Crooked Halos

by Charlie Cottrell

  “Hey, words hurt,” I whined.

  “I said, ‘shut up,’ Eddie,” LBG said. My mouth snapped shut.

  Judge Marshall rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I need a few minutes to think about this. Wait outside, everyone.” We all rose and exited the office quietly. Ms. Rodriguez stormed off down the corridor outside the judge’s office, her phone tool open as she spoke rapid-fire at some hapless secretary on the other end of the line. I sat down on a bench next to LBG and held my silence for almost a full minute.

  “So, your last name is Epp?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Christa Epp,” she replied.

  “Should I call you that, or just keep calling you Little Blind Girl, or…”

  “Hey, don’t let the fact that you’ve known me for a decade and only just bothered to ask me what my fuckin’ name is make you change anything about yourself, Hazzard,” she replied with a tone that sounded like what an eyeroll looked like. I had the decency to feel a little embarrassed and decided to change the subject.

  “You’re a lawyer, then?”

  “God, no wonder you’re a fuckin’ detective,” she sighed. “Can we cut to the damn chase? That folder I just handed your judge contains information exonerating you, placing blame for the riots squarely on the shoulders of Warden Pemberton, and clears your good name. You’re welcome.”

  “What? How?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about it, dipshit. Just be thankful.”

  “Oh.” We lapsed into a rather awkward silence.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now, ol’ Herman will hem and haw for a half an hour, reconvene the court, and dismiss the case. You’ll be a free man.” LBG’s feet hung a few inches above the floor; she swung them absentmindedly as she sat there. Rockford whuffed quietly to himself, rearranged the sack of fur he had for a body into a more comfortable position, and began to snore gently.

  “Thanks,” I said quietly.

  “Don’t mention it,” LBG said. “You’ll get my bill in the mail next week.”

  └●┐└●┐└●┐

  Things played out pretty much exactly the way LBG had predicted. The judge reconvened forty-five minutes later, explained that new evidence invalidated the charges brought against me, and dismissed the case. I managed to duck the reporters gathered on the steps of the courthouse and slip away back to the office.

  By the time Miss Typewell and Miss Janovich had returned from the courthouse, I was settled into my chair, a bottle of celebratory whiskey in my hand and already half empty.

  “Eddie! What happened?” Miss Typewell asked.

  I shrugged. “The Little Blind Girl’s a lawyer. Apparently she’s got sources you wouldn’t imagine, so I’m a free man again.” Ellen and Maya sat down with me, but declined a drink. We chatted about light things for half an hour, then I gave them the rest of the day off. They took it gladly enough; I continued to sit and drink in solitude for the next few hours. Eventually, the bottle was empty, so I went up to the roof of the warehouse to get some air.

  I stood at the edge of the roof, a cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth as I watched the sun set over Arcadia. It was still a dirty town, filled with people doing craven, horrible, unkind things to one another on a daily basis. I was doing my best to clean up the little patch I had some semblance of control over, but the events of the past few months had shown just how fragile that notion was.

  I’m not sure when Kimiko appeared on the rooftop with me, but when I turned around there she was, silent and stoic like some ancient statue.

  “So, I guess things are back to normal now,” I said. Kimiko said nothing.

  “Did I miss anything important while I was in and out of things?” I asked.

  “The Organization is done with,” Kimiko said quietly. “My squad assassinated the last remnants of Ms. Pratt and Mr. Crowder’s lieutenants today. The city is yours.”

  I sat and thought about that for a moment. There weren’t really any enemies left to fight, were there? Wally Stewart was dead. So was Kirkpatrick, and Bodewell, and Crowder and Pratt. Hell, even the Tuba was dead and gone now. And Kimiko was telling me that all of Crowder’s minions were gone.

  “Only one foe remains,” Kimiko said. I turned to look at her.

  “Carmen,” I said. The ninja nodded.

  I dropped my cigarette butt onto the surface of the roof and ground it under the heel of my shoe. “Well, that sounds like tomorrow’s problem. She has no resources, no allies, and no hope of winning. I say we call it a night.” Kimiko nodded again and followed me back into the warehouse.

  XIII.

  There was only one more loose end to tie up.

  “The baby,” Miss Typewell said, dandling the young lad on her knee in the office the next morning. “What are you going to do with your son?”

  “Um, give him up for adoption, just like the original plan,” I said. “Why are we having this conversation?”

  “But how can you give up your kid?” Miss Typewell asked. “He’s your flesh and blood.”

  “Look around, Ellen,” I said. “This is where I’m living now. You can’t tell me this is an appropriate place to raise a child. Hell, I’ve been shot at and stabbed here two or three times already, and we only moved in a month ago.”

  “Language,” Miss Typewell warned.

  I softened a bit. “Look, Ellen, I’m sure he’s a lovely baby. I’m sure we’d love him and take care of him the best we can. But he’s a liability. Carmen is still out there. She’ll come after us again eventually, I’m sure of it. If we give the baby up for adoption anonymously, like we originally planned, then he stays safe and he can’t be used as a bargaining chip against me. It’s for the kid’s own good.” Ellen frowned, but I could see she understood the wisdom in my argument.

  “Besides, can you see me as a father?” I asked with a wry grin.

  “Yes,” Ellen said sadly. She handed the kid to me and walked quickly out of the room, tears in the corners of her eyes.

  “That was, um, not very nice,” Miss Janovich said.

  “Maya, has it occurred to you that I am not a very nice man?” I asked.

  Maya frowned at me. “You say things like that, but you don’t really mean them, I don’t think.” She, too, left the room, leaving me alone with my son. He was a tiny thing, his eyes barely open and his motor skills nonexistent.

  “You’re a useless little thing, aren’t you?” I asked. He blinked slowly at me, then yawned. “Yeah, that’s about what I thought,” I said. He wore ridiculous little mittens on his tiny hands, though he’d managed to work one of them off. I saw it on the floor and picked it up, then tried to figure out how to put on a mitten one-handed. That’s when he grabbed my finger in his tiny hand and managed to focus his eyes on mine for the briefest of moments. He made a contented cooing noise, and a piece of my heart broke.

  “Look, kid, I’m not parent material,” I told him, then immediately felt embarrassed. “Why am I trying to justify myself to you? You can’t even hold your own head up.” The kid sneezed in my face.

  “That’s not as endearing as you think,” I told him. I sighed. If I kept putting it off, I’d never take him back to the hospital, where they’d agreed to set up the adoption process for the child.

  “I’m off to handle this situation,” I told Miss Typewell. It wasn’t going to be the most dangerous thing I’d done all month, but it was definitely going to be the hardest.

  Acknowledgements

  This book was my problem child. Originally written in 2012 as the follow-up to The Hidden Throne, it went through three major drafts that all looked pretty different from one another. At one point, I almost gave up on it completely; I shelved the thing and started working on another book (it’ll be book 5 in the series).

  Regardless, here we are, at the end of the line for this particular entry in Hazzard’s journey. There are, of course, lots of folks to thank for their assistance and support, so let’s get down to business.

  First up, th
ere’s my lovely wife, Michelle, who continues to offer support and kind words and doesn’t get mad that I spend way more time on this than I do on the laundry. She also cooks amazing food and you should all be jealous that I’m married to her and you aren’t.

  Up next is my fabulous beta reader, Jamie, who read the first draft and gave me the straight dope and hard truths I needed to hear about how much of a sack of horse puckey that thing was. Her comments and suggestions have always strengthened my work, and I appreciate her continued input and support.

  My favorite cheerleader/advocate, the romance writer Caroline Lee, remains an indomitable spirit and charming supporter. Without her, none of these books would have ever seen the light of day.

  My editor, Danica Sorber, did a knockout job as usual. She turned my word salad into coherent thoughts, which is no mean feat.

  The cover was done, as always, by the extra-talented rebecacovers. I don’t know what alchemical wonders she works on simple stock photos, but she makes my stuff look good.

  Then there’s my parents, who keep buying the books and supporting me, and my grandmothers, who are both far better at marketing my books than I am. Sorry about all the cuss words.

  Finally, thanks to you loyal readers. I mean, there wouldn’t be much point to publishing these if you didn’t read them, right?