by Lee Goldberg
PAYBACK
By Lee Goldberg
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985, 2009 by Lewis Perdue and Lee Goldberg
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Originally published in paperback as .357 Vigilante #3: White Wash under the pen name "Ian Ludlow" by Pinnacle Books, October 1985
Special thanks to Jeroen Ten Berge for the cover art and Eileen Chetti for proofreading.
To Bill, my (sometimes) better half, and to Karen E. Bender, who makes me whole.
PROLOGUE
Sunday, May 27
Sergeant Ronald Shaw always thought his own death would catch him by surprise, leaving him only a split second to contemplate his doom. He never thought it would be like this.
The black homicide detective lay flat on his back, his legs straight and his arms flush against his sides, as stiff as the wood that imprisoned him. The air was hot and heavy, making him think of the musty wool blanket his mother used to drag out of the attic and put on his bed in the wintertime. He was thinking a lot about the past now, mostly of sunlight and open spaces.
The worst part had been the pain, which sat in the hollow of his empty stomach and seeped, milky and sour, into every vein and capillary of his body. But he gradually accepted it and it stopped being an adversary and became a companion. The enormity of his loneliness was worse than the pain.
His eyes were open wide now, fixed on the tiny shaft of light that fell through the narrow metal pipe and dripped fresh air on his face. It was his only connection to the outside world, a world separated from him by the coffin walls and six feet of dirt.
Shaw had no idea how long he had been buried here nor how much time he had left until it no longer mattered. Sometime ago—he didn't know when—he had come to accept his death, even welcome it. His only fear now, in those rare moments of lucidity between his forceful memories of the past and chilly unconsciousness, was that Brett Macklin would make the fatal mistake of trying to save him.
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, May 18, 10:45 p.m.
We're in deep shit.
That's what twenty-year-old Dennis Vercammen thought, sitting snug and thoroughly buzzed in the white leather backseat of his Daddy's custom-made 1981 Eldorado convertible, his arm around Gloria Pensky and his hand cupping her gelatinous left breast. Sandra Muirdoe sat in front of him, shooting worried glances at Reeves Rabkin, who was driving and stomping the gas pedal in a desperate attempt to stop the sputtering engine from dying.
The white convertible glowed like neon in a neighborhood where everything looked black. The beaten gray buildings blurred into the shadows and the streetlights cast a yellowish haze over the roadway that dissipated before reaching the sidewalks.
The car made one last, spasmodic lurch and everyone in the car realized what Dennis already knew.
"We're in deep shit," Sandra muttered.
Reeves glanced over his shoulder at Dennis with wide eyes that said this can't be real.
Dennis nodded and looked past Reeves into the shadows. He saw three black youths, with their rigid faces and furious eyes, move off the curb and glide towards the car.
"C'mon, Reeves, start the car. This isn't funny," Gloria whined, noticing the three blacks. Dennis felt her heart pounding in his palm and gave her breast a squeeze.
Reeves noticed Gloria and Dennis looking past him and turned in the direction of their gazes.
"Fuck." Reeves eyed the three guys heading towards them. He glanced back at Dennis. "Stay cool and let me handle this."
Dennis shrugged, his head bobbing on his rubbery neck. Drinking made his head feel like someone had ripped open his skull and scooped out the heavier parts of his brain. That was why he let Reeves drive and that was why he gladly accepted Reeves' offer to deal with this. After all, it was Reeves' idea to go to that goddamn frat party at USC and his fucking shortcut to the freeway that got them stuck in this hellhole. So Reeves damn well better handle this.
Dennis could tell the three blacks weren't goodwill ambassadors coming to welcome them into the neighborhood. They were too poor to look hip and too hip to look poor. One guy, perhaps no more than fifteen years old, wearing jeans, blue canvas tennis shoes, and a ratty, black leather jacket, stopped at the front of the car and started twisting the hood ornament absently, his eyes licking Sandra's body like it was a Popsicle.
Sandra sank uneasily down in her seat under the teenager's stare. Another guy, with pockmarked cheeks and deep-set, thin eyes, wearing a gray sleeveless sweatshirt that let his muscular arms sway unhindered, strutted around the passenger side and stood next to Sandra.
"Hey, shouldn't you guys be out there break-dancing or something?" Sandra's voiced cracked. "I'd sure like to see you dudes do a quick moonwalk right back where you came from."
The third man laughed, adjusted his reflective sunglasses, and came up beside Reeves. Dennis noticed the deferential way the other two blacks looked at the third man and assumed he was the leader.
"We've had some engine trouble," Reeves said evenly in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone that was utterly emotionless. Dennis immediately thought of Mr. Spock. "Is there a gas station nearby we can push the car to?"
The guy in the sunglasses ignored Reeves and faced Dennis. "Look, Benny, that asshole is grabbin' the bitch's tit."
"Dennis, let go of Gloria's tits," Reeves said in that same flat tone without looking back. Dennis didn't respond. He didn't feel like he was there; it seemed like he was watching it all on TV.
Suddenly the pockmarked man next to Sandra thrust his hand into her blouse, grabbing one of her breasts. She shrieked and grabbed his wrist, trying to pull his hand out.
Benny laughed, his hand deep in Sandra's blouse. "I got me some tit, too, Luthor." He twisted her breast until she cried out. "Ain't bad, neither."
"We don't want any trouble, guys," Reeves said. "We just want to get our car fixed and get out of here, okay?" Dennis expected Reeves to paralyze Luthor with a Vulcan neck pinch.
"Trouble?" Luthor crooned. "What trouble?"
The teenager in front of the car twisted the hood ornament roughly until it snapped off in his hand with an audible metallic crack. Reeves glared at him. Dennis wasn't too thrilled, either. His dad had dished out $20,000 to a Jewish man with buck teeth to fix up the car, to cut off the roof and add a wheel well to the trunk. The flow of cash from Dad into Dennis' pockets might dwindle severely if the car was damaged. And to Reeves, that meant there would be less cash to leech off Dennis, which meant less booze, less coke, and less pussy in Reeves' future.
In short, things were getting serious.
"That's just about enough, boys," Reeves hissed, his face twisted into a snarl. Dennis was surprised. He had never heard Reeves talk that way. Reeves dropped the Mr. Spock bit and was now doing his best Charles Bronson.
"Really?" Luthor asked in a singsong voice.
"You heard me, bro," Reeves said. "Why don't you boys just take a walk."
"Dipshit here is getting mad," Luthor said, glancing at his friends. "He wants us to take a walk. My, my, what should we do?"
The teenager in front of the car whirled, hurling the hood ornament at the windshield. Gloria screamed and everyone in the car dove down as the windshield crackled. Reeves slammed the car door open into Luthor's gut and spilled clumsily out of the car.
Luthor recovered quickly. Before Reeves could stand, Luthor jammed two fingers into Reeves' nose and yanked him up. Reeves squealed, blood streaming out of his nostrils and down the back of Luthor's hand
. Reeves looked into his reflection in Luthor's sunglasses.
"You think you got balls, huh?" Luthor grunted, suddenly grabbing Reeves' crotch with his free hand and crunching the testicles between his fingers. Reeves screamed, squirming in Luthor's hands. "Don't ya, prickless?"
Luthor laughed. "Hey, Benny, ream this asshole's woman so she knows what she's been missin'."
"No!" Sandra yelled.
Benny lifted her effortlessly out of the car and dumped her, kicking and writhing, on the ground at his feet. "Get ready to gargle some manhood, cunt. You're gonna get a third world tonsillectomy."
"Hey, fellas—," Dennis began. Benny interrupted him with a sobering backhand slap across the face that sent Dennis sprawling onto Gloria.
"Faggot," Benny cackled at Dennis, who lay dazed in Gloria's lap. Then a loud blast rang in Dennis' ear and Benny's head burst apart in an explosion of red froth and gray bits.
Dennis watched in stunned horror as Benny's headless torso stumbled towards him and then toppled over the edge of the car, blooding gushing out of his neck and splashing onto the white seats. Dennis knew his dad would never let him borrow the car again.
Dennis looked past Benny's gurgling body and saw a man in a red leather jumpsuit emerge from the darkness across the street, a band of black makeup over his eyes. A new-wave Superman, Dennis thought.
Luthor released Reeves and dashed away into the street, the black teenager running at his side. Reeves crumpled into a heap. The man in red turned towards the fleeing blacks, calmly raised his gun, and fired once. The bullet tore into Luthor's back, lifting him up off his feet and tossing him forward. The teenager flinched and kept running.
The gun bucked again in the stranger's hand. The teenager yelped with pain, spun, and fell backwards onto the ground.
The man spit and walked past the car without even looking at Dennis or his friends. Reeves reached up, grabbed the car door, and pulled himself to his feet, his eyes on the man walking towards Luthor, who lay motionless in the street.
The man glanced at Luthor's blood-soaked corpse and then stepped over to the groaning teenager, crushing Luthor's shattered sunglasses under his heel. He stopped at the boy's feet and stared down at him. The boy clutched his left leg, blood spraying between his fingers like a small sprinkler.
"I-I'm hurtin' bad." The boy trembled.
The man grimaced. "Fucking nigger." He aimed the gun at the boy's stomach and pulled the trigger. Three bullets pounded into the boy in rapid succession, skipping his body across the asphalt.
The man shuffled up to the mangled body, fired one more shot into it, and then walked towards the car, his gun hanging limply at his side.
Reeves curled his lips as if to speak, but he couldn't summon his voice. Sandra whimpered on the ground, thankful yet afraid, careful not to look at the man as he passed. Gloria sat straight up in her seat, staring expressionlessly forward. Dennis watched the man slip back into the night.
"Who are you?" Dennis yelled impulsively.
The man whipped around and Dennis shrunk back, half expecting to taste a bullet. The man flashed a cynical grin and pinned Dennis under an icy gaze.
"Mr. Jury."
# # # # # #
The sleek, fin-tailed, black '59 Cadillac Brett Macklin was so carefully polishing in his garage had almost ended up sticking ass backwards out the roof of a seedy Hollywood eatery.
The mean-grilled street shark had suddenly become prized, and woefully misunderstood, Americana. People would gut the cars like fish, junking the powerful V-8, 325-horsepower, 390-cubic-inch engine that gave the '59 Cadillac it's bite, slop a few coats of glossy paint on the chassis, and turn it into a bubbling Jacuzzi or mount it on some burger joint.
No one seemed to see the injustice in it, except Brett Macklin. The 1959 Cadillac wasn't made to hang above a restaurant door, it's twin bullet taillights blinking like a Christmas tree ornament. It was the last American car with balls, with aggressive styling that said fuck you and stole the road. Nowadays, Macklin lamented, American-made cars were microscopic bits of tin that farted along roads dominated by boxy foreign cars with high price tags and engines that fit in the glove compartment.
In the three weeks since he outbid a pear-shaped Greek man who wanted to put the car on his West Hollywood falafel hut, Macklin had done nothing but work day and night restoring and modifying it. The exhausting labor kept his mind off the anguish smoldering in his chest.
On a chilly morning less than a month ago, his girlfriend, Cheshire, got into his '59 Cadillac and twisted on the ignition, triggering a bomb that blew her and the car to smithereens in the driveway of his Venice home. The bomb had been meant for him, planted by a gang of psychopathic pedophiles the impotent justice system had failed to punish. Macklin hunted down the killers, as he had the murderers who set his father aflame a year before, and made them pay for their crimes.
Now he was alone again. And angrier than ever before. While restoring the car, he restored himself. Both the car and Macklin were now sophisticated killing machines. Using money and supplies covertly appropriated by Los Angeles mayor Jed Stocker, Macklin drew on his years as a helicopter designer for Hughes Aircraft and his education in aeronautical engineering to turn the Cadillac into a tank equipped for the urban battlefield.
Macklin was actually bringing the Cadillac back to its spiritual roots. The chassis of the 1959 Cadillac was inspired by the World War II Lockheed P-38 Lightning Fighter plane, and now his new, restored "Batmobile" was just as lethal.
First, Macklin made the car nearly impregnable to gunfire. He replaced the fuel lines with steel tubing, armored the 221-inch chassis with metal plates, fitted the sloping, teardrop-shaped cab with bulletproof glass, and equipped the car with self-sealing whitewall tires.
Macklin hid a set of strong halogen lamps, designed to blind nighttime pursuers with a burning flash of white light, behind the rocket-like rear grill beneath the sharp fins. But the teeth of the 1959 Cadillac's defensive power lay cloaked behind its menacing front chrome work. Two air-cooled .50-caliber machine guns, capable of firing bullets three times as heavy and three times as destructive as .44 Magnum shells, could burst out spitting hot lead from the centermost of the quadruple headlights.
Macklin stepped back, admiring the car's gleaming black finish, and reached for his can of Michelob on the garage workbench. Sitting in the stuffy garage throughout the humid evening, Macklin felt like a battered Kentucky Fried Chicken in a pressure cooker. His white, 1984 Olympics T-shirt clung to the damp skin between his shoulder blades and against his sternum. His Levi's cutoffs itched his small buttocks firmed by years of jogging. The T-shirt was his passing nod to his teenage dream of being an Olympic-class runner. The dream died but was strong enough to get him through UCLA on a track scholarship.
The remaining three gulps' worth of beer was lukewarm, a pleasant reminder of how long and how deeply he had been immersed in his work. He wanted to finish the car in time to drive himself and Shaw to the campaign fund-raiser Sunday for black state assemblyman Cecil Parks, an old friend of theirs running as the Democratic candidate for U.S. senator.
Humming the Michelob jingle, Macklin strode to the rear of the car, squatted, and pulled a folded sticker from his back pocket. He removed the brown backing and carefully affixed the sticker to the gleaming chrome bumper.
It read: "PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON."
"You vicious, sadistic bastard!"
Startled, Macklin jerked his head up and saw Jessica Mordente, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times, standing in the doorway leading to his laundry room. She wore faded blue jeans and a pink oxford shirt. Her olivine green eyes were wide and glassy, rage tightening her face and forcing the veins and tendons in her neck to bulge against her flushed skin.
"You're Mr. Jury," she shouted, making quick stabs towards him with her finger, "and I'm going to expose you!"
CHAPTER TWO
Macklin rose slowly, an eyebrow cocked, and regarded her with wary curiosity.<
br />
"Mr. Jury is dead," he said.
"A lie," she shot back. "A trick to throw the press off the trail. That corpse wasn't the vigilante. You are."
She whipped the manila envelope out from under her arm and waved it at him. "I got this photo from a source at the FBI. They don't care who you are. They think you're a hero. I've kept it a secret because I thought maybe they were right."
She tore open the envelope, pulled out the photograph, and thrust it at him. "This is a picture of you taken by a security camera. That's you gunning down a couple of bank robbers last month."
Macklin felt a shiver of apprehension crawl down his back. He took the picture and held it with both hands. There he was, in crisp black and white, his .357 Magnum flashing.
"Your murder spree is over, Macklin," she said vindictively.
He fell back against the car and let go of the picture, letting it float gently to the floor. In a strange way, he felt relieved. He wouldn't have to kill anymore. But unmasking would mean publicity. The horror that had killed his father and Cheshire, that had turned him into a vigilante and destroyed so much of his life, would now inflict the final injustice—the destruction of Cory, his eight-year-old daughter, and Brooke, his ex-wife. Sergeant Ronald Shaw, who strenuously objected to Macklin's vigilante justice but was tied to him nonetheless by years of friendship, would be prosecuted as a willing accomplice. So would Mort Suderson, the ex-LAPD helicopter pilot Macklin had hired to work for his charter airline company.
"Don't think about killing me," Mordente said with undisguised disgust. "I've already made arrangements for this picture to be circulated if I suddenly vanish."
Macklin shrugged. "You win, I'm Mr. Jury. Now what?"
"I expose you."
"Then why not just do it? Why come here first?"
Mordente bent over and picked up the photo. "I wanted to see your face. I wanted to know why you became a killer."
"A street gang ambushed my father, doused him with gasoline, and set him on fire. The law let them go free. I couldn't stand by and let those savages roam the streets and do to others what they did to my father."
