A Certain Justice

'I know. But you… what if…?'

He patted her hand. 'We'd take off. We're getting pretty good at that.' He flashed his confident grin. 'Hey.' He touched a finger to her face. 'It's okay, Mel.'

'Kevin, I'm no good at this stuff anymore. That guy looked over at you and I thought I was going to be sick.'

'But you are good at it.'

She shook her head. 'What's going to happen to us? When does it stop? Does it stop?'

He pulled his hand out from under hers and made a show of filling both glasses, stalling for time. 'That's what we're going for, stopping this, aren't we?'

'I don't know what we're going for anymore. I'm just scared, that's all I know. Scared to death.' She paused. 'Sometimes I think we're not even going to live through this. That somebody's going to kill us before it's over.'

He leaned all the way back in his chair. 'That's not going to happen.'

'You want to knock on wood when you say that. Please.' Dutifully, Kevin rapped once on the table. It wasn't entirely to make Melanie feel better. 'You know, come to think about it, it's really only me. Mel, you've got other options. You could-'

Her eyes flashed. 'No way! You think I'm leaving you now, after all this?'

'I thought you just said-'

'I never said that. I don't want that. I'm just scared, Kevin. I'm scared for both of us. Who in his right mind wouldn't be scared right now?'

'What I'm saying is, you could just walk out of here, this minute, take a cab down the Peninsula to your parents' house, get a lawyer…'

'No. Shut up, Kevin.'

His face was near hers again, his voice low. 'Maybe you should, Mel. This isn't fair to you.'

She took a sip of her beer, swept the room with a glance. She broke a steely smile, met his eyes. 'Fuck fair,' she said. 'This whole thing isn't fair. If the world were fair you'd be getting a medal at the White House…'

'I don't know if I'd go that far. I'd settle for the warrant getting lifted.'

A nod. "That would be a good start.'

The waitress arrived with their pizza, slapped it steaming onto the table, was gone.

Kevin gestured after her. 'See? Perfectly safe,' he said.

'There's hope,' Wes said.

Kevin was talking on the pay phone in the hallway by the restrooms and the emergency exit at Pizzaiola. 'We were just talking about that.'

'Where are you? What's that noise?'

'Pizzaiola. Pizza place out on Haight.' Into the black hole of silence: 'We had to get out, Wes. We were going stir crazy. It's cool. Nobody knows who we are-'

'Kevin, everybody knows who you are. Maybe, let's hope, nobody's recognized you where you're at right now, but that's not the same thing. Could you please try and remember that?'

'Sure, Wes, sure. Look, we're leaving in a minute anyway, going back to our cosy little hideaway. What about the hope?'

Wes was having trouble with his friend and client – the most wanted fugitive in the city, county, state, possibly the whole country – hanging out in some pizza joint, but there was nothing he could do about it now. 'Evidently Glitsky didn't have me followed home,' he said. 'It was somebody else, the DA, not the police.'

'Okay?'

'Okay, so suddenly I think we might have a decent chance to get what we wanted last night – a hearing at least, extra protection.'

'A decent chance…?'

'Better than none, Kev. I'm trying.'

'I know. I just… so you've talked to this Glitsky…'

'Whoa. Not yet. He's calling sometime tonight. Frankly, I expected it by now.'

Kevin couldn't repress the sarcasm. 'Gosh, this is heartening…'

'It is bad, really, Kevin. I promise you. At least now we've got a good reason for you to stay put, not take off. This morning, you remember-'

'I remember.'

'Okay, then. This time tomorrow, I think we'll have something worked out. I know Glitsky's going to call me – he went to some lengths to get me back talking to him. I believe he's on our side – a cop. This is not bad news, Kev.'

'Okay, you've convinced me, I'm happy. Jubilant, in fact.'

Farrell sighed. 'Why don't we just set up a time when you'll definitely call me? You could also just give me your number.'

'I would, but I don't know it. It's not mine, after all. Or Mel's.'

'All right,' Farrell said, 'but this not being able to reach you is making me old.'

'I don't think that's it.' Kevin paused. 'Something, though. Something is definitely making you old. Has made you old. Did I ever tell you my cosmic radiation theory as the cause of old age?'

'I got a theory, too, Kevin. Old age is caused by living a long time.'

'That's a good one, too. Okay, so when?'

'Nine.'

'Nine? Wes, it's Saturday. It's criminal to have to wake up at nine on a Saturday.'

'Saturday! What's the difference – Saturday, Tuesday, who cares? Jesus, Kevin…'

'Nine's all right. I'm kidding you.'

'You're a riot, Kevin.'

'Don't use that word, Wes. Riot…'

'Nine,' Wes growled. 'Do it.'

This was her first job in San Francisco, and Special Agent Simms could not believe the weather – the first day of July and she was freezing. In DC it had been ninety, ninety degrees and ninety humidity, since the middle of May, and she had figured summertime in California would be close to the same except for the humidity. Previous assignments in LA, Modesto, Sacramento, even as nearby as Oakland had not prepared her for the microclimate here. Had she been the literary sort, she might have taken some warning from Mark Twain's oft-quoted remark that the coldest winter he'd ever spent was a June in San Francisco, but Margot Simms had not read anything but manuals in six years, and little else before that.

She was around the corner from where the surveillance van was parked in front of Wes Farrell's apartment, her hands wrapped around a tall glass of caffe latte. Though there was no wind, the temperature had abruptly fallen to the mid-fifties and she was wearing only a skirt and blouse and a lightweight tailored jacket. During the three plus hours she had spent in the unheated van after she had finally left the Hall of Justice, the increasing chill had worked its way into every cell of her being.

Ten minutes earlier she had given up, leaving her post in the van in a quest for a little warmth, which she had found a block up the street in a mini-mall. A corner diner – in DC they would call it a diner – except that here it was all angles, high ceilings, dramatic light. San Francisco was into drama, she'd give it that. Substance zero, form ten. California fruit and nuts everywhere you went.

She had come in because the place looked warm and served coffee. Also beer, wine, breads, strops and flavored waters, pretentious crapola – you wouldn't just want a place to grabba quick cuppa, no, not here. The menu – even the coffee drinks – was all in Italian and there was an enormous glass counter under which were serving platters filled with exotic pastas and salads. Simms was only here for the warmth, for a mug of coffee to wrap her hands around. The latte was the closest they had.

It wasn't just the cold. She sat there alone at her cute tiny table, still shivering – most of the other little tables were filled with groupings of chattering urbanites her age and younger – it was near San Francisco State, that might have been part of it. Suddenly Simms realized she hated San Francisco with all her heart.

She was seized with an urge to take out the gun she wore under her ineffectual linen jacket and take a few pops at the track lighting, the tinted ftoor-to-ceiling windows, the espresso machines, maybe a few of the trendoids themselves. Wake 'em up.

What did they think was going on here anyway? The whole sham structure of a melting pot was being dismantled brick by brick all over the city at this very minute – had been all week – and here the intellectuals and bon vivants and liberals and faggots sat with their lattes and strops and the occasional white wine – what did they call it, schmoozing! Well, they weren't her problem, but God, she hated them. Let 'em eat – she sca