William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

Christina’s smile collapsed. “And I’m sure he’ll wait patiently until morning before he brings that to your attention. Boy, have you got a lot to learn. By the way, gentlemen—when was the last time you changed the baby’s diaper?”

Ben and Jones exchanged another look.

Christina groaned. “Maybe you two had better start taking notes.”

12

THE MAN IN THE red wig wasn’t entirely sure how the fight began. He had been following Abie since he left school, waiting for an opportunity to make his first move. While he watched and waited two boys approached Abie from the other side of the street. Both looked as if they were a year or two older than Abie. One was eating a hot dog; the more menacing one was swinging a baseball bat.

“Look at the rich kid, Seth,” the older boy said. “He thinks he’s a baseball player.” He knocked the Drillers cap off Abie’s head. “I think he’s a weenie.”

“I think you’re right, Jeremy.” He began to chant in a singsong voice, “Weenie boy, weenie boy. Abie is a weenie boy.”

“Am not!” Abie shouted. He bent over to scoop up his hat. The older boy knocked him down.

“What’s the matter, Abie? Lost your balance? Maybe you could get the butler to help you up.”

Both boys laughed heartily. The older one snatched the cap away before Abie could retrieve it.

“You know, Seth, I kinda like this cap. I think I’m gonna keep it.”

“Are not!” Abie said. The side of his face was scraped from his fall onto the concrete. “It’s mine! Give it back!”

“Oh yeah?” Jeremy said, swinging his bat in the air. “Who’s gonna make me, weenie ?”

The man in the wig knew he’d never get a better entrance cue than that. He ran in between them and pushed the bullies away from Abie.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

The boys’ eyes ballooned. Jeremy raised his baseball bat, but the man took it away with no trouble.

“Well, now,” the man said, swinging the bat through the air, “maybe I should just treat you two like you’ve been treating this boy. How would you like that?”

The two bullies turned to run away. Reaching out quickly, the man grabbed the shorter of the two, Seth, by the back of his collar. He whirled the boy around.

“Your name is Abie, right?” the man asked.

Abie nodded.

“That’s what I heard them say.” He pushed Seth closer to him. “What do you think I should do with him, Abie?”

“Gosh. I dunno.”

“It’s up to you. His fate is in your hands. Personally, I think he should be punished.”

“Well, gee …” Abie mumbled.

“Punishment is very important, Abie. Especially for bad boys like this one. So I’m putting you in charge. You choose his punishment.” He peered down at the now-terrified boy he held tight. “Makes you wish you’d been a bit nicer to my friend Abie, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t hurt me, mister. My dad is home and—”

“Be quiet. Abie, what’s it going to be?”

“Well,” Abie said, tentatively reaching forward, “how about … this ?” He grabbed Seth’s hot dog and mashed it into his face. Bits of frankfurter and mustard clung to his cheeks. “Now who’s a weenie, huh?”

The man released Seth’s collar and he bolted away. “Nice job, Abie.”

Abie shrugged. “I didn’t do nothin’. You did it all.”

The man held out his hand. “My name’s … Sam.”

Abie hesitantly shook the man’s hand.

“Why were they teasing you, Abie?”

“I dunno. I didn’t do nothin’ to them.”

“It’s because your father is rich, isn’t it? I heard what they said.”

Abie kicked a rock down the sidewalk. “I guess. It’s so unfair.”

“Of course it is. It’s not your fault your father has all that money, is it?”

“No. I never wanted any money. I just—” He looked at the man, frowned, fell silent.

“That’s all right, Abie,” the man said. His smile was smooth and warm. “I won’t tell. You’d rather your father spent time with you than at his job, right?”

“It isn’t his job,” Abie blurted out, as if an emotional dam had suddenly burst. “He doesn’t really have a job. It’s all his friends down at that stupid country club. All those stupid fat rich guys. And those ladies—”

“You don’t like those ladies, do you?”

Abie shrugged. “I dunno. Mom doesn’t.”

The man nodded. “Do you mind if I walk you home? Um … those boys might come back.”

“Sure.”

They began to stroll down the sidewalk together, side by side. Abie cleared his throat. “I guess I forgot to say thank you for, you know. Back there.”

“Not necessary. I’m sure you could’ve handled them.”

Abie hung his head low. “I woulda gotten creamed.”

The man smiled. “If you’d like, I could teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Really?” In his excitement, Abie grabbed the man’s arm. A frisson of pleasure tingled through the man’s body. “You know how to fight?”

“I know enough to take care of those two. You’d pick it up easily. You look like a natural athlete to me.”

“That’s not what my father says.”

They rounded the corner onto Twenty-first Street and strolled through Woodward Park. A few minutes later they were in front of Abie’s home.

“Thanks for letting me walk you home, Abie. I hope I see you again sometime.”

“Sure. Me, too.” Abie bit down on his lip. “Mister—I mean, Sam. You won’t tell my father about those two kids pushing me around, will you?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “I already told you, you can trust me. I’ll keep your secrets. And in return, I know I can trust you not to tell anyone about me.”

“Gee. Sure. Um … you’re not in any kind of … trouble, are you?”

The man grinned. “No. I just thought your father might not approve if he knew I walked you home.”

“Yeah. Prob’ly right. He’d say I should fight my own battles or somethin’ like that. And he never likes any of my friends.” He glanced at his huge Tudor-style mansion home. “I guess I’d better go inside now.”

Abie started to leave, then hesitated. “Um … Sam?”

“Yes?”

Abie peered up at him. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Help me.”

The man was genuinely surprised at the question. “No particular reason, Abie. I just want to be your friend. Your very special friend.”

Abie smiled, then scampered up the front lawn and ran into his house.

13

LIEUTENANT MIKE MORELLI SPAT the soggy toothpick out of his mouth. Goddamn those tasteless little slivers of wood, anyway, he thought. I think I got a splinter in my tongue.

When did smokers become the modern-day Typhoid Marys? It was only a pipe, after all. The flavor barely mattered. He enjoyed messing around with the tobacco, the tamper, the pipe cleaners. It was relaxing. It gave him something to do during all-night stakeouts or interminable departmental meetings. He liked the feel of the warm pipe bowl in his hands. Hell, sometimes he forgot to puff the thing. He probably sent more nicotine into the ozone layer than he did into his lungs. How much harm could it do?

Oh, what’s the use? He’d been over all this before. It was a dangerous affectation, one he could live without. If Jane Fonda could quit smoking, then by God, he could, too. He reopened his economy-size box of five hundred toothpicks and shoved another one into his mouth.

Truth of the matter was, this entire exercise in angst was just a stalling device. He was sick of this research and he didn’t want to do it anymore. He’d read a dozen profiles of pedophilic offenders, each one worse than the one before. The words, and worse, the pictures, branded themselves on his memory. Nude pictures of eight-year-olds. Anal assaults. Forced fellatio. His stomach ached and his brain yearned to be diverted to a different subject.