This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineMaxwell's House, in 1991.  Beauty and the Beast and itscharacters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions and RepublicPictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoyment offans.

The Marker

by BeeDrew

"Joe, you are so full of it. That dart was nowhere near the bull'seye, no way, no how."

So saying, Jackson Moore folded his arms and leaned his rumpnonchalantly against the boss' desk, glaring at the man across theroom.

Joe, on all fours as he scrounged for a dart that had taken coverbeneath a vinyl chair, threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder.

 "You're blind, man. It hit and bounced off. You just didn'tsee it because you were looking at Escobar's--"

 Just then, someone gave two smart raps at the door. Withoutwaiting for permission, the visitor opened the door and steppedinside.

 "--legs," Joe finished. His eyes traveled up a pair of veryshapely limbs, passed a trim ivory suit that would have cost him twopaychecks, and kept on going until he met Cathy Chandler's amusedgreen eyes.

 "Oh hi Cathy," he mumbled, wondering if he looked as foolishas he felt. "I was just--"

 Without a word, Cathy leaned down, slipped her arm betweenthe chair and the wall, and came up with the dart he'd been lookingfor. She held it out.

 Joe took it, sensing at once that something was wrong.Ordinarily, on finding her boss on his knees two inches from the tipsof her Italian pumps, Cathy would have had a comment about the floorbeing the best place for her boss.  Today she saidnothing.  And he'd known her long enough by now to read the setlook to her jaw and the tense way she held herself when something wasup.

 "Have you got a minute, Joe?"  Her voice betrayednothing.

 Joe got to his feet, already braced for trouble. Jackson was looking from him to Cathy like an umpire at a tennismatch, and Joe got ready to hustle him out of the office.  "Jack, are we firm on the Krezinski thing?  Get I.S. to run thetraces while you're deposing the wife, and let me know what you findout."

 "Sure." Jackson's tone was just a bit disappointed. Hegathered the files he'd brought--rather clumsily, with two peoplewatching him in silence--and made himself scarce.

 "Radcliffe, if it's more vacation time, there's no way.There's just no way."   Joe retreated behind his desk, irritablytugging at his tie. She was making him nervous.

 "It's not that." Cathy crossed to his desk, placed a filefolder in front of him, and then took a chair, watching himintently.

 "You were at the Tombs this morning, right? How'd it go?"Joe asked, reached for the file.

 "All right." She ran her fingers through her honey-coloredhair, mussing it the way he liked, and looked at him again.

 Okay, so can the small talk, he told himself, and began toread.

*****

 Of course, it was a day he never forgot.  Anyone couldunderstand that.   But the weird thing was--the thing thatalways bothered him was--how normal the day had been. Regular ol'Saturday, common as dirt. He always felt, thinking back, that thereought to have been some warning, some omen to tell him the world wasending.

 His mother was washing strawberries in the sink, fruit she'dpicked moments before from her own garden.  She was hummingtunelessly over the sound of the water, and every so often she wouldtake the towel that lay over her shoulder and wipe beads ofperspiration from her face.  It was only nine, but already thehumidity was building.   The ceiling fan in the Maxwells'cheerful blue-and-white kitchen couldn't do a thing to touch it.

 His mother glanced over her shoulder at him.  "Joey, Ineed you to go down and cut Mrs. Wilson's grass before you go topractice.  No grass cut, no uniform washed, capice?"

 Joe couldn't answer at once, since he'd just shoveled ajumbo spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth.  He hated it when shecalled him Joey.  If his friends got wind of it, they'd neverlet it rest.  "Yeah Mama, I'll do it," he mumbled.

 Once she'd turned back to the sink, he slurped the rest ofthe milk without benefit of his spoon, managing to get the bowl backon the table quickly enough that she didn't catch him at it.

 "I'll go do the mowing now," he said, heading for the backdoor. "Dad home yet?"

 "Not yet.  Your brother's still asleep, don't slamthe--"

 Wham. Joe winced as the screen door impacted with the house,loud enough to send Bessie, the Maxwells' beagle, scuttling under thehouse.  Joe slunk off to the garage to get the lawn mower.

*****

He lifted his head. He didn't realize he was crushing Cathy'shandwritten notes until she eased them gently out of hiswhite-knuckled hands. He couldn't believe his eyes. He'd been waitingfor this for twenty years, had dreamed of it since his first day withDistrict Attorney Moreno, and now that it was finally here, hecouldn't trust it.   Not right away.

 "Your informant was positive?  This guy admitted to acop killing?  It's all the same--the South Bronx, early morning,you checked it out--"

 She was nodding.  He felt his heart begin a slow, hardbeat.  Cathy's eyes, locked on his, were full of the pain thathad to be screaming from his face.  He just couldn't control itright now, couldn't even try.

 "Hodge says his cellmate bragged about cutting a cop'sthroat at the age of fourteen, which would have been the year yourfather died," she told him.   "All the details check with therecords at the 52nd.  And apparently Radanik believes he can'tbe charged with crimes he committed as a minor."

 Joe snorted. "His mistake.  So, this `Sly,' what's thesituation now? Paroled, what?"

 "His real name is Simon Radanik.  He was indicted forpossession and trafficking in cocaine, and he made bail.  Thepolice found a kilo in the trunk of his car when they pulled him overfor speeding," she supplied.

 "Hot damn!  He's nailed!  Who's theprosecutor?"  Leaping up, Joe grabbed his suit coat from theback of his chair and left it spinning as he came around thedesk.

 "Joe, wait.  It's Hollings' case.  He's in courtright now, but I checked with one of the interns--"

 "Come on."  Joe grabbed her arm and pulled her out ofthe office with him.  "Let's get over there.  I want totalk to him now."

 He dashed past the D.A.'s staffers without a word ofexplanation, leaving them fixed for gossip all morning. Cathy,trailing behind him like a kite on a string, kept trying to tell himsomething, but somehow never got it out of her mouth in the bedlam ofmorning traffic and his loud efforts to flag a taxi.

 Finally luring one of the yellow bandits to the curb, heshoved Cathy in ahead of him and started talking. He couldn't helpit; he'd never felt so pumped, not even after graduating law schoolthird in his class.

 "All my life, Cathy," he said, craning his neck so that hecould adjust his tie in the taxi's rearview mirror. "All my life, itseems like I've wanted to get just one of them. Just one.  Dadhoped I'd go to the Academy, but after he died it would have killedMa."

 He had the tie fixed now. The taxi was crawling; he wishedthe driver would hurry. "I knew the D.A.'s office was where I neededto be. I knew one of them would screw up again, and end up on mydesk, hung up by the short hairs. He'll do time for the drugtrafficking--all the time we need to stick him with Dad'smurder.  It's payback time!"  He slammed a fist against thewall of the taxi and grinned across at Cathy.

 She sat still in the other corner, watching him. Andsomehow, that steady look punched through his euphoria as no wordswould have.  "What?"

 She sighed.  "Joe, I've been trying to tell you. Hollings is in court right now because Radanik's attorney made amotion to suppress."  She held up a hand to forestall hisquestions.  "That's all I know.  And even if Radanik goesdown for the drug charge--the trail's cold on your father's case, youknow that.   Twenty years cold."

 A chill ran lightly across the back of his neck.  Joeshook his head. He could feel himself coming down, easing off thatfirst adrenaline high. But that didn't mean the sucker was going towalk. No way. Not after twenty years, not after murdering his fatherin cold blood. No way. "Not going to happen, Radcliffe. Hollingswould've briefed me if something had come up with one of hiscases."

 "You were at a press conference when he left for court."

 Joe just kept shaking his head. "No way, Radcliffe. Noway."

*****

Joe held his breath, and reached for the starter cord. He alwaysfelt like a wuss if he couldn't get it on the first try. Curling his fingers around the handle, he hauled back with everythinghe had.

 The engine caught and sputtered to life, belching smoke andcovering his exultant "Ye-e-ow!" with its roar. As he pushed themower out onto Mrs. Wilson's handkerchief of a lawn, he glanced upthe street, casually, trying to see whether Amy Ferullo had appearedyet.  She was a senior at the high school, a cheerleader, andSaturday morning usually found her out on a lawn chair, doing tanmaintenance.  If her mother had had to work the early shift,Amy'd be in a bikini.

 No sign of her.  Whistling, Joe swung the mower aroundfor another pass and yanked off his tank top, using it to mop at thesweat already tickling between his shoulder blades.  He'd workon his tan a little, too.

*****

The courthouse was a thinly controlled bedlam, with spectatorsmilling and kibitzing; lawyers poring over their notes and talking tothemselves, or huddled in low-voiced conference with their clients;doors opening, doors closing; voices and footsteps from the hall aneverending movement in the background.  It was chaos right upuntil the jury trooped after the rest into the courtroom, and thebailiff intoned, "All rise."   Then all the players rushed fortheir marks and everywhere there was the sour, wired hum ofanticipation.  Joe loved it.  Court days were good days;they were the days when the chips went down, and if he'd worked hardenough and long enough, justice raked in the pot.

 An extra twenty to the cab driver had gotten them to thecourts building with ten minutes to spare. Joe barrelled down thehallway at a clip that sent others diving out of his path, and theycaught Hollings just exiting a conference room, stuffing file foldersinto his briefcase.

 "Joe.  Cathy."  Hollings' eyes behind his thickglasses were as large as a carp's.  He grabbed a quick look athis watch. "What are you doing here? I mean--"

 "The Radanik case," Joe broke in. "Any problems?'

 Hollings grimaced. "Plenty. I had him folded up and putaway.  But the defense attorney pulled an end-run; seems thesearch and seizure of the coke was illegal. Rutherford's on thebench, he's sure to suppress it, and then all I've got is ateenager's testimony on the trafficking charge.  I think we'reout of luck on this one."

 Joe felt a clutch at his ribs, like something didn't wanthim to breathe.   "Why didn't you get with me on this?"

 Hollings coughed. His eyes slid over to Cathy, then back toJoe.  "I tried--you weren't available, and Rutherford had courttime today.  I'll argue it, of course, but..."  He shruggedhelplessly.

 "Christ!" Joe spun away from Cathy's restraining hand on hisarm. He was both hot and cold, every muscle clenching. This isn'thappening, he told himself. An echo of the agony in his fifteenthsummer: It's not happening. It's just not happening....

*****

"'Help! ...I need somebody. .. Help!  Not just anybody--Help!  You know I need someone...' "

 Under cover of the racket he was making, Joe belted outBeatles lyrics and swung the mower around one-handed. The machinespewed new-cut grass that lifted on a puff of wind and stuck to hislegs. He sneezed. In his imagination, Amy Ferullo stretched on herlawn chair. turned onto her stomach, and reached behind her, elbowsjutting. to unhook the bikini strap. She swept her hair off herneck--

 A clammy big-knuckled hand closed on his shoulder.  Joeyelped and spun around to face tiny, polyester-clad Mrs. Wilson.

 "Jes--I mean, gee, Mrs. Wilson. you scared me!" Joe yelled,and kicked at the mower.  The noise cut at once, leaving avacuum of unnatural silence.

 Mrs. Wilson looked up at him out of her muddy hazeleyes.  Ice trembled in a tall glass of water she'd brought forhim, and there was an anguished look to her that he never forgot,when he thought on it afterward.  But when she spoke, he wasn'tlooking at her.  Head tipped back. he drank in great gulps,relishing the cold liquid as it slid down his throat.

 "Joey, you'd best get home now."

 He paused to take a breath.  Water dripped from hischin and he swiped at it, grinning at the old woman. "I'm notfinished with the lawn yet, Mrs. Wilson. Ma knows I'm here--"

 She pulled the sweaty glass from his fingers.  "Joey,go home now."

*****

"Joe?  Joe!"

 Cathy's voice, as insistent as her hand was gentle on hisback. He was leaning into the marbled wall, one arm braced above hishead. His other hand was a fist, pressed hard against his gut. He was breathing like a marathon runner.  "Not happening," hewhispered. And he turned around, and met her eyes. It seemed hecouldn't bear the sympathy, the pity. He'd had enough ofthose--enough to choke--at his father's wake. He could only bethankful that Hollings had gone to court, and it was only Cathyseeing him like this.

 "Joe," she said softly.  "It will be all right.'

 His lips thinned. "Let's get in there."

 They took seats in the gallery. The judge hadn't arrived,and Cathy crossed to the front to brief Hollings. She spoke quickly.gestured with her hands. Beyond her Joe could see the back of thedefendant's head--Radanik, sitting quietly beside his lawyer. Somehowit was a shock to see a grown man sitting there--in some crazy way,he'd been expecting a fourteen-year-old punk.

 It's me who's still fourteen, Joe realized. Still so angry,still hurting so bad....  As he sat, watching his father'smurderer, he felt a welcome numbness seep into him, diffusing hisrage. He even smiled at Cathy when she returned to take her seatbeside him.

 Radanik's case was third on the docket, and the lawyers werelike marionettes, going through the motions. Hollings' argument waspaper thin, and no one was surprised when the judge returned hisfinding:  the evidence had been illegally obtained, and wouldnot be admissible.  Radanik's lawyer asked that the drug chargesbe dropped.

 Hollings looked back at Joe and Cathy, and shrugged. It was over.  Joe thought once again about those arthriticwheels of Justice--so slow in turning, so slow to mete outpunishment, while Injustice, it seemed, went about its business likea greased pig.

 The man who'd killed Joe's father pled guilty to theoriginal traffic violation and was fined.  Joe lingered, waitingto get a good look at Sly Radanik.

 Vaguely Greek in appearance, he had the look of a pile of apile of unwashed clothing, messy and neglected.  He was large,with slick hair, sloping shoulders and a doughy middle.  Hisblack-stained fingers, as he lifted them to shake hands with hislawyer, bore evidence of his one-time occupation as a mechanic. His smile held one gold tooth. And he was walking out of thecourtroom, essentially a free man.

 Joe stared. And stared. Unblinking, he stared, until SlyRadanik twitched, and his eyes came hunting for the source of hisdiscomfort.  Joe met the black gaze.  Then he took Cathy'sarm and hurried them out.

 "Joe--" she began.

 "Not here."

 He waited until they were back in the office.  Stridingthrough the bullpen, he ignored the questions put to him as he passedand waved aside his assistant's sheaf of pinkcalled-while-you-were-out slips. He pulled Cathy into his officebehind him and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled.

 "It's payback time," he said.

*****

Joe ran all the way home.  It seemed as he went that he wasstanding still, and it was the neighborhood jogging by him, thehouses and streets that breathed loudly in his ears.  There wasa squad car in the driveway and his dad's old Impala was nowhere tobe seen.  The front door stood open.  It rushed at him.

*****

 "What do you mean?'

 Rock steady, that was Radcliffe.  She'd lose her temperon a dime if a client got the shaft, but she wasn't one topanic.  She took a chair across from him and folded her hands inthat ladylike way of hers.

 "It's payback time," Joe repeated.  He put the deskbetween them and dropped back into his chair so hard it slammed intothe wall behind him. He turned granite eyes on Cathy Chandler. "You know how it works. You need a favor, I help you out. You needanother favor, I help you out again. Then you owe me. And Ifigure..." he paused, measuring her, "that you owe me big, bynow.  I'm calling in the marker."

 Her gaze frosted over. That was the only indication thatshe'd heard what he had said, but he knew how hurt she was.  Howangry.  He couldn't let himself feel what he was doing to herwith this. There was no room for anything but vengeance.

 He couldn't look at her. He tilted his chair back andstudied the ceiling as he spoke.   "I want Radanik's address.Not the one he gave the cops--the real one. You've got the contacts.I need it soon, in case he decides to rabbit."

 "This isn't right."

 His chair came down with a thump, and he slammed both handsdown on his desk.   "Not right? Not right? Was that bullshit incourt today right? The slime walked!  He's a murderer and a drugdealer and he walked."   Unable to sit, he vaulted out of hischair and turned toward the window, jamming his hands in his pockets.It was building again--red, seething rage in his gut.  Joeclenched his teeth against it, and neither of them spoke while hefought it.

 "Look, Cathy," he managed, a moment later.  "I knowthis is irregular, that your caseload's already a nightmare. But I've hung myself out to dry for you more than once. We both knowthat.  And I've let you keep quiet about why.   Whateveryour secret is, I respect it.  I'm not threatening you."  With an effort. he made himself turn and face her. "I'm askingyou.  I need you to get the goods on Radanik, and I need you totrust me on what I'll do after that.  No questions."

 His eyes locked with hers. She wore outrage and fear like amask, but he was reaching her, he was sure of it.  This kind ofanger, this kind of loss, spoke directly to the woman who'd been avictim, and to the little girl I who'd lost her mother.

 The war of wills was over in seconds.  She rose fromher chair and stood across the desk from him. The silence ached.

 "I do owe you," she said evenly.  "I'll get theinformation. But I wish I'd never gone to the Tombs today."

 He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, feelingthe weak backlash of his anger stealing over him like chills after afever.  "I wish you hadn't either."

*****

Radanik had gone to ground after his close call, and it took Cathythree days to track the man to a flophouse near Chinatown.  Joespent the time not working. not sleeping, and drinking too much beer.By the third morning, he was utterly strung out, operating on habitalone. He passed Cathy's desk as he arrived at work an hour late. Sheglanced up, obviously watching for him.

 "Joe? I've got the... information you wanted."

 She waited until he stood before are her desk and thensilently passed him a folded piece of notepaper.  He glanced atit. and blew out a short, sharp breath of relief.

 "Thanks."  He started to turn away.

 "Be careful," she said, to his back.

 He paused, then kept walking.

*****

Joe waited, slouched low on the passenger side of his car.

 He'd have liked to be on the street, but he was a strangerto the neighborhood.   He'd be noticed, and someone might tipoff Radanik. So he'd parked twenty yards back from the building whichmatched the address Cathy had given him. He'd been there nearly twohours, and he'd seen Radanik leave a few minutes earlier on hisnightly run to the liquor store.

 Twilight seeped through the air like a pool of ink, cloakingthe dingy storefronts and adding a faint air of menace to the figureswho slipped in and out of the flophouse; a faint edge of glamour tothe streetwalkers hustling on the corner.  It wouldn't be longnow.  Radanik had been half-tanked when he'd left.  Later.he might have gone down to a poolhall or to a bar, to drink incompany.  He might have...except that Joe was waiting forhim.

*****

He stood in the doorway to the living room, and all the facesturned toward him. They were like funhouse mirrors, huge andmisshapen. Two navy-and-brass police officers stood by the coldfireplace.  His mother sat an the couch with his brotherMichael, whose arms were wrapped protectively about her.  Shelooked up, and reached out a shaking hand to her second son. Her fingers were still stained crimson from the strawberries.

 "Joey," she gulped.  And began to sob.

*****

Joe's eyes narrowed as he saw the shambling figure round thecorner a block up.   "Payback time, you bastard," hewhispered.

 Radanik walked straight toward the car.  Joe slidbehind the wheel and started the engine.  He leaned across theseat until he could see the sidewalk again.

 Closer...closer... Radanik paused to take a long pull at hisbottle, then he stepped off the curb to cross the side street thatflanked the hotel.  Joe pulled himself back to the driver'sside, darted a look in the side mirror, and gunned his car intotraffic.  The car leapt the few yards to the corner.  Joewrenched the wheel savagely to the right, clipping the curb as heturned into Radanik's path, and missed a vehicular manslaughter rapby inches.  He punched the brake, threw the car into park, andopened his door in one fluid motion, using both legs to slam the doorinto his surprised target.  Radanik dropped his bottle and wentsprawling across the curb.

 "What the hell--you tryin' ta kill me, man?"

 Radanik had just enough time for the one question before Joehit him with all his weight.  The man's head thudded against theconcrete and he groaned, his arms flailing weakly until Joe pinnedthem.  "Hey--s'mbody help me, he's tryin' to--"  Hesqueaked like a rat when he felt the thin line of metal against histhroat. "Hey man--hey man--" he wheezed, eyes rolling.

 "Shut up," Joe gritted.  The sharp, sweetish scent ofwhiskey rose in a cloud around them from the broken bottle.  Hegrabbed a handful of Radanik's hair and wrenched his head back,wringing out another moan.  Radanik's neck hadn't seen soap in aweek or more, and he smelled strongly of garlic.

 Ordinarily, Joe could never have held the larger man down,but Radanik was drunk, stunned by the double blow of Jim Beam and thecar door.  The sharp angle of the curb cut into his back, makingit harder to breathe if he struggled.  And the kiss of the knifeon his skin made his eyes bug out.

 "You--killed--my--father."  Joe spat the words intoRadanik's face.   Just a slight movement of his wrist, and theskin would pop beneath the blade. He had never wanted anythingmore.

 "Wha--"  The tiny shift of Radanik's larynx was all Iit took. He froze again as the knife made the merest slice into hisskin.

 "You killed him. This is what it felt like."

 Radanik whimpered.  "No, man, no--"

 Too much time. Joe knew he had only a minute, maybe two,before the police or Radanik's friends--assuming he hadany--interfered.  He leaned down to whisper against the man'srank hair.  "Please, Sly. Screw up again.  Just one moretime. One more time, and I've got you."

 Joe stood up, shoving himself off the prone body in disgust.Something dark moved across his face as he stared down at hisfather's killer.  Radanik saw it, even through hiswhiskey-blurred vision. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

 Joe made no move to stop him.  Pocketing hisknife--just an old, reliable Swiss army Michael had given him whenthey were boys--he glanced around.  This neighborhood'shead-down, nose-clean attitude had away of discouraging spectators,as he'd known when he made his plan. There was only one witness tothe ambush.

 Across the street to his left, standing under the full glareof a street lamp, was Cathy Chandler.  Jean-clad and slender,she looked completely out of place, completely vulnerable, with thelight gleaming an her smooth hair and her face cast in shadow.

"My guardian angel,"  Joe muttered, shaking his head. Heraised his voice.  "Get over here, Chandler."

He saw her smile as she glanced right and left before she crossedto him.  She took his hand in both of hers and looked up,solemn-eyed.  "Better now, Joe?"

He nodded.  "Better."

Suddenly, she flung both arms around him and hugged him,hard.  He could feel her trembling.  "Damn you, Maxwell,"she said, her voice muffled against him. "You scared me."

He was glad she couldn't see his face. With those farseeing eyesof hers, she'd have seen more than he ever wanted to reveal.  "Ineed a drink," he announced, and pulled gently out of her grip. "Anything but Jim Beam."

She cocked her head.  Her eyes were wet.  "You need somefood, and then some sleep," she corrected.  And smiled.  "Ithink I still owe you, Maxwell.  Let's go to dinner.  Mytreat."

He laughed and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward his car, whichhe'd left running when he'd tackled Radanik. Reaching to open thedoor for her, he looked up just as she glanced over her shoulder.

"What is it?"  He peered beyond her into the shadows, and foran instant he saw--didn't he?--a tall, indistinct figure disappearingat the far end of the alley.   He gave his companion a sharp,searching stare, but she had turned her attention back to him, herface carefully blank. "Cathy?"

"It's nothing," she said, and slid into the car.  "Justkeeping an eye out for trouble, like Isaac taught me.  Seemslike you're the worst trouble around here tonight."

Joe stood silent for a moment.  Then he shook his head, andgave a noisy sigh.   "Radcliffe. why do I have the feeling thatyou are lying like a rug?"

She only smiled, and reached to fasten her seatbelt.

End