The Subtle Art of Brutality

“What?” The Judge’s voice exploded. It was a booming instrument and once upon a time, Mariana had loved listening to him sing.

Every head swiveled, every eye suddenly scared; the familiar smell of criminals who came before his bench.

No more anxiety. He knew the play, understood Bassi’s lack of imagination. Bassi was late not because he’d stopped for a taste of the exotic sex he so craved, he’d stopped so he could work up the courage to steal from the Judge.

“The fuck it is.” Casually, the Judge touched his boot.

“You got your little gun in your boot? That little gun you laid on your desk to scare me when you hired me? Well, it don’t scare me at all. Neither do you, asshole.”

This wasn’t Bassi. This was some new guy, some guy with balls and a bit of steel in his spine, no longer taffy.

“You said you’d solve my problem.”

“I said I’d try, Mr

. Bassi. A problem like yours is hard to solve.”

“Fuck that, you said you’d fix it. Told me to drive the truck. Make a few deliveries. Dump the last of it in Amarillo with Little Lenny. Told me you’d fix things if I drove the truck.” He leaned close to the Judge and dropped his voice. “There’s your fucking truck. I still got my problem.”

He’s crowding me. Pushing me. Why would he do that? He knows my history, knows where I’ll take this.

“How do you know that?” the cop asked.

Bassi never took his eyes from the Judge. “He called me, you asshole.”

The Judge took a long moment before answering. “And what is this gentleman’s name, Mr. Bassi?”

“Gentleman?” Bassi frowned. “Are you stupid? It was fucking Stanton. Threatened to kill me. Called me from your office in Langtry.”

“Well...perhaps it was a mistake for you to cut the country club take seventy-thirty.”

Bassi’s eyes narrowed, slits of anger. “I set that fucking job up. I decide how the take gets split.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have introduced his fifteen-year-old daughter to the wonderland that is your penis.”

“I’ll decide whose hole I dick. You ain’t nothing but some shitty lawyer couldn’t keep his hand outta the till anyway.” His laugh burned with contempt. “Working the border with fucking wetbacks. Judge Royy Bean. What a load of bullcrap.”

Bassi’s breath was onions and French fries. Stale and rotted and the Judge wondered if Bassi hadn’t actually climbed out of one of the coffins in the trailer, long since dead yet shambling from one disaster to another.

Bassi kept trying to crowd him. A weak-ass intimidation, one that made the Judge want to laugh. The customers stared, goggle-eyed, but it was all bad theater now. Bassi had made his play, had made the Judge momentarily nervous, the only thing left was the histrionics.

Over the detective’s shoulder, the Judge watched Johnny. The joint’s owner stood just inside the kitchen door, one hand on the phone, the other hovering at the waistband at his back. Cars and trucks roared on the nearby streets, while the delicate bell over Johnny’s door tinkled with another customer coming for hot links. Under it all was the steady tick of everyone’s heart.

Eventually, after seeing everyone on the patio, seeing the cars pass, hearing dogs bark somewhere distant, the Judge returned Bassi’s stare.

He says he’s not scared, but I think he is. I think, if I put that .380 right the fuck between his eyes, he’ll be plenty scared.

“You need to back up, Mr. Bassi, I’m not getting any fresh air.”

“What? You saying I stink? That’s what you’re going with?”

The Judge didn’t hesitate, didn’t play coy about his pistol. He yanked his jeans, shoved his hand into his boot, felt metal, and—

“Should’a fixed it, you son of a bitch.” Bassi drew from his lower back.

At the same time, he hammered the Judge with a hard left to the chin. Pain exploded like a ball-peen hammer cracking his teeth and the Judge hit the ground hard.

This is how it ends, Mariana. In a puddle of my own blood and Johnny’s spicy sauce. A piece of shit gets the drop on me and this is how it ends.