Jailbait Justice

  © Danny Hogan 2011

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain by Pulp Press

  All paper used in the printing of this book has been made from wood grown in managed, sustainable forests.

  ISBN13: 978-1-78003-110-1

  Pulp Press is an imprint of Indepenpress Publishing Limited

  25 Eastern Place, Brighton, BN2 1GJ

  Cover Model: Little Alex Hughes

  Front cover Photo: Matt Martin

  Hair and make-up: Romaine Bowman

  Cover design & gun illustration: Alex Young and Jacqueline Abromeit

  Back cover photo: Danny Hogan

  Also by Danny Hogan

  Killer Tease

  The Windowlicker Maker

  This one goes out to

  Romaine

  How about this’un? I wouldn’t believe it if someone told me ’less I seen it with my two eyes like I did. It was outside of West Austin someplace. Barton Creek or near Bee Cave; I can’t quite remember where exactly. There was four of those bandits roughing up some boy, for his land no doubt; and then she came along. She’s smaller than you’d imagine and not quite as striking in appearance as they’d have you believe. She looks like any other desert scoundrel, pretty much.

  Anyways, they starts to laughing loud and hard, even though she’s wielding that big old Ruger she favours at ’em. It transpires that the cause of their mirth is that, by their reckoning, she may get one of ’em with that cannon if she can hold it straight long enough but she surely will be croaked by the rest of them soon after. Oh, and how amused those boys were that she had the balls to confront such terminal odds.

  Well, and I never seen anything like this, without warning she just guns them all down, smacking the hammer of her pistol with the palm of her hand like a goddamned cowboy of yore. If she did away with them all in any more’n a second it was not much more, no sir.

  1

  This place, the place of my birth, used to be called “Austin, Texas, USA”. That was back in the old world when people cared about such things. The USA don’t really exist no more. Since they started to re-build, there’s been a lot of talk, saying they’re going to bring back those days. God speed to ’em, is what I say, but I tell you this; since the Great Renovation commenced, and everybody headed east looking for work, there’s not much in the way of entertainment in South Congress these days. And I needed to be entertained like most folks needed water. I had paid two bits to watch a caged retard eat his own shit, be damned. And there I was watching that crazy beast munch down on a steaming lump of his own waste in a wretched café that belonged to Sal McGee.

  The café was a puke hole. Filthy, uneven floors were covered in places with ripped up plastic and damp cardboard. The occasional gaping hole gave an unwelcome glimpse of the dark, stinking cellar beneath. Tables and chairs made out of whatever-will-do formed the furnishings for the customers and, in the corner, some rough looking men were giving a pained old geezer an inglorious send off. Some of ’em wore ill-fitting leathers and wide awake hats, others were in bright coloured work clothes they had been given by agents of Des Diamond, the president of Texas, for helping with the Great Renovation. There were five of them in total and the old boy was sick with the cancer by all accounts. They laughed and sobbed like demented old ladies. They muttered darkly to each other and I knew they were sharing secrets of wrongdoings. I stroked the handle of Comeuppance, my .44, underneath my duster and wondered if the hour was right. I sniffed the air and decided that it was not.

  I caught sight of myself in the scummy mirror in front of which Sal toiled. He was a fat balding man with a moustache and he wore a weskit and shirtfront while he polished the glass without any sense of hurry.

  I, on the other hand, had been a bandit in my younger days, until a man much older than myself taught me the righteous path. I won’t go into it too much right now but, amongst other things, he taught me how to shoot. Well it turned out I was fairly natural at that. I can hit your hat with my .44, more often than not, if you fling it in the air for me.

  I had kept the bandit look. I liked it. On my head were two purple mohawks that fanned out from my head like wings and, around my brow, I sported a blue bandanna which served many purposes out there in that lawless land, sling, gun cleaning rag and something to keep my head wet when I dampened it, to name just a few of its uses.

  I would say I was pretty if you asked, with green eyes and slightly rounded face and a small though, I think, puffy lipped mouth. And apart from my duster that day I was wearing an old low cut vest, a short skirt and my military boots. This garb was designed to show off the parts of me I was most proud of and to provide a distraction, if you know what I mean.

  Truth is, right then, half of me was interested in what was happening over there in Houston where the president and his agents resided. The other half weren’t. It was a long way away and I was here.

  I looked around the café and I noticed a man in a fancy worsted suit and hat having himself a coffee at a table in the corner. I’m sure I did not notice him before and I didn’t hear anybody enter the place. You can always hear when someone enters Sal’s by grace of a little bell above the door, you see.

  This fella seemed to be awful pleased with himself, just sitting there, drinking his coffee and grinning. I did not like the look of him at all but my attention was taken off this character when a pair of those government mules from the dying man’s table shuffled beside me at the bar, getting all busy with their elbows and shit.

  Covered in desert dust and wearing swamp coats and sombreros, they both gazed at the idiot in the cage and muttered to each other, sipping from refreshed shot glasses.

  ‘God damned herd of lanky’un got Ol’ Joe outside of Dripping Springs.’

  ‘I saw a whole gang of ’em once. None of ’em stood a mite less than ten feet tall…’

  I stifled a laugh at this revelation as the first man shook his head, loosing a cloud of dust into the air around him. Trying to get his story straight, I’d wager.

  ‘Evil revenants from the asshole of Hell itself,’ he added, looking to the ceiling as if he was giving some kind of snake oil sermon.

  ‘Yeah, you can’t kill ’em either grace o’ the fact they already dead,’ added his friend.

  I could no longer contain my smirking and they both glared at me with their beady dark eyes buried deep in dirt caked faces. I’d heard all that old bullshit before about lanky’uns being undead zombies and such. Saying that they stand way over ten feet tall and couldn’t be killed ‘‘’Cos they already dead”. Well, I’d say they’re closer to seven feet tall, and they sure can be killed. I know that as a fact. Not that you’d be quick to go up against those ungainly bastards. Mean as a wounded javelina and they can take some doing to keep down. That I admit. But, about them being the undead; no. Twas just inbreeding, desperation and cannibalism, in the dustbowls of Texas that made ’em that way. As for being all so tall, hence their name; well I’ve heard of entire townships in Old France where folks don’t grow more’an four feet.

  I was aware these two fellas were still glaring at me, but it was quite evident that they really weren’t shit. I could have started something but…thing is I was a little bored. I had given myself a few days off my work, which had turned into a couple of weeks. It occurred to me that all I was doing was protecting a bunch of plebeians who did not seem to c
are, and this thought was hindering my desire to work.

  I got up off my stool and made my way over the filthy, damp uneven floor to the door. Give it one more go I thought, you know, to bring some justice to this hell.

  ‘Yeah, you better run, missy,’ says the fatter of the two, as I was making my exit. The group at their table let out a burst of mean laughter. Even the dying old man let out a series of rhythmic wheezes through a toothless grin. His little piggy eyes flooded his wrinkled and cracked cheeks with water.

  The whole scene seemed to have tickled the stranger with the fancy suit some as well. Mind you, I hadn’t noticed a time when he wasn’t smiling.

  I shook my head and pushed the door of the bar open with my boot and made my way into the street. Needless to say I was followed.

  2

  The long road that forms the heart of South Congress had these hardy plants growing through the many cracks and crevices. You got the impression of a bunch of dusty green islands in an ocean of old baked tar or grubby eruptions through a length of broken skin.

  The houses and businesses along there were of the shack variety, built with salvaged materials like old vehicles, dumpsters, corrugated iron and public shelters within the ruins of the buildings that stood there years before. Folks around there had a tendency to be house-proud and some of these places looked downright fancy, considering. Especially the ones that used the old ruined walls, doors, windows and rooms and had just added to them. Some went way up several storeys and had balconies and alcoves, buttresses, decking and all sorts of wonders.

  I headed over to my own place, which was just across the road, on the corner where South Congress meets The Cir. It was pretty small. Just one room, with a bed and a potbelly stove that cooked me three square a day. Mrs. Rodriguez, from over on 6th, built the stove for me. She had an old store where she made those there stoves at one hundred bits a time, or more if ya’ll were in mind for something big and fancy. Anyway, her son was being harassed for some land he owned in Barton Creek. Four bad men trying their luck is all it was, claiming they was from the “Government” and that they had “jurisdiction” or some such shit. My .44 and me put pay to their notions and Mrs. Rodriguez made me this fine stove in return. There you go.

  A clearing of throat interrupted my thoughts, and I turned around to see the man with the fancy suit standing there – and wouldn’t you know it, grinning.

  ‘I do hate to interrupt you there miss, but by any chance are you the one who rejoices under the name of Jezebel St. Etienne?’ I recognised the accent.

  ‘You from Louisiana, huh?’

  ‘Yes ma’am, Baton Rouge, to be precise.’

  I studied the sky, making out I had seen something up there that interested me and said, as if to no one in particular: ‘Maguire send you?’

  He did not answer directly, so I turned around to study his reaction. I squinted hard, due to the particularly harsh sun that was beating down on me.

  The grin had been wiped from his reptile-like lips, as I knew it would. He looked down and he seemed to be losing some patience.

  ‘No ma’am,’ he shook his head a little and continued, ‘forgive me for being a pest but are you the one they call Jezebel St. Etienne, or are you not?’

  ‘I am she,’ says I, posing like the Texas belle I surely am.

  He looked down as if he’d just discovered he’d forgot his monies on being asked to pay for banging a two-bit whore.

  ‘Oh my, I do so hate this part of my job,’ he chuckled like a fool, ‘I really do.’ He scratched the back of his head and winced in such a way it contorted his leathery features.

  ‘But it is my duty to inform you, as a sworn officer of the law, that I, Cecil DuPont, am placing you under arrest for crimes which include, but are not limited to, multiple murders across this fine state, and beyond. And I’m going to have to take you into my custody, on this fine day, and transport you to the new courts in Houston for you to stand trial.’

  He said all this as if he was giving me gardening advice from over a picket fence. He then looked at me all sincere, and ever so sorry. He had removed his derby hat and was clutching it in both hands at his breast.

  ‘Sworn what of the what now?’

  With his little mean eyes suddenly glaring at me, and his lips twitching I could tell that he was losing his patience with me for sure.

  ‘In the interest of fairness I ought to point out that you will receive a fair and speedy trial. But consider this, I am to bring you in either dead or alive, so for you to benefit from that there trial I spoke of, then I would heartily recommend you come with me nice and peaceful now.’

  I looked around and shielded my eyes from that vicious sun and made pretend something up yonder had gotten my attention again.

  ‘I ain’t done nothing so I ain’t going no place with you,’ I said, and made out I was stifling a yawn.

  ‘Like I said multiple murders,’ he tried being all sincere again, ‘and that be including sworn in government agents.’ Oh he was a cool one this’un. Making such an effort to keep his temper under control with me as he was. I was sure at any moment he was gonna ruffle my hair and try chucking me under the chin. But the guy had clearly not met one such as me before, and I was hell bent on devilment.

  ‘I never shot no one who didn’t have it coming to ’em mister,’ I said, and spat juice on the ground between us. ‘’T ain’t murder.’

  He looked at me quizzically and said: ‘Now young lady I don’t mean to be presumptuous but it don’t look like to me that you have studied at any of Houston’s fine accredited legal institutions and thus…’ wow he had only just then noticed my gun, that’s how much this fella liked the sound of his own yapping. ‘…well, ah… that’s a mighty big six-gun you got there for a little lady like yourself,’ he finished, as he opened his jacket to show the butt of a semi-auto poking out of a nice looking brown leather holster. The leather was shiny and looked like vanished wood.

  ‘I prefer my old Smith & Wesson Model 4006. The .40 payload is much more accurate and the…’

  ‘At this range, I can turn you inside out with both my eyes closed,’ I butted in.

  He looked at me like I was a bothersome child, and pointed with a toothpick he produced from the watch pocket of his weskit.

  ‘You have a problem there with interrupting me. I must ask you to desist with that as it does infuriate me somewhat and I am a lawman.’

  ‘Well sir, I don’t rightly give a fuck about what infuriates you or not,’ I countered. That had him chewing on his toothpick all right.

  ‘You’ll get a fair trial,’ he said, his voice now obscured as he chewed the life out of that pick, ‘where you’ll have ample opportunity to put your point across. And furthermore I will ask you to curb your language ,you being a lady and all,’ a snide smile returned to his face, ‘supposedly.’

  ‘Bullshit, ya’ll fixing on hanging me, I reckon.’

  ‘That is one possible outcome of course. But you really ain’t got much of a choice see. The trial is your only hope of coming out of this predicament above ground. And to be one-thousand percent honest with you, I’d prefer to just carry your head on that long walk rather than suffer that there mouth of yours.’

  ‘Get the hell out of here, before I send you back to Houston with an “I’ve been caught fucking the village goat” look on your face.’

  ‘… well, I must say… hell, I must say I don’t like your attitude, not one bit, missy.’

  ‘Would you like it any better if I told you to fuck off?’

  Well that did it. He went the colour of a sliced beet and his eyes turned to mean little slits.

  ‘Now look here you little cunt, there’s a new way now. The rule of law. In order to bring that about we have to eliminate your kind, with your brand of backstreet justice and sinful anarchy that you use to terrorise and extort the good Christian folks of Texas. By order of the authority in Houston I will bring civility to this once fine nation and that means getting rid of the
likes of you, by golly.’ He spat at my feet, but the look on his face indicated that he knew he had just given away too much, and that now there was only one way that this was going to end. It certainly wasn’t going to be one long fucking walk to Houston with me in shackles.

  He looked at me again and smiled. He tugged the toothpick from his mouth and his smile turned into a sneer. My chest started heaving with adrenalin, which luckily took his attention away from my face. Yep, that meant I got the drop on him. He seemed to remember his business then but it was too damned late. A bullet from my .44 ripped into him with a roar and struck him just above the heart while his own gun still sat nice and peaceful in its neat little holster. He spun around with the shot and landed in a cumbersome heap on the ground; all limbs and carcass. The report that echoed around that part of South Congress was followed by nothing more than the coughing and wheezing from this man who had chanced his luck with me. I turned him over with my boot so’s I could enjoy the look on his face.

  He weren’t smiling no more, no sir. He looked mighty unhappy as he fought for each agonised breath. Ha. He looked at me with watery, confused eyes as if I was the one who’d done wrong, his lips moving constantly and framed by pink foamy blood. Probably muttering a prayer or a curse, I’d say if you asked. A tear left the corner of his eye and traversed his cheek and I mimicked a sobbing child to rub it in some. This I followed with a hefty lump of chew juice spit that dangled from my lips teasingly before landing with a splat on his. And that’s how he ended his days. I sure do loves it when they die slow.

  ‘Get back to work you slobs,’ I shouted at the group of plebeians who had been attracted by the noise. I holstered my weapon and spat at the corpse again. I removed a handful of money from my pocket and made sure I had the 250 bits to pay Mr. Calaway, the mortician, to dispose of the ranger’s corpse. Be dammed if that wasn’t the worst part. I mean 250 god damned bits; that about cleared me out. But it was my civic duty after all. I weren’t just going to leave him there to fester and make folks sick.