The parking lot outside her office is still empty—it’s only 7:30—and we wait in peace before the storm. The black Jaguar slides into the lot and brakes hard next to the van. I step out with Starcher as Judith gets out and lunges for the kid. She grabs him, bawling and clawing, and right behind are her parents and Ava. They take turns squeezing the kid; everybody’s crying. I can’t stand these people, so I walk over to Starcher, tousle his hair again, and say, “I’ll see you later, bud.”
He’s being smothered and doesn’t respond. I ask Judith to step aside for a moment, and when we’re alone I say, “Can we meet here with the FBI later in the morning? There’s more to the story.”
“Tell me now,” she hisses.
“I’ll tell you when I want to tell you, and that’s with the FBI listening. Okay?”
She hates it when she’s not in control. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and manages to say, “Sure.”
I walk away, refuse to acknowledge her parents, and get in the van. As we drive away, I look at Starcher and wonder when I’ll see him again.
At 9:00 a.m., I’m in court for a preliminary hearing. By then, the news is out, courtesy of a leak by the police, that my son has been found and returned to his parents. The judge grants me a continuance and I hurry out of the courtroom. I have a handful of lawyer pals and several of them want to chat and offer congratulations. I’m just not in the mood.
Fango ambushes me in the hallway, just like he did three weeks ago. I keep walking and refuse to look at him. He falls in beside me and says, “Say, Rudd, Link is getting pretty anxious about the money. I told him about your kid and all, and, by the way, he sends his concerns.”
“Tell Link to worry about his own problems,” I snap as we march stride for stride.
“He is, and one of his problems just happens to be you and the money.”
“Too bad,” I say and walk even faster.
He labors to keep up with me, labors to think of something clever to say, and makes a big mistake with “You know, your kid just might not be that safe after all.”
I wheel around and throw a tight right cross that lands perfectly on his chin. He walks into it and doesn’t see it until it’s too late. His head jerks so violently that I hear the crunching of bones somewhere, and in the first split second I think I’ve broken his neck.
But his neck is fine; he’s been hit before, plenty of times, and has the scars to prove it.
Fango sprawls across the marble floor, and when he finally comes to rest he doesn’t move. Out cold. A perfect knockout punch that I could never replicate. I’m tempted to kick him in the head a few times for good measure, but out of the corner of my eye I see a sudden movement. Another thug is moving toward me and he’s reaching for a pocket and a weapon. Someone yells behind me.
The second thug goes down as hard as Fango when Partner whacks him over the head with a stainless steel baton he carries in his coat pocket. The baton is designed for just such occasions. When contracted it’s about six inches long, but when whipped out properly it extends to eighteen inches and is equipped with a steel knob at its tip. It can easily crack a skull, is in fact designed to do so. I tell Partner to give it to me and disappear. A security guard runs over and looks at the two unconscious thugs. I hand him my bar association ID card and say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. These two goons just tried to jump me.”
A crowd gathers. Fango wakes up first, mumbling and rubbing his jaw, then he tries to stand but can’t find his feet. Finally, with the help of the security guard, he gets up, still wobbly, and wants to leave. A cop makes him sit on a nearby bench while an EMT tends to his buddy. Eventually, the second guy wakes up, with a very large knot on the back of his head. They ice it for a few minutes, then put him on the same bench with Fango. I stand close and glare at them. They glare right back. The EMT gives me an ice pack for my right hand.
Getting punched is nothing for these two and they’re not about to press charges. That would require paperwork, a lot of questions, and no small amount of prying by the police. They work for Link Scanlon and they don’t answer questions. Right now they can’t wait to get out of the building and back on the streets, where they make the rules.
I tell the police that I, too, have no desire to press charges. As I walk away, I lean close to Fango and whisper, “Tell Link that if I hear one more word out of you, or him, I’m going to the FBI.”
Fango sneers as if he might spit in my face.
