Southern Cross Read Online Free

hundred,” he counted. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
     
    Judy Hammer couldn’t believe it. This had to be one of the most bizarre things that had ever happened to her. Twowhite supremacists named Bubba and Smudge were going to murder a black woman named Loraine. She lived near some sort of old pumps where the killers would park and wait with engines and headlights off. Money was involved, perhaps several hundred dollars. Hammer paced, Popeye anxiously at her heels. The phone rang.
    “Chief Hammer?” It was West.
    “Virginia. What the hell was that?” Hammer asked. “Any way we can trace it?”
    “No,” West’s voice returned. “I don’t see how.”
    “I’m assuming we both heard the same thing.”
    “I’m still on a cell phone,” West warned. “Don’t think I should go into it. But it sounds like something we’d better take very seriously.”
    “I completely agree. We’ll talk about it after the presentation. Thanks, Virginia.” Hammer was about to hang up.
    “Chief? What were you calling me about when I was on the track?” West quickly reminded her.
    “Oh. That’s right.”
    Hammer searched her thoughts, trying to bring up what she was calling West about when the rednecks broke into their conversation. She paced, Popeye with her every step.
    “Oh, I remember. We’re already getting responses to our new website,” Hammer said, pleased. “Since Andy’s op-ed piece.”
    “That worries me,” West replied. “I think we should have done a little troubleshooting, Chief.”
    “It will all be fine.”
    “What are they saying?”
    “Complaining,” Hammer replied.
    “I’m shocked.”
    “Don’t be cynical, Virginia.”
    “Any reaction to what he said about escalating juvenile crime? And Richmond’s gang mentality about not having gangs, or however he put it? About the country’s desperate need for radical juvenile justice reform ?”
    It was not lost on Hammer that whenever West talkedabout Brazil, West’s attitude was sharp to bump up against. Hammer knew when West was hurt. Hammer recognized a sadness in Brazil as well, a light not quite so bright in his eyes, a sluggishness in the creative energy that so profoundly singled him out. Hammer wished the two of them would get along again.
    “The phones started ringing off the hook about that the minute the newspapers hit the driveways,” Hammer replied. “We’re shaking people up. And that’s exactly what we’re here to do.”
    Hammer got off the phone. She retrieved Brazil’s op-ed piece from the coffee table and glanced through it again.
     
    . . . This past week our city’s children committed at least seventeen cold-blooded felonies, including rape, armed robbery and malicious wounding. In eleven of these violent, seemingly random acts, the child hadn’t even turned fifteen yet. Where do children learn to hate and harm? Not just from the movies and video games, but from each other. We do have a gang problem, and let’s face it, kids who commit adult crimes aren’t kids anymore . . .
     
    “I expect my popularity just took another dip,” Hammer said to Popeye. “You need a bath. A little of that good cream rinse?”
    Popeye’s black-and-white coat was handsomely reminiscent of a tuxedo, but her fur was very short, her freckled, pink skin very sensitive and prone to get dry and irritated.
    Popeye loved it when every few weeks her owner would put her in a sink of warm water and lather her up with Nusalt antiseborrheic therapeutic shampoo, followed by the Relief antipruritic oatmeal and pramoxine cream rinse that her owner kneaded into Popeye’s fur for exactly seven minutes, as the directions prescribed. Popeye loved her owner. Popeye stood on her hind legs and nuzzled her owner’s knee.
    “But a bath will have to wait, I guess, or I’ll be late.” Her owner sighed and got down to Popeye’s level. “I shouldn’t even have brought it up, should I?”
    Popeye licked her owner’s face and felt pity. Popeye