Free Judgment by Lee Goldberg Page B

streets.
    Macklin steered clear of the charred section of the block, turned the corner, and headed north towards downtown LA.
    There, like a gleaming diamond in a shitheap, was a crisp and clean McDonald's restaurant, resplendent in its bright red brick and golden arches. Unscratched and untarnished, it looked shockingly out of place. The decay that had fed on the neighborhood dared not touch the home of the Egg McMuffin. It was as if the McDonald's were a McHoly shrine on McSacred ground, supernaturally protected from the neighborhood's destructive elements.
    It gave Macklin the creeps.
    A foot away from the McDonald's parking lot, the supernatural forces ebbed to nothing and entropy began.
    The traffic light turned red at the next intersection and Macklin stopped beside a dental clinic that used to be a gas station. The pump islands, minus the pumps, were still there, and the sign that had once read "TEXACO" now lit Dr. Kelly Selvidge's name up in lights.
    Dr. Selvidge's neighbor was the green stucco of Christ's Community Church. Huge letters atop the building proclaimed, "GOD BLESS OUR COMMUNITY."
    He'd better, sport, Macklin thought, because nobody else will.
    The light turned green and the Batmobile surged into the intersection. Macklin glanced up at a lighted billboard that announced to the neighborhood that "AMERICA IS GOING TO EUROPE ON PAN AM."
    And you're not, the billboard seemed to tease. Your sorry ass is stuck here for good.
    Macklin sympathized with the people who had to look at that billboard, that sadistic taunt, every day. The hate Macklin had felt wasn't burning as strongly now. The neighborhood had had a cooling effect on him. The streets didn't radiate violence, as he had expected, as much as despair. He found it hard to resent the place or its people.
    But his father had died there in a sick, gruesome way. Somewhere on these hopeless streets walked the bastards that had struck the match.
    Macklin cruised down another street, looking for them.

CHAPTER NINE
    The moment Teobaldo Villanueva came into the pool hall, people began to worry. Not because he was tall. Not because he was bald. Not because he was rumored to bend crowbars with his teeth. And certainly not because he was Chicano.
    Those qualities were nothing to fret about. Everyone in the room respected those. The clientele in Crazy Al's pool hall held Baldo in high regard, learning long ago to smile when Baldo was smiling and frown when Baldo was frowning. They knew how to handle it when Baldo was happy or unhappy—it was just a question of how best to avoid him without pissing him off.
    But tonight they knew they were in big trouble.
    They knew it when there was Hector Gomez buzzing around Baldo like some insane fly drawn to a can of Raid. Hector got that wired only on certain nights.
    The second clue was Baldo's eyes, eyes that were nearly pupil-less and seemed to recede into his head during those dreaded periods.
    The third clue came a few minutes later. It was his conversational technique: a grunt followed by his fist, or foot, smashing violently into something. That something usually resembled a human being at first.
    There was no doubt about it. That time of month again. Teobaldo "Baldo" Villanueva was horny. Hector Gomez knew his home might be an oxygen tent if he didn't find Baldo some pussy to chew on soon. Hector wasn't able to find any prospects in the pool hall so he opted for the easy way.
    Baldo was sitting still on a bar stool, drinking a beer and growling. Hector put his arm around Baldo. "Hey, man, let's blow this shithouse and get laid."
    Baldo nodded and stood up. To him, getting laid was like anything else—eating, drinking, shitting, and puking. You had to do it when you had to do it. Now he had to do it.
    "What'll we have tonight, man? A white momma with big tits, huh? Does that sound good?" Hector said excitedly, leading Baldo to the door. "How 'bout some ebony gold, man, some smooth black ass? Maybe a Jap lady, see if