The Subtle Art of Brutality

“The day just got better, my friend.”

The truck stopped, clearly visible across the outdoor seating area. Johnny’s few early lunch customers looked at the gleaming white trailer. “Streets of America Caskets” was painted in huge, powerful black letters along the side. The letters flowed over the top of a soft, Norman Rockwell road. The road wound its way into a quintessentially American small town dotted with flags and cafes and a cop directing traffic and kids playing baseball. On the far side of town, the roadway lifted and faded into Heaven. A trailer designed to disappear, to escape notice. Supposed to leave a trail wholly unremarkable and unmemorable.

The truck’s engine rattled to a silent death and then?

Not a goddamned thing.

The Judge waited for the driver’s door to open. It never cracked. The window was down, the driver’s arm hanging out and deeply tanned, but Bassi never moved to open the door.

The Judge’s jaw tightened.

This was wrong. All wrong.

A sliver of sunlight gave Bean a glimpse of Bassi, hidden deep in the truck’s cab, his head turned slightly as though he was looking in one of the mirrors, or listening to someone else in the cab.

“You have someone with you, Bassi?”

Even with his face in shadows, the Judge knew Bassi was staring at him. Was he answering that question by his very silence?

“Damnit,” the Judge said.

This was not going to play well.

Not at all.

5

“Judge?” The detective never looked over his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“What...uh...what’s the problem?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What’s nothing?”

“Nothing is nothing.” The Judge drank deeply, crunched some ice even as hot, fresh blood pounded into his limbs.

The .380 gun in his boot whispered in his ear, “I can help you outta this mess...whatever it might be.”

Jeremiah, no more killing. Enough is enough.

But this might require killing, Mariana. This might require killing a man the world could well do without.

You are not God, Jeremiah, you don’t get to make those decisions.

It is not my decision, love. The decision is wholly his...and I have no idea his intention.

God is God. Life and death belong to God, not you.

Her saying, her belief. She said it to him anytime the blackness came on and left him bruised and whimpering like a trashy dog kicked down the road.

“I’m the Judge...next best thing to God.”

If she’d been at his side, she’d have warmed his cheek with a harsh slap.

I promise to try not to kill him. It is the best I can do.