Play To Kill

Chapter Thirteen

Judge James Bukowski had celebrated his release from the Hennepin County Hilton by re-toxing with an excellent bottle of sour mash that had quelled his shakes and improved his spirits considerably; at least up until the point he'd lost sentience, sometime around noon.

Hours later, when he finally came to in the chilly embrace of his Corbusier chaise, his furry mind surprised him with a singular, revelatory thought that seemed deeply profound to him, primarily because it didn't involve the logistical planning of getting to the bathroom for aspirin and Ativan: he really hated this goddamned fucking uncomfortable overpriced chair. He really hated it.

Wife Number Four had managed to convince him, after several years of passive-aggressive torture and craven guilt- tripping, that original Mid-Century Modern was not only chic, not only a shrewd investment opportunity, but also 'outrageously comfortable' - no doubt a paraphrase from some article she'd read, because the woman had never strung a polysyllabic sentence together in her life.

Well, the über-cow had been wrong, so wrong, no doubt brainwashed by Architectural Digest, her flaming-faggot designer, and her pathetic, social-climbing friends, just as she'd brainwashed him. The difference was, the hall of famer from the pantheon of idiots had figured that out before he had, obviously - because the chair was about the only thing of value he'd gotten out of that divorce. And if he'd been sober a single day during the five-year marriage, he would have realized this, and probably a lot of other things he'd missed in the black hole of dead brain cells.

Where the hell had that come from? he wondered to himself, and then, for the first time in a long while, the judge smiled a genuine smile. Little nuggets of self-reflection had always raised their ugly, unmanageable heads throughout his life, and they terrified him. Bourbon helped with the whack-a-mole game he played with his deeper thoughts when they inconvenienced him, but tonight, for some reason, things seemed just a little bit different. And as much as he wanted to believe he'd come to this pivotal moment on his own, he had to give Detective Magozzi credit for facing him squarely last night and calling him out. What happened to the respected judge?

What happened, indeed! He'd never believed in second chances, not in life and not on the bench, but he was going to make an exception right here and now. It was time for him to stop being such a self-pitying, self-indulgent fuck and get back to the business of doling out justice. He made a mental note to send Magozzi a fruit basket or something.

Feeling more sober than he had in several decades, and with a renewed sense of purpose, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Ex-Wife Number Four. She wasn't on speed-dial, but the number lived on vividly, and unpleasantly, in his memory. Of course she didn't answer - she never did - but that didn't really matter.

'Jennifer, this is Jim. No need to call back, I just wanted to let you know that the Corbusier and I have finally decided to amicably part, due to irreconcilable differences. And instead of consigning it with Christie's, as was my initial thought, I've decided that I want you to have it. I know you love it so much, and who wouldn't, being that it is so outrageously comfortable. I will arrange for a delivery within the next few days, I hope that suits you. That's all.'

He hung up, pulled himself off the chair that had catalyzed his new beginning, and instead of going to the liquor cabinet or the pharmacy that was his bathroom medicine cabinet, he went straight to the gun safe and selected a Remington 870 Express. 'Here comes the judge.'