheap convenience store thug or the lieutenant-level cog in a drug machine, looked up the ladder at some point. Or got railroaded into cooperating with the Feds or a local task force. Hell, that was why so many of them had ended up on their knees in front of Barefield Justice of the Peace Jeremiah Bean’s bench.

Was this Bassi’s moment?

“Make your play, then, fucker.”

Bassi spit and started across the street. A car honked. He ignored it, his gaze welded to the Judge’s.

There will be killing, Mariana. I will do it unapologetically, as I have always done. I will own the killing, as I have always done. As I have always owned all of my mistakes.

Yeah, you always have, baby.

And you, Mariana? Do you own all your mistakes? What about lies? Do you own your lies...or is there a lingering lie between us?

She was gone. He could feed her answers all day long and let the imaginary her regurgitate them back, but he couldn’t give her answers he didn’t know.

At the sidewalk, just beyond the knee-high iron fence surrounding Johnny’s outdoor patio, Bassi stopped. When his arm flashed, a blur toward his back, the Judge nearly shit. He yanked his jeans leg up and had his hand on the .380 before he realized Bassi had stopped.

Bassi spat.

“Damnit,” the Judge said.

Bassi had played him and now the .380 was no surprise.

With a smirk like a gashed scar across his face, Bassi strode to the Judge’s table and leaned over the middle. In a gentle whisper, he said, “My dope, bitch.”