Rough Justice

asshole!' she shouted, her voice reverberating inside the car. 'Move!'

Marta honked again, but nothing happened. It drove her crazy that she could do something and nothing would happen. Marta had grown accustomed to a reaction from opposing counsel and judges, from clients and the press. She could always make something happen in court and even in love, as infrequently as that appeared. Marta had fashioned herself into a human catalyst, but here she was honking like a madwoman and the traffic was ignoring her. Nobody honked back or even gave her the finger. She beeped the horn, louder. Longer, for the reaction. But she got none.

Marta tried to relax in the driver's seat. She drummed her nails. She hummed tunelessly. She even tried rubbing the furrow from her forehead. That she understood her reaction annoyed her even more. She was reacting to years of stasis, of nothing happening no matter what she did, to two parents who sat and drank and wasted, whose lives trailed off like a sentence. And no matter how many times Marta had begged, yelled, or hid their bottles, nothing had changed. The Richters lived in the woods near Bath, Maine, and Marta's father worked at the air force base there. He lost his job when she was six because she couldn't keep his bottles hidden and he ended up drinking himself to death long after Marta had stopped playing hide-and-seek with his whiskey.

Marta's mother became the breadwinner then, tugging the ten-year-old to the roadside. Hey, mister! Sir! The cars would whiz by. Stop! Please! Hey! As soon as a car stopped and its passenger door cracked open, the scam would begin. Marta begged not to do it but it made no difference. Nothing changed, not until the blue station wagon. That ended it, at least for Marta.

By the time she turned thirteen, she was behind the wheel of their battered Valiant, driving into town for milk, cigarettes, and another fifth. The cops in their small town didn't stop her because they knew her mother and it was safer to let a child drive than a drunk, especially when the child was Marta Richter. Four foot eleven and on her own. Not that Marta blamed her parents or felt sorry for herself. On the contrary, it made her what she was today.

HONK! She hit the horn. Because she couldn't not.

She needed to get to Steere's town house in Society Hill. Marta was playing a hunch, betting she'd find something in his house that would lead to a clue, or something she could use for leverage. Besides, there was something Marta just had to know. Because now that she realized Steere wasn't interested in her, there was a key question that remained unanswered. Who was he interested in?

Marta stared at the foggy windshield and told herself her interest was only partly jealousy. If she could find out who Steere was sleeping with, she could get to him. Marta didn't know exactly how yet, but she'd been around long enough to know just how valuable that piece of information was. Especially since Steere was evidently keeping it a secret, even from her. Especially from her. His lawyer, whom he had betrayed.

HONK! Marta punched the car horn. She'd tear his fucking house apart if she had to. Break in and search every drawer. Read every address book, charge account slip, and travel record. Steere had said he was going to St. Bart's. How had he managed to arrange that? Where were the tickets? Who was the travel agent? Who was he going with?

Marta would find out. The answers would be in the house. Something would be in the house. It had to be.

HONNNKK! The traffic had stopped dead. It was maddening. Marta craned her head to see what was holding it up, but couldn't see anything over the line of traffic. She twisted around to see if she could reverse out, but there was another car behind her. She was blocked in. She thought of abandoning the Taurus, but that would only put her back at square one. 5:45. Marta had to get moving. The jury would be deliberating right now, even before dinner. Fuck!

HONNK! HHHOOONNKK!

* * *

Three cars ahead of Marta, Bobby Bogosian sat slouched in the driver's seat of his black Corvette. He checked the rearview to see if the bitch was still there. He couldn't see because she was so far back and snow kept falling on the back window, but he could hear her honking every five minutes.

Bobby laughed. It wasn't his fault he was blocking traffic. He'd been driving down Locust when the car died on him. Of all the luck. He'd called the Triple-A like a citizen, and they told him to wait, maybe he just needed a jump. So he waited and waited. He couldn't help it if he blocked the bitch's car. He was a motorist in distress.

HONK!

Bobby read a magazine while he waited, the new issue of Dog World. He read magazines like they were going out of style, but he never bought them at the newsstand, he only subscribed. It skeeved Bobby to think somebody touched his magazine before him. He liked the subscriptions that came in a plastic bag, but not many did. The new Dog World had come today in the mail, and Bobby had taken it with him. He loved dogs.

HONK! HONK!

Bobby thumbed to the puppy ads in the back. He'd buy himself a dog, a pedigreed dog, as soon as he could move out of his shithole apartment and get his own house. He wanted a place in Delaware County that he could make into a kennel. He could become whatever you called it when you had a dog kennel. A breeder.

Bobby knew all about dogs. He knew the names of all the breeds, even hard ones like vizsla, and he could draw a pretty good picture of a rottweiler. Bobby went to the dog show every year when he wasn't in the joint and he would spend all day there, drinking strawberry smoothies, eating soft pretzels, and petting the pooches. It was a good show because you could hang with the breeders. They always had big spreads of food in the aisles of cages, and they were like a group.

HONK!

Bobby knew he would make a good dog breeder. It would be hard to sell the puppies, but he'd have to be professional, not get too attached. He turned the page. There was a picture of a little brown and white dog sitting on a plaid dog bed. It looked like the dog from Frasier. Bobby was pretty sure the Frasier dog was a Jack Russell terrier and bet the dog in the photo was one, too. To test himself, he covered the caption with his thumb. 'A Jack Russell terrier,' he said aloud, to lock in his guess.

HONK! HONK!

Bobby lifted up his thumb and squinted at the caption. He was nearsighted, but he didn't care if he went blind as a bat, he wasn't wearing glasses. Bobby held the magazine closer and the little letters came into focus. Jack Russell terrier!