Kill All the Judges by William Deverell Page B

disturbance charge has been bumped four weeks. Access rights are cancelled in the interim. Now he must confront Christmas on his own, without his three Costa Rican adoptees, Gabriela, Amelia, and Francisco, who always helped him survive the annual banality. He must show grit, suck it up.
    He bent to the mirror, checked his eyes for wackiness. He did two more lines.
    While his computer warmed up, he studied the wall prints. The unhorsed cowboy among the stampeding longhorns. A rider slouched over his galloping steed, two arrows sticking from his back. Four cowpokes sitting around a fire at night–a placid scene until one noticed the eyes glinting in the blackness. Ravenous wolves, maybe, scalp-hunting Apaches. The artist had captured the essential futility of trying to stay alive.
    A pop-up screen, Widgeon’s admonition-of-the-day. Dialogue must sound natural to the ear, yet unembellished by the chaff of common parlance–the hideous “uh” and “um” and “er”–or by the repetitious four-letter obscenities of the ill-bred.
    Despite all his complaining and wanking, Inspector Grodgins doesn’t say shit, piss, or fuck. In fact, none of Widgeon’s characters commit such acts–especially Inspector Grodgins. His ungainly sidekick, Constable Marchmont, seems entirely asexual. So might be the author, whose manuals offer no aid for the sex scenes, let alone tips on how to write with a hard-on. Without Widgeon’s guidance, Brian must walk alone into the valley of concupiscence.
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    Cudworth Brown, slouched in a chair, chewing on a toothpick, and staring with woeful eyes, conjured in Lance Valentine the image of a ruminating ox. What Cud was staring at was Rosy’s bottom in a tight dress as she bent toward her printer.
    â€œLet me get this straight. That centrefold, your secretary, is the wife of one of the crime-stoppers who busted me.”
    A tug at her blouse, a hand to her piled hair–she had a sixth sense, Rosy, knew when she was under scrutiny. Using this power, she often intercepted Lance’s admiring looks, which she returned with knowing, teasing smiles. It had been a grave mistake to hire her. Too distracting. Too married. To a cop.
    â€œThat’s right, old boy. Case officer, I would suspect.”
    â€œYou bet he is. Detective Sergeant Henry ‘Call-Me-Hank’ Chekoff. I had a hangover like a spike through my head, and he cathauled me for two hours. Told him a thousand times I want to see my lawyer. Chekoff has a huge fucking interest in sticking it to me for the max.”
    â€œI shouldn’t doubt that at all.” Lance bent to the rose and sniffed it to mask the man’s nervous sweat.
    Cudworth bounded to his feet. “I’ll take my chances with Pomeroy, you tin-star shamus.” He stamped to the outer office, grabbed his poncho from the coat rack, slammed the door on his way out.
    Rosy came in with the pages she’d transcribed, a divorcee rich already, seeking more in settlement. “What got him stoked?”
    â€œHe thinks you’re a spy. You’d never disclose anything to do with my clients, would you, my love?”
    â€œOf course not, Lance.”
    â€œEven to your husband.”
    â€œEspecially him.”
    â€œHe needn’t know I’m working for Mr. Brown.”
    â€œYou were working for Mr. Brown.”
    â€œHe’ll be back.”
    â€œYou’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you, boss?”
    Her hand lightly touched his shoulder as she leaned over him. L’Eau d’Hiver, complicated by breath mint. A braless breast brushed his shoulder while she guided his hand down the page. “This word, just before ‘dirty whoring old goat.’”
    â€œScrofulous.” He picked up yet another scent from her, an essence of something glandular. This dangerous woman was not just flirting with him. She was daring him.
    â€œHere, line fifteen, she’s