Free Justice Hunter by Harper Dimmerman Page B

the restaurant. Hunter nodded, and the waitress scurried off.
    “Is everything all right?”
    “I think so. It’s just there’s a guy over there who keeps staring. It’s sort of creeping me out,” she said.
    “Does he look familiar? A lawyer, maybe? A defendant?” Hunter turned but didn’t see anyone particularly suspicious looking.
    “No. I don’t think so. That’s strange,” she observed, her neck still craned. “He’s gone.”

T WELVE
     
    H unter whipped around in the other direction and then stood, trying to get a line on the entranceway, which doubled as an exit. He couldn’t see anyone at first. The steam, which lent the glass a greasy opacity, and the neon signage clouded his view. Rising and then inching his way toward the door, he peered out and observed a dark, late-model sedan stopped in the middle of the street in front of the restaurant. He remained oblivious as he moved, imprisoned by his curiosity. In the back of his mind, he suspected that Sheila’s observation was no mere coincidence but had something to do with the Vito’s case. He nearly stumbled into a table as curious patrons slurped and bugged out their eyes in wonderment.
    And as he made his way outside onto the concrete steps, he observed a lone man—the same guy from inside. Even with traffic at a standstill, with horns blaring, the mystery man leaned calmly into the street-side rear door, coolly dangling a toothpick between his teeth. He had not a care in the world—the epitome of fearlessness. Although the lighting was poor, Hunter could make out hardened features and pockmarked skin. The guy wore a flamboyant double-breasted suit, which struck Hunter as somewhat odd. They locked eyes for an instant, his menacing glare taunting Hunter. Clearly he wanted to be noticed, burn a frightening image into Hunter’s memory.
    Hunter drew closer, confronting his own demons, literally. He was unwilling to back down. If only he could get a plate number. But with Swiss quartz precision, the Mafioso-looking goon eased into the backseat and swung the door closed. Never diverting his gaze, he smiled wickedly as the vehicle sped away lawlessly. Desperately, Hunter made a dash for it, his bum knee giving out. Fuck! A wave of frustration and anger overcame him. He caught his breath and tried to compose himself. All there was left to do was return to his table and concentrate on getting obliterated.

     
    Feeling as if he’d been run over by a Mack truck, his head throbbing from a night of binge drinking, he lifted his head, dreading the intensity of the day about to unfold. The digital clock read 9:15. Sheila, who could hold her liquor better than any Irishman he’d ever met, was long gone, probably drafting an opinion for one of her important cases or feeding her kids breakfast. He had some Celtic blood pumping through his veins on his mother’s side. But that didn’t seem to count for much, as far hangovers went. He had his father’s family to thank for that. They were Russian Jews, drunk on guilt and narcissism.
    He looked around his bedroom, the disaster zone that it was, and wondered how a woman like Sheila could tolerate such deplorable filth. He couldn’t even stomach it, for Christ’s sake. In fact, he was feeling claustrophobic and in desperate need of something like a mental enema. Hunter’s bedroom was small and plain, with bare white walls, like the rest of the apartment. An ill-conceived smattering of 1980s track lighting protruded from the ceiling, giving off glare, at awkward angles to boot. Assuredly it was overcompensating for the dearth of natural lighting, the only source being the two rear windows, which backed up to the sordid alley. A simple black, faux-wood dresser stood unpretentiously in the corner and matched the black double bed. A pile of unfolded clothes, jeans, boxers, and sports socks—obviously meant for the drawers someday—lay atop the coarse, beige Berber carpet.
    The mere sight of the Vito’s file,