Free Scale of Justice by Dani Amore

 
    Scale of Justice
     
    The two men knelt side by side, peering into the deep darkness before them. They could hear movement and an occasional splash. Like something big and dark was moving quietly in the liquid blackness.
     
    They knelt on the remaining edge of a wooden floor. But the floor itself had been torn out, and only a small ledge was left. The vast space below them was the house’s basement, now filled with something that stank of rotting meat. Something that was alive.
     
    Their hands were tied behind their backs and a man with a semi automatic stood behind them, the barrel of his gun suggesting the general direction of the back of their heads.
     
    The men kneeling were much alike, and much different. They were both Hispanic, short and stocky. The commonality of their sharp noses, large foreheads, and elegant lips put a vague genetic connection on display.
     
    But the man on the left had pimples on his face, wore baggy pants, skateboard shoes and an untucked, oversized black T-shirt.
     
    The man on the right had dark hair, graying at the temples, a crisp white button down dress shirt, black dress pants, and black wing tips. There was also a black apron tied firmly in place.
     
    Behind them, a figure emerged, flanked by lean men dressed in dark clothes, save for large diamond jewelry, the occasional white baseball cap and large amounts of cologne.
     
    The younger of the two kneeling men started to turn his head, but the man standing behind him placed the muzzle of the semi automatic firmly against his cheek. He turned his head back toward the darkness ahead of them.
     
    The large figure emerged from the dark, a good head taller than any of the other men in the room, and twice as wide. The planks of the floor creaked underneath his massive weight. He walked until he stood practically over the two men.
     
    The older man lowered his head spoke in a soft voice. “Jesus and Mother Mary, please…”
     
    The big man slapped the back of the old man’s head. “Shut up,” he said. He was slightly short of breath. The old man could smell him, his breath had the scent of old beans and rice.
     
    “So who’s the motherfucking junkie and who’s the pussy ass thief?” the big man said, his voice high and soft.
     
    He reached down and slapped the younger man. “Talk, bitch,” he said.
     
    “I…I…” the younger man’s voice caught and he choked.
     
    “I am the thief, sir,” the older man said. “I am the one you want, not him.”
     
    “I already know you stole from me you old maricón,” the big man said. He seemed to consider the old man for a moment. “Do you know who I am?”
     
    The older man hesitated.
     
    “You are Diego Villanueva,” he finally said.
     
    “Yes,” the big man said. “And do you know who Diego Villanueva is?”
     
    “You are the leader of the Detroit Kings,” the old man said.
     
    “Yes, old fuck, but why am I here?”
     
    “Because you own the restaurant where I am employed,” the older man said, his voice soft and hesitant.
     
    “That is fucking correct,” Diego Villanueva said. “So when you stole from the till, you were stealing directly from my pocket you wrinkled old piece of shit!” He reared back and booted the old man in the ribs. He fell to his chest on the ground and groaned.
     
    “And you,” Villanueva said to the younger man. “You’re so fucked up on X and who knows what else, that you went begging to this old prune for money to buy your crap.” He kicked the younger man in the ribs. Harder than he had on the old man, and then he added a couple more shots to the ribs for good measure.
     
    Villanueva turned to the men standing behind him in silence. “Feed these two pendejos to the alligators,” he said. “They work in the restaurant, right? They probably smell like food.”
     
    He leaned down to the old man. “These gators love Mexican food, do you know what I’m saying? We fed them two informants last week, and they loved