Free Kill All the Judges by William Deverell

staying?”
    â€œI’ll find a place, I’ll get by.”
    Whynet-Moir saw that Cudworth had brought a backpack presumably stuffed with overnight gear, and he grappled with the implications for a moment. “Nonsense, you’ll stay the night here. Plenty of empty beds. Self-contained suite above the garage if you prefer, the maid’s room.” Above-the-garage was whatWhynet-Moir would prefer: this vulgarian had a suspect reputation.
    He ushered Cudworth in, showed him where to hang his poncho. The brute had had a recent shave and haircut, at least, and the grace to use a deodorizer. Floppy boots, baggy black pants held up by red braces, the top buttons of a denim shirt opened to reveal a peace medallion nestled among chest curls. Poor Flo, she will be aghast. He wished she would quickly finish her makeup and rescue him. He would definitely check the seating assignments, to make sure he was at the other end of the table from this hulk-shouldered rural.
    To kill time before the other guests arrived (the political essayist, Professor Chandra, would be His Lordship’s preferred seatmate), he toured Cudworth through the main wing of the house. A catering chef and his assistant were in the kitchen, an atrium of stainless steel; servers were setting a long table in a dining salon whose sliding glass doors gave access to the wraparound cedar deck and views of rock faces towering over a narrow, frothy inlet.
    A living room dominated by a two-sided fireplace. A glassed overlook to the heated pool, steaming and bubbling. Jade conveniences in each washroom. Elevator to the wine cellar. Just off the dining parlour, a well-stocked bar.
    Whynet-Moir didn’t know how to respond to Cudworth’s mantra, “Nice set-up,” “Real nice set-up.” With neither able to bridge the cultural gap, conversation was sparse, but Cudworth couldn’t say no a martini, and he lingered so longingly at the countertop humidor that Whynet-Moir gave him a Romeo y Julieta. “I’m afraid we prefer to smoke outdoors,” he said, ushering Cudworth outside. With relief, the judge ran off to attend to new arrivals.
    Cudworth twirled his cigar, playing with it, wanting to save it for the right mellow moment, with some of that Hennessy VSOP to go with it. He lit a cigarette, watched Whynet-Moir greet a couple in a high-end Porsche. Here coming up the driveway was a voluptuous car, a topless Lamborghini. Ever since he lost his virginity in a Jaguar, Cudworth had a thing about fine cars.
    â€œWant to fire me up?”
    He turned to see what looked like a frame from an early flick, Lauren Bacall in mid-career, maybe, or Greta Garbo, in what they call a little black thing, high black boots, a long set of pearls, an unlit cigarette proffered. There was something vaguely Oriental about her, in her eyes and colour, but he figured half the world had Genghis Khan’s genes, sometimes they showed up more obviously.
    He didn’t skip a beat, had a match under her fag in an instant, his hand cupped to shelter the flame, her hand there too, touching, winered lips puckering, inhaling, smoke creeping from flared nostrils.
    â€œYou changed my life,” she said.
    Â 
    Brian opened a window to let some of the heat escape. He hadn’t been with a woman for months, was horny for Florenza LeGrand, what right had Cud to pucker with the transoceanic shipping line princess? She really say that, Cud? You changed her life ? Sounds a little wheezy, falsely dramatic.
    An image of Florenza and her little black thing and her winered lips came again, but his erection failed to last, submitting limply to an infernal chorus from a shop speaker about the coming of Santa Claus.
    He should have had that beer with Max, should have gone with him to the Club d’Jazz at attitude adjustment hour. He shouldn’t have sneaked out the back way, by the stairs of cowardice. He should have listened to Max diagnose him. I’ll be