Rough Justice (The Scarecrow and Lady Kingston Book 1)

by Tristan Vick

  “You have the right to remain dumb. Whatever stupid thing you dumbasses say will most probably be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, you have the right to be appointed one who has nothing better to do than to waste his time in the hopeless struggle to defend outlaws and morons.”

  Scarecrow looked over at Julie with a curious expression and asked, “The right to remain dumb?”

  “I was going for the double entendre,” Julie replied, tossing a pack of plastic ties to John. He caught it and continued tying up the villains.

  Julie looked down at the group’s leader. After a brief pause, she asked, “Do you know what you are?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” grumbled the leader.

  “A coward.”

  “Why don’t you untie me,” he replied, “and we’ll see how much of a coward I really am.”

  Julie crouched down and smiled at him—a show of fearlessness as she faced down her would-be killer. She waited a moment, then continued her remonstration. “As I recall, I wasn’t the one that just got schooled by a girl.”

  “You got lucky,” he muttered under his breath.

  Shrugging her shoulders, Julie smiled again and continued, “Maybe so, but that doesn’t change anything.” A sense of calm suddenly came over her, and Julie stopped smiling and pulled out her gun. Still crouching down, she looked into the villain’s eyes and paused for a bit. “Back in the Wild West, a lawman would be justified in killing an outlaw simply for drawing on him. Lucky for you, this ain’t the Wild West, so I’m not allowed to kill you by account of the law being what it is. But I promise you, if you ever so much as draw a gun on me again, the moment I draw mine I’ll shoot you dead.”

  After her little speech, she holstered her weapon, stood back up, and looked at her partner – then back down at the mercenary looking up at her with a contemptible gaze that rivaled hers. The hardened mercenary just smiled condescendingly and, as if to test her resolve, scoffed, “With all due respect, officer, why don’t you stop wasting your words on me and use that pretty mouth of yours for something useful, like blowing me.”

  Julie frowned.

  “If I were you,” Scarecrow interjected, “I’d choose my words more carefully. The last guy that used those words got his wish. She blew his balls clean off.”

  “Do I look scared to you?” the merc asked in a defiant tone, putting on his best tough guy façade.

  Fuming, Julie reached into her jacket and pulled out a handheld taser from inside her breast pocket. Without warning, she jammed it between his legs and released vicious volts of crackling electricity into his crotch.

  “ZZZNAHHHGG!” he yowled in pain.

  “You see, the thing about sociopaths is they don’t typically show signs of fear. They do not have any sense of shame or guilt for the wrongs they’ve committed, and so do not fear the consequences of their actions. So do I think you’re scared of me? No. But I do think you’re stupid.”

  Julie pulled the taser away, leaving the man clutching his crotch with both hands. After rolling her head on her shoulders and popping her neck, she slowly turned her head and shot a cold glance at the remaining mercenaries. Pulling the trigger, the taser lit up with an electric blue arc, crackling and sparking, as she taunted the others with further gonad torture. The remaining men exchanged nervous glances as beads of sweat dripped off their foreheads.

  “I’m only going to ask this once,” Julie said, letting the taser snap, crackle, and pop as she waved it around for dramatic effect. “Who sent you to kill me and why?”

  Dusting off his hands, Scarecrow finished tying up the last of the mercenaries. “You know, if I were you, I’d tell the lady everything she wants to know.”

  Picking up the squad leader by his collar, Julie propped him up on his knees, reached down with her free hand and clamped down on his nuts with a vice-like grip.

  “Arghhh!” moaned the squad leader. The twinge of pain put a crease in his already perspiring brow.

  “I’m losing my patience,” Julie said, and squeezed even harder, relentlessly crushing the man’s scrotum like a bear trap.

  “Okay! I’ll talk,” he said in a high-pitched squeal.

  Letting go of his family jewels, Julie suddenly jammed the taser back into his crotch and shocked him again. The man fell back to the ground, hands cradling his thoroughly baked oysters. Julie looked over at Scarecrow and shrugged as if to insinuate it couldn’t be helped.

  At that very moment, the faint rhythm of Spanish hip-hop music blaring in the distance grew audible. Julie and Scarecrow looked in the direction of the sound just in time to see a low-rider, gaudy-gold ‘70s Cadillac convertible bounce around the bend of the street corner. The car hip-hopped its way toward their position.

  Easing up next to Julie and Scarecrow, the car came to a screeching halt, and with a cagey curiosity, four Chicano gangster wannabes looked around at the inexplicable display. Bodies littered the pavement. Red blotches of blood splatter-decorated it like flecks of paint. In the background was a heap of destruction where the diner had once stood, and in front of it stood a pissed off Chicana over the writhing body of a man clutching what was left of his frazzled junk.

  But perhaps even stranger yet was the bona fide living, breathing scarecrow eyeballing them suspiciously.

  John Scarecrow nonchalantly flashed his police badge and quipped, “Nothing to see here, folks.” With the dilapidated diner still smoking behind him, he waved his hand, motioning for them to carry on and added, “Move along, move along.”

  The music rapped on as awkward glances were exchanged between the nervous Chicanos. Then, no longer hopping to the beat, the gold Cadillac timidly inched away. When it reached the corner, it immediately took a tire squealing left, burning black crescents in the road as the Chicano gang members high-tailed it.

  “That was awkward,” Scarecrow stated in a somewhat bemused tone.

  “Sure was,” Julie agreed. In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard fast approaching.

  5

  BACKLOT BLUES

  Pulling up to the soundstage on the studio lot, the dark, metallic gray Camaro ZL1 with black carbon racing stripes came to a halt. Its V-8 rumbled like the purr of a magnificent panther. With a grumble, the engine shut off, and all became quiet.

  Julie got out of the vehicle sporting a raspberry leather jacket, a charcoal gray tank top, and Oakley sunglasses. She pulled off the reflective Oakleys that adorned her face and scanned the empty movie lot for anything out of the ordinary. Scarecrow, having changed out of his tattered threads, now wore a three-piece suit of different gradients of gray with a sharp black tie, which contrasted the muted tones.

  Scarecrow shrugged his shoulders and turned toward his partner. “I have to admit, you really do know how to put the pressure on in your interrogations. Just curious, but do you think using the vice grip was, perhaps, a little too much?”

  Julie looked over at John with a demure grin. “Even the toughest big shots will eventually crack under enough pressure. The only ones who don’t are those willing to die for a cause. I simply deduced that as a hired thug, our man had no such predilections. So it was only a matter of time before he spilled the beans. As for when I knew he’d crack, well, I think it’s when I pulled out the Chinese finger-traps.”

  “You do realize you could get suspended for pulling a stunt like that, right?”

  “Look, it’s perfectly legal to clamp Chinese finger-traps down to a table in the state of California.”

  “Not with the criminal attached to them. All three of them!”

  “Oh, don’t be a worrywart. Someone will eventually get him out of it.”

  “But what about the emotional damage?”

  Julie raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps he should have chosen his words more carefully then.”

  Scarecrow shrugged and let it slide. The entire precinct didn’t call her “Hot Tamale” for nothing. Th
e nickname fit her to a T. Red. Hot. Explosive. But it was more than just her personality that made her edgy. Julie was able to walk the fine line between true justice and vigilantism without ever falling off the deep end.

  John knew that upholding the law to the best of his abilities was just part of his duty to serve and protect the public. At the same time, he realized that there were rare occasions when one might have to forgo the law in order to do the right thing. Sometimes, that was the only way to enact justice. After all, even an ambulance has to speed in order to save a critical patient.

  It was apparent in his mind that Julie viewed laws as something more like guidelines than some kind of uninfringeable dictate. He was not looking to make a habit of bending the law like she was, but he understood why Julie never hesitated to do so.

  “So let me see if I have this all straight,” John said, stroking his chin contemplatively. “The person who hired the hit is your old pal Blake ‘The Razor’ McDoogle.”

  “That’s what my informant on the inside said, at any rate.”

  “McDoogle, however, is securely behind bars serving back-to-back life sentences and ruing the day he ever heard the name Julie Kingston.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “But evidently he’s still bitter about you preventing him from skinning any more girls alive, and still has enough influence in the shady underworld of crime to reach to the outside and try and erase you.”

  “Appears that way.”

  “And on top of all this, for unknown reasons, he harbors an unhealthy fixation with one of Hollywood’s most famous starlets. That starlet being none other than our beloved and dear friend Kateland Rameses Beckensale.”

  “Bingo.”

  “The question is, how deeply is she involved? Is she aiding him of her own volition, or is she being squeezed, made to do his bidding until she no longer serves a useful purpose?”

  “After our bizarre conversation today, I suppose anything is possible. Something certainly had her on edge. But I don’t think she would have sought me out after all this time unless it was vitally important.”

  “She might’ve been trying to warn you.”

  Julie scratched at an itch under her arm. “Whatever the case may be, the only thing that’s certain is that the rabbit hole goes a lot deeper than we initially thought. We need to find Beck before she gets herself into any deeper trouble than she’s already in.”

  “Well,” John began, pulling out his smartphone and checking the email he received earlier. “Her agent said she would be here on the soundstage doing some reshoots for her latest film.”

  “About that …” Julie said, pausing to look around at the empty lot. “You sure they gave you the right address?”

  “I’m quadruple checking it now,” he replied, bringing up the location in Google Maps. “Um … yep. We’re definitely at the right location.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as a little bit strange that nobody else is around?” Julie slid off her shades and tucked them into the inside breast pocket of her raspberry-colored leather jacket, and then stared off into the distance.

  “You thinking it might be a trap?” John inquired, looking around nervously.

  “Oh, it’s obviously a trap,” Julie confirmed. Putting her hand on her hip, she tossed her hair and then looked back at Scarecrow with her trademark game face. “You ready for this?”

  “Not really,” Scarecrow replied. “The first assassination attempt was more than enough for me. But I suppose the saying is true: Evil refuses to sleep until evil be done.”

  Off in the distance, the high-pitched wail of an old steam locomotive blared.

  Whoo-wooo!

  Julie and John turned toward each other and spoke in unison, “Did you hear that?”

  “I’ll go check out the train,” Julie informed. “You try and find someone, anyone, to talk to and see what the hell is going on around here.”

  “Will do, partner,” Scarecrow said cheerfully with a two-finger salute. With that, he turned around and headed toward the massive soundstage behind them.

  Julie waited until he was out of sight, then headed off in the other direction to discover why a train was running on what appeared to be an abandoned backlot. It seemed she’d have to descend into the rabbit hole before she’d find any answers.

  6

  SHOWDOWN

  Sinister shadows stretched across the dark pavement and crawled down the drainpipes, walls, and windowsills as they crept after Scarecrow, nipping at his heels as he walked past the rows of ominous buildings. Keenly aware of the growing dark, he could feel danger lurking in the deepening shadows of the back lot.

  Scarecrow arrived at the central soundstage. It was the size of an airplane hangar. As he pushed open the large doors that led into the massive soundstage, light flooded into the room. Even so, the room was too big for the light to illuminate fully.

  Scarecrow couldn’t shake the nerve-racking feeling that hidden forms lurked in the dimness of the sound stage’s dark confines. John’s silhouette stretched across the thick slice of light that cut across the entrance and quickly receded into the blackness, swallowed up by the dark mouth of the large room.

  “Anybody in here?” he called out, his voice fading into the large, hollow space. John waited a moment and then said to himself, “Guess not.”

  Before he had time to close the doors, however, an unexpectedly large CRASH rang out from within the shadowy void.

  “Who’s there?” Scarecrow asked, startled, and reached for his revolver. Stepping further into the sound stage and peering intensely into the dark, he fumbled around, feeling for the light switch until he finally found it. Flipping it on, the studio lights came to life with an insect-like electrical hum. Buzzing all around him, the lights steadily warmed up to a soft glow.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the light, John discovered he was standing in the middle of what appeared to be an exact replica of an old frontier saloon, the same sort he’d seen in old Westerns.

  Looking around some more, he scanned the room. His eyes roamed over the bar, the card tables, the back wall, then back at the card tables. Standing in the center of the room between the bar and the card tables stood a cowboy wearing a crimson bandana. He looked a lot like a classic stagecoach bandit; he sported a ten-gallon hat and was looking all kinds of mean.

  “Tis’ here town ain’t big enough for the bothuvus,” the strange bandit announced in a cheap imitation drawl.

  “I beg your pardon?” John asked, his hand cautiously hovering above the hilt of his gun, which sat at the ready.

  “Nuh-uh!” warned the cowboy, eyeing John’s hand sharply, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Do what?” John asked innocently as his hand came to rest on the handle of his revolver.

  “You best be keen to know that I am the fastest draw in the West.”

  “Actually, I know the fastest draw in the West, and you ain’t her.”

  “You better clamp that there trap shut lest you want a bullet between dem goofy eyes of yours.”

  “Goofy? Look, pal, I don’t know you, and you sure as hell don’t know me. So, I think it would be best if you just put those pea-shooters down and come with me,” Scarecrow replied sternly, involuntarily getting drawn into the lingo.

  Abruptly, the cowboy drew his pistol and fired several shots.

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  BLAM!

  As bullets whisked through the air, John made little attempt to avoid getting shot and, instead, simply absorbed them – a luxury that only a scarecrow could afford. Drawing his own revolver with lightning-quick speed, Scarecrow promptly returned fire before the bandit could get off another shot.

  A couple of above the knee shots took the legs out from under the bandit and effectively rendered him immobile. As the bandit dropped to the ground with a wail and a thud, he lost hold of his gun, which fell to the floor and skidded just beyond his reach. Reaching for the gun, he was suddenly cut short
by Scarecrow’s warning.

  “Don’t move another inch if you intend on keeping that hand intact.”

  Reeling his hand back, the bandit rolled onto his side and looked at Scarecrow. “I guess that makes me the third fastest draw,” he bemoaned.

  “I reckon it does,” Scarecrow replied, straightening his back and holstering his weapon. Suddenly, there was a cough and the clearing of someone’s throat. Scarecrow twirled around only to find himself surrounded by a dozen more masked bandits, each of them dressed like cartoonish railway hijackers. Raising his hands as if to surrender, Scarecrow said, “Hi there, fellas. How can I be of assistance?”

  The bandits didn’t say a word. Instead, all twelve of them reached behind their backs and drew out some wickedly sharp samurai swords.

  “Katanas?! You’ve got to be kidding me,” Scarecrow said, somewhat bewildered as to why railway bandits would be armed like ninja assassins. Putting his arms down, he flipped out his badge and showed them he was an officer of the law. “Hold it right there. Police.”

  A moment passed as they all simultaneously glanced at the badge, then back at him. After an intense silence, the leader, still writhing on the ground in pain, motioned with his chin for his posse to advance. Like a hungry pack of piranhas, the posse moved in on their target, their razor-sharp blades extended like spears.

  “Usually that seems to work,” John said disappointedly as he tucked his badge back into his inside breast pocket. Suddenly, a full series of sharp blades, all aimed at his throat, surrounded him from nearly every angle.

  Grasping his leg, the leader of the bandits used the bar counter to raise himself up. Looking at Scarecrow, he asked, “Any last words before you meet your maker, you beady-eyed sock puppet?”

  Scarecrow slowly scanned the dark, piercing eyes of his attackers and said, “Shall we stop dilly-dallying and get this show on the road?”