Free Judgment by Lee Goldberg

with his spatula. "How you want them?"
    "Over easy." Macklin unzipped his jacket and leaned on the counter. "Listen, Saul, I didn't come down here just to eat."
    "Big surprise," he said, flipping over the eggs. "Hardly anyone does."
    "Dad talked to you—"
    "Yes, he did, Brett," Saul interrupted. "And I miss him. Every morning and every evening JD would sit right there, where you are, and just talk. We never saw him as a police officer, you know, walking a beat. He was just another street person, a shopkeeper, a friend."
    "Look, Saul, did he ever talk to you about the gangs?"
    "A little. Moe and me and your father couldn't believe how violent our neighborhood was getting. We were always hearing stories about kids doing awful things to each other. Why, I can remember when this was a peaceful place to li—"
    "What kind of stories?"
    Saul handed Macklin his plate of eggs and hash browns. "Horrible things, beatings and shootings and just horrible things, you know. Even your father was shocked. He couldn't figure it out. We'd hear all this talk, but your father just couldn't track down anything. But you know your father—that only made him more determined. He wanted to know where all these stories were coming from and why all this was going on."
    Saul buttered two slices of toast and set them in from of Macklin. "The neighborhood's just deteriorating. We noticed it, JD noticed it, everyone noticed it. JD, though, he took it personally. Like it reflected on his ability as a police officer, you know? It seemed like more violence every day. You know things are going bad when vultures like Elias Simon"—Saul pointed his spatula to the Silver Tabernacle looming in the sky behind Macklin—"come down and pick on your bones."
    Macklin looked over his shoulder at the towering glass monolith. "Like a vulture?"
    "Sure. Comes in here with his fancy duds and con-man smile and his missions and says he's gonna bring Jesus down here." Saul frowned. "Christ'll stay at the Bonaventure. He won't come down here. Simon just came to prey on our fear. People will turn to him cause they're scared and don't know where else to go. The schmucks. "
    Macklin wiped up the yolk on his plate with a piece of toast and took a bite. "Why do you stay, Saul?"
    "Good question."
    And apparently not one that would be answered. Macklin pushed his plate away. "What can you tell me about the Bounty Hunters?"
    "I wouldn't invite them over for dinner. Why are you asking me all these questions? A walking encyclopedia I'm not." Saul looked at him questioningly and cleared away Macklin's plate. "Good, huh?"
    "Delicious. Look, Saul, I'm just trying to understand my father's death. I want to know why he was killed."
    "Senseless violence, that's all. Nowadays it happens all the time."
    Moe waddled up, the Los Angeles Times folded under his arm, and sat on the stool beside Macklin.
    "'Morning, Saul. Did ya read the paper?"
    Saul had his back to the counter. "Haven't had a chance, Moe. Say hello to JD's son, Brett."
    Moe set his paper on the counter and turned, offering his chubby hand to Macklin, who shook it.
    "Sorry about your pop. JD and I were close friends. He talked about you, yep. He sure was proud of you."
    Macklin tried to smile.
    "Couldn't believe they let those punks off. Jesus. What's happening to our legal system?" Moe shook his head. "You know, pretty soon those old farts in the Supreme Court are gonna make it illegal to fight back when some guy jumps you. You'll have to roll over on your back, point to your nuts, and say 'Kick me here and please take my wallet.'"
    "What do you know about the Bounty Hunters?"
    "Buncha punks, what more do I need to know?"
    "Where can I find 'em?"
    Moe laughed. "See that street behind you? Just walk out there some night and they'll find you."

CHAPTER EIGHT
    The exit signs on the Santa Monica Freeway whizzed past Brett Macklin at seventy miles per hour as he drove the Batmobile towards the patch of glowing, towering