by Rex Bolt
Who Needs Justice?
Chris Seely Book 1
by Rex Bolt
Copyright © 2018 Rex Bolt
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, organizations, events or locales, or to any other works of fiction, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Who Needs Justice (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice, #1)
1 – Receipt
2 - Invitation
3 - Chaser
4 - Talk Show
5 – Boost
6 – Arrangement
7 – Southbound
8 – Espresso
9 - Like Liquor
10 - Summit Drive
11 – Bazooka
12 - Coffee Table
13 – Bucket
14 - Discipline Style
15 – Donation
16 - Second Invitation
17 - Working Cowboys
18 - Seaweed Wrap
19 - After Clipping
20 – Landline
21 – Driveway
22 - Wiped Away
23 - Seafood
24 - Lucky Buck
25 - Road Maps
26 – Readjustment
27 - Line of Baloney
28 – Paperback
29 - Quick Salute
30 - Bad Strokes
31 - Bitten Off
32 - Medium Rare
33 - Tourist Parking
34 - In The Wheelhouse
35 - Thinking Vesuvio’s
36 - Extra Twenty
37 - Free Radical
38 - Radar Like Lightning
39 - Up By Hurlbut
40 - Second Martini
41 - Pathological One
42 - With Graffiti
43 - Any Episode
44 - In Battendorf
45 - Big Sundaes
46 - Family Swim
47 - Luccia Now
48 - Drop Thingy
49 – Until
1 – Receipt
February 2017
San Francisco, California
When he started thinking straight again, the first person Christian decided to kill was Reynaldo Holmes.
Better known back in the day as Ray.
Ray and two other kids jumped him coming off the 3 Jackson and kicked his ass, laughing as they left him lying there in front of Alta Plaza Park. That was back in the spring of 1989.
Junior high school.
What stuck in Christian's head from that day was Ray carrying the rake.
There’d been a War Ball game in PE, and Christian had put one of Ray’s crew out of the game.
Kid named Charles Fuqua, not a bad guy actually, but nailing him with the ball in the face from a blind angle didn’t help, and word spread the rest of the day.
So what they did after school, Ray and Fuqua and CJ Williams, they got on the bus with Christian and chased him off it at his stop and beat the shit out of him.
He never did figure out where Ray got the rake, but for good measure Ray finished him off with it, the butt end, two-handed across the mouth.
Christian was bleeding pretty good when it was all over, and some adult helped him and they called his parents and he spent a couple hours in the emergency room.
Then he was afraid to go back to school. So he faked being sick for a week.
His first day back, in the yard, there was Ray Holmes tapping him on the shoulder. He had a wide-tooth comb sticking up out of his Afro. He told Christian to remember, he didn’t touch him.
Christian nodded, and that was the end of it.
For a while he walked home, down Chestnut to Pierce and up the hills to his house, and eventually he started to relax and took the bus again.
He barely crossed paths with Ray or Fuqua or Williams the rest of the semester, and Ray enjoyed himself like nothing had happened, running track that spring and finishing 3rd in the city in the 60-yard low-hurdles.
Holmes was now on Christian’s list.
Christian put together the first draft at Starbucks in Mill Valley following a morning hike on Mount Tam, the day after he’d gotten his news. He wrote it out on the back of his venti caffe latte receipt:
1 Ray
2 DS
3 'Chip'
4 Simmons
5 Ike’s guy
6 video store Australian
7 football driver
8 Maierhaffer situation
9 soccer guy
10 Eric Mossman’s person
Before he left Starbucks he entered 'Holmes, Reynaldo' in a White Pages San Francisco search, and all these years later there it was, the only result, no phone number but an address of 1144 Webster.
Right in the old Fillmore neighborhood was where Christian was picturing it, if that was actually the guy.
2 - Invitation
When Steiner told him, he hadn’t reacted like he would have thought.
It was a Monday, a month after the 49ers lost to the Seahawks to end the season 2-14, Christian making a mistake accepting a free ticket to the game.
“Your results are a concern,” Steiner said. “There are experimental therapies out there, and clinical trials and so on.”
He cleared his throat. “But eradicating a stage four is not something we are entirely optimistic about, I’m afraid. In my opinion you have at least six months, maybe as much as eighteen. We are recommending treatment though, Chris.”
Christian felt like he was watching a compelling TV show, a doctor delivering grave news to a patient. He didn’t feel particularly sorry for himself, or terrified or angry. He was mainly surprised. His stomach had been feeling a little funny, different, for a few weeks, so he went in. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“I’m forty- two years old,” he said. “How is this possible?”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Well . . . Fuck you then I guess.”
Steiner looked down and rubbed his lip, and Christian walked out of the examining room. The receptionist, Bethany, was at the copy machine.
“That was quick today, Mr. Seely. You have a great afternoon, and we hope to see you soon!”
Bethany had wavy brown hair pulled back, nice skin, no ring. A twinkle in her eye. Christian had occasionally wondered what might be underneath the surface.
“Not my best day so far,” he said, “But would you want to have dinner?”
She took a moment. “I don’t think so, but thank you for asking.”
“You’re welcome,” Christian said. “And can you please tell Billy I didn’t mean it when I said ‘fuck you’?”
3 - Chaser
The Marina district had changed a lot, and Christian had mixed feelings. The Italian families had been replaced by kids fresh out of college, working their first jobs in the financial district or down in the Silicon Valley. Chestnut Street on the weekends was like a big fraternity party. Christian liked to sit on the bench in front of Hunt’s Donuts and observe the bountiful female backsides that paraded up and down the block.
Today he stopped for a beer at Weatherby’s. Two in the afternoon, no one in the place except for a couple guys at a side table huddled around a computer screen.
What now?
His parents had passed, so thank God they wouldn’t have to go through this. He had his sister Bonnie in Boston with his little nephew Bert, and his kid brother Floyd in Arizona. Hard to know how Bonnie would react, since they didn't see much of each other. Floyd wouldn’t say a lot, but he would take it hard.
Halfway through
his third Anchor Steam, Christian decided to tell Shep, the bartender.
“Shep, I’ve got a terminal situation.”
“That’s what I keep saying too, brother. Which is why soon I’m getting out of this business . . . There’s a guy in Marin makes those little houses? All’s you have to do, find a piece of land. They call it living off the grid.”
“I got like a year to live, maybe a little more. I just came from the doctor.”
Shep didn’t move.
“I mean what would you do, how would you handle it? . . . I’ve traveled, lived different places . . . couple careers . . . good memories . . . made it to forty, right? That’s all you can ask . . . What do you think you’d do?”
Shep poured him a chaser.
“Something tells me you’re not shitting me.”
“No, I’ve had this stomach thing and . . . whatever.”
"And just like that? This is where you're at? . . . No way, man."
"I know . . . but yeah."
Shep gave it some time.
“Well if it was me,” he said, "I guess first thing . . . would be let myself get mad. Take a couple days to get that out of the way. Then I suppose I’d be grabbing all the gusto I could, for as long as it lasted . . . Probably try to tie up some loose ends, along the way.”
The guys on the computer were laughing about something. A kid in a Duke sweatshirt took a seat at the end of the bar, and Shep went to wait on him.
“What you were saying, about the loose ends,” Christian said when he came back. “I was thinking of maybe killing a few people.”
Shep looked him straight on and nodded slightly.
“I hear you brother,” he said. “But you’re joking, right?”
Christian didn’t say anything.
“You’re not,” Shep said.
4 - Talk Show
On Wednesday Christian took his normal morning run from the Marina Safeway to Fort Point and back, three miles each way, past the distance swimmers and dogs fetching sticks out of the bay and hard-core surfers under the bridge near the rocks.
He picked up some French pastries at La Petite Auberge and went back to his apartment and fired up a pot of coffee.
1144 Webster, he figured out, was between Turk and Eddy, on the east side of the street. About fifteen blocks from where they left him lying there back in 8th grade. It was a ten minute drive from the apartment, or an hour walk, but what was the rush?
On the way there Christian wondered how you would do it. He’d only shot a gun a few times, a rifle, at his Uncle Barney’s ranch up near Grass Valley when he was a teenager. It would feel good to use your fists, at least for some of it, though maybe that wasn't practical.
Of course the big thing, the trouble with the whole idea, would be getting away with it clean. Ending up dying in a prison hospital didn’t bother him all that much, but then you could be leaving an unfinished list of seven or eight people. No set rule how you had to do it, so you might as well work smart.
You’ll probably get caught either way, but still.
One option would be to line up a few of them and take care of it back-to-back-to-back, on the same day. That way, worst scenario, you’ve at least accomplished a portion of it.
Ray's building was a modern low-rise that took up half the block. It looked a lot like a regular apartment complex, but Christian guessed redevelopment money, a nice step up from the projects where Ray probably lived back then, but still the projects.
A security guard was sitting behind a high desk in the lobby.
“Could you direct me to Reynaldo Holmes please,” Christian said.
“And who should I say?” said the security guard, picking up the house phone.
“Charles Fuqua.”
“He says he’ll come down,” the guy said. “You’re welcome to wait in the lounge, right there.”
Christian unfolded a hardback chair and took a seat. There was an elderly woman up front watching a talk show with the volume loud.
When Holmes walked in, he looked old. He’d had a high forehead and light complexion and had moved with an easy grace back then. Now he had a slight limp and had gained some weight, but it was definitely him.
“Charles, he had a rough time of it,” Ray said. “He ran with a bad bunch, got into it."
"Oh yeah?" Christian said.
“That boy been down for some time now. Which bring me to my next question: who the fuck are you?”
Christian stood up. Ray’s eyes were yellow and he was missing an upper incisor.
“Chris Seely. From Marina?” He extended his hand.
Ray took it, and Christian knew he knew.
“Man, now you taking me back,” Ray said. “You’re talking junior high school. Only school I remember, Galileo. Played some ball there."
"Is that right."
"Caught me a touchdown on Turkey Day at Kezar, corner of the end zone . . . We called it Strong 86 Flag, two DBs on me, I went up and got it. We lost to Lincoln . . . They was full of white boys like you.”
Christian said, “Remember playing War Ball on rainy days?”
“Fuck you talking about?”
“You remember, give me a call.” Christian picked up an old newspaper and wrote his number on it.
“I got four days a week, four hours a day, they working on my kidneys in a chair. So I can stay alive. Mother fucker asking do I remember War Ball.”
“If you do, Ray, call me.”
Christian thought of asking him what the final score was of that Turkey Day game, but that was getting off the subject.
5 – Boost
Friday evening, Christian drove across the bridge twenty-three miles north to Terra Linda. Marin County. Traffic was awful. By the time he got to the high school gym, it was the third quarter.
He spotted Joyce in the little faculty section behind the scorer’s table.
“I must say, your school spirit is a bit deficient,” she said. “Though it is a surprise to see you here.”
“Well, I thought it might be fun to stop by. For old times’ sake.”
"Then I’m glad you did. How have you been Chris?”
“You know, kind of all over the place. What can you say?”
“Don’t I know it . . . That kid number 28 is the star. He was all-TCL last year as a sophomore. I have him in 5th period, really nice boy.”
“Smooth ball-handler, I can see that.”
“His dad pushes him hard, unfortunately. But I think he still enjoys it, at least I hope.”
Christian said, “Donny Shelhorne doing okay these days?”
Joyce frowned. “You come with that out of the blue? What are you doing here Chris?”
“I actually was hoping we could get a bite, after we put away St. Stephen’s. We’re up by eighteen at the moment.”
“There’s someone I’m seeing,” Joyce said.
“Serious?”
“Well, yeah, a couple months. I’m happy.”
“Anyone I would know?”
“Hopefully not, he’s in the wine business.”
“And you’re dating him tonight?”
“Yes.”
“So you break it.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Tell him the game went into double overtime, and you’re exhausted.”
+++
Three in the morning, Christian got up and opened the door a crack for a little air. The Jetty was an old-time, dependable motel along the northern shore of Sausalito, sandwiched between a boat builder and a business park. Christian’s first time there had been the week of his senior prom.
“You,” Joyce said, sitting up, shaking her head. “What did I just do?”
“Are you kidding? You did a lot, you boosted my confidence.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Anyway, as far as you know, what’s Donny up to these days? You must at least hear something. I haven’t seen him since that time in the deli . . . I told you about that, right?”
“Yes. That’s when yo
u said if he weren't around anymore, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
“I did?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, any particular part of that statement you disagree with?”
“I block it out, so stop,” Joyce said.
“Well, I actually find I’m not blocking it out as well these days . . . Far as you know, what’s that cocksucker doing with himself?”
Joyce said, “You want to keep being an asshole and bringing it up, or you want to come here?”
6 – Arrangement
In 2012, at the start of Donny Shelhorne’s senior season, when he was 18 years old, Preps App rated him one of the top twenty-five left-handed high school pitchers in the nation. He had gone 12-1 as a junior, striking out more than half of the batters he faced. He had a relaxed, natural motion, and the radar gun put him consistently in the low 90’s.
On a Saturday night in March, Donny and his pal Benji Romano decided to have an impromptu party at Benji’s house on the southwest side of Terra Linda. Word got around quickly, and within an hour the party was overflowing out onto the driveway and front lawn.
Donny was in the kitchen, all smiles, putting the moves on Meghan Britta and her best friend Lindie Moreda. Especially Meghan. The girls were sophomores. They were in the middle of trying out for varsity cheerleading for next year, and they were awestruck that Donny Shelhorne was paying attention to them.
Donny reached around Meghan and poured three shots on the counter. Lindie wasn’t sure, and Meghan wasn’t either, but after a minute Meghan picked hers up, gave Lindie an “Oh well, here goes!”, and drank it down.
Donny matched her. He refilled the glasses, and they did a second round. He asked Meghan how old she was.
She told him sixteen last month. She was giggling.
Donny said in that case why not go a shot for every two years, making it eight. He had his arm around her now. Frankie Rohn had started talking to Lindie. Someone turned up the volume on the reggae.
Donny stopped his shots at four, but Meghan didn’t notice. He smiled and refilled her glass until she got to eight. It went by quick, like it was a game.
Meghan excused herself and walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. More people poured into the kitchen, and Donny soon had his arm around another girl.
