There wasn’t a lot to him, maybe 120 pounds stretched over two or three inches less than six feet. A strong breeze might be able to carry him to the Pacific, Lomax decided.
Only a few yards from him now, he tightened his grip on the switchblade, saying, “I thought I’d see the swallows they’re always writing about. How the swallows been coming to Mission San Juan Capistrano year in and year out, every year, for hundreds of years.”
“That happens in March, not this time of year,” Six replied. “And it’s not happening so much in March anymore, either, though no one knows why they stopped coming.” He held out his left palm like a traffic cop, adding, “And you can stop right there, no funny moves, you know what’s good for you.”
He raised his other arm to give Lomax a better look at the .22 caliber automatic he had aimed at him, its blue steel barrel reflecting the bright sunlight.
“What’s that all about?” Lomax asked, hanging onto his cool, fishing for time while his mind raced after a way to do Six before he could squeeze the trigger, the look on Six’s face telling him the poor schnook was working on a different unwritten law here, the law of survival, and would have no problem adding a third corpse to his count. “Some kind of joke you like to play on strangers who stray off the guided tour?”
“Nothing personal. A matter of life and death. Quentin Lomax dies so that Arthur Six can go on living. Simple as that.”
Right then, hearing Six speak his name, Lomax recognized that Judge Knott had played him for a sap. Set him up. He said, “You know who I am.”
“Yes, and don’t move another inch, or else. I know how to shoot this thing. See? The safety is off and all.”
“You were expecting me.”
“I was. You take a pretty nice picture, by the way, although your smile leaves a lot to be desired. Braces growing up, they would have helped.”
“Braces cost money... So, you also know what brought me down to Capistrano?”
“A ruse. The judge said you’d be real easy for him to trick. He was right as rain.”
“Who are you? Einstein? Thinking no one will ever come along and see through that stupid mustache you grew like a vegetable, raise a holy stink about you being here, Mr. Arthur Six with that dumb-ass John Brown name?”
“The law says I’m innocent until I’m proven guilty. Besides, I’m in a place where kindness, love, and forgiveness are the rule.”
“And killing me, they’ll love and forgive you for that?”
“The way it looks — got attacked by this loony, speaking gibberish and pointing a gun at me for no reason at all. We got to fighting, the gun went off, and—”
“John!” A friar in a hooded cassock called for Arthur Six from across the courtyard, distracting him.
Lomax leaped forward, barreling hard into Six, wrestling him to the ground.
Six bear-hugged Lomax as they rolled in the dirt, knocking over the seed packages on sticks set in the ground to spot the lima beans, the potatoes.
Lomax was too strong for him.
He broke free and forged possession of the .22, gripped it by its pearl handle, and stuck the automatic under Six’s chin. Said, “You want to keep your head attached to your body, say whatever it takes to make Friar Tuck go away, unless you want me using him for target practice.”
“Then what?” Six struggled for breath; barely able to get the question out.
“What do you think?”
“You look surprised to see me, Your Honor.”
“Surprised to see you inside my home, Mr. Lomax, enjoying the comforts of my bar,” Judge Knott said, his face a study in irritation and no small amount of concern; eyes blinking furiously.
“French windows. You should remember to always shut and lock ’em up tight if you’re going out. Otherwise, they’re an open invitation to burglars, or worse... The mixed nuts on the stale side; you might want to do something about that too, next time you go grocery shopping.”
“Full of handy hints. A regular Martha Stewart, are you?”
“Hardly. Martha Stewart, she served time, not me. Prison’s not where I’m heading, if your word’s better’n your bowl of mixed nuts.”
“Given this unexpected visit — shall I assume that you’ve upheld your part of our arrangement?”
“Days ago.”
“I’ve seen nothing about Arthur Six reported on the news.”
“Or John Brown, dumb alias he picked. And you won’t, never. I taught him the Jimmy Hoffa trick.”
The judge half-smiled, nodded understanding. “Excellent,” he said. “Then you’re free to assume your case will be fast-tracked by me out of my courtroom and the charges dropped by the district attorney once and for good. My early congratulations to you, Mr. Lomax.”
“How many strings you pulling to make that happen, Your Honor?”
“Mr. Lomax, do I ask you how you conduct your business?”
“No offense. Only curious. Wondering if it’s as many strings as for Arthur Six.”
“For Arthur Six? Precisely what is it you think you know, Mr. Lomax?”
“Only what Six thought he knew and was saying to me before words failed him along with everything else.”
“Care to share?”
“Six told me you got him a hung jury, not his lawyer, by the way you kept shutting down the DA’s people and holding onto his leash through intimidation; said you told him you would keep the DA from following through on retrying his sorry ass if he was game for doing something for you in trade.”
“Did he say what the trade might be?”
“Nah, like it was some giant, friggin state secret between you and him, but he said he wrote it all down and gave it to someone he trusted to pass on to the news bloodhounds if it ever turned out you broke your word to him and didn’t make the charge blow away for good, or if something happened to him, like it was about to.”
“Such poppycock. Who would take the word of an absent, accused murderer facing a retrial for killing his wife and her lover over that of a distinguished jurist, an Orange County Superior Court judge who has served with honor and distinction for twenty-four years?”
“I suppose anybody who decided to run against you in next year’s election, figuring a little scandal is good for the ballot box, but I can see by looking at you that ain’t gonna be the case, right, Your Honor?”
Judge Knott gave Lomax the reassurances he wanted, several times, Lomax putting the question to him from different directions until, professing satisfaction, he allowed their conversation to dwindle into small talk. He poured himself another scotch, picked his way through the nut bowl, and left the same way he had entered, making a show of shutting the French window and testing the safety lock. A conspiratorial wink and an animated thumbs-up became the last the judge saw of him before he disappeared into the moonless night.
The judge spent a motionless minute before he blew a fat breath across the room and followed it to the bar.
A tall vodka helped him collect his nerves; then another before he reached after his cell phone and had the service connect him with Mission San Juan Capistrano; asked the birdlike soprano who answered the call if he might speak with John Brown.
No, sorry, she said.
Dear John disappeared earlier in the week without notice.
No telling when he might be back, if ever, God bless him.
The judge’s next call was to the district atorney at his private number.
It was time to collect on a few past favors due.
He wanted the book closed on Six, wanted Six out of his courtroom as well as his life, should the media ever come around asking embarrassing questions, like why so many postponements on a trial date or why no bench warrant issued for the arrest of a defendant who’d obviously fled. And he had to make good on his deal with Lomax, construct a wall of comfort between them until he could make other arrangements.