Street Justice by Laird Long "You’re really going ahead with it?" "Yeah." Spin Bianco pulled another cigarette out of the near-empty pack. The pack and the cigarette shook, in rhythm to his hand. He finally stuck a coffin nail between his thin, parched lips and fired up. "We can still call it off, you know." "I know." Long pause. "Well?" "It’s going to happen." Spin, of roulette wheel infamy, was sitting with his only buddy in the world, Tector Brubaker, in a tiny booth in a tiny coffee shop on the Lower East Side. The joint had an air to it - the Depression era. Tector was a bruising hulk of a man, with a face as dark and rough as the alleys he prowled on his beat. Spin was a greasy non-descript, with long black hair, a pale face, and sideburns that went out of style with the Garfield administration. He looked good in a police line-up. Spin drummed his yellow-stained fingers on the cracked plastic top of the table. He gulped some coffee from a chipped white cup. Tector gazed quietly out the dirty window, watching the passing Saturday crowd. "It was an accident. You know that, don’t you?" Spin finally asked, staring at the face he always saw first when he was bailed out of the can. "He was shooting at someone else. I mean, your sister just happened to get in the way." Tector winced at the sound of Spin’s voice. He slowly turned his head to look at Spin. His eyes locked on target. "I mean, your sister was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Spin corrected, his body slipping into a defensive crouch. The big head turned back to the window. It was close to noon and already hot outside. The stink was beginning to rise from the streets. "He was shooting," Tector said quietly. "That’s all that matters." "You could lose your badge, man." "Yeah." "Let the system handle the bum. He’ll be locked up so tight his momma will need a can opener to visit him." "You can never trust the system," Tector said wearily. "I know." "Something could go wrong today." "Yeah. That’s why you’re here. It sure ain’t for the chatter." Spin smiled quickly and then got back to his part-time job - fidgeting. "I think I’m getting an ulcer," he said, as another butt joined its stubby brothers in the overflowing ashtray. The rusty bell on the door of the coffee shop suddenly rang, and two men entered. They spotted Spin and Tector in the far booth and walked over. The tall one spoke to Tector. "You ready?" he asked. "Yeah." Spin and Tector pushed out of the booth and the four men walked slowly towards the door. "Trying to run out without paying?" the cashier asked cheerfully as they passed her. Spin briefly ogled her sweatery peaks. "You’ve got to pay the piper," she said. Tector glanced at the tall man. "You sure do," he said. He spilled a couple of bucks into the cashier’s outstretched hand. The men went out the door and into the crowded street, stopping at the curb. The hot sun beat down on them like a judgment. "Got a gun?" Tector asked the tall man. He briefly flashed the man his .32 cop special riding in his hip holster. "Yes," the tall man replied. He opened his jacket and showed Tector the Glock 9 mm sitting butt-first in a holster on his left hip. Tector nodded. "Let’s go," he said. "Good luck," Spin sadly remarked. Spin and the tall man’s companion walked in opposite directions down the sidewalk until they came to the end of the short block. They then walked out into the street, blocking traffic in both directions. Tector and the tall man did the same, and then turned and faced each other. The passing crowd stopped and stared, uncomprehending and anonymous. Tector was quicker. His gun roared and a red hole burst open on the tall man’s chest, level with his heart. The tall man fell face down on the pavement as the report of Tector’s gun echoed through the cement canyon. Laird Long. A behemoth with a bad attitude and a haircut to match, he likes stories told in pulpy chunks, blood sports, and dames with laryngitis. He's had stories published in Blue Murder, Handheld Crime, and Classic Pulp Fiction. You can tear a strip off him at: lairdo@webtv.net .