Where There's Smoke

“You can check my record with the Department of Corrections. I got a lot of time off for good behavior.”

“I’ve already spoken with your parole officer.” His eyes snapped up to hers and she blushed. “I felt I had to. I wanted to know what you… what you had done.”

“Did he tell you?”

“Assault and battery, he said.”

He looked away and pulled his lower lip through his teeth several times. Again, he was tempted to walk out. He didn’t owe her a goddamn thing, and surely not an explanation. He didn’t feel he had to justify himself to anyone.

But, oddly, he wanted Janellen Tackett to understand why he’d committed the crime. He couldn’t pin down exactly why he wanted her understanding. Maybe it was because she looked at him like he was an actual person and not just an ex-con.

“The bastard had it coming,” he said.

“Why?”

He sat

up straighter, preparing to lay out the facts and let her read them as she pleased. “He was my landlord. He and his wife lived in the apartment below mine. It was a dump, but the best I could afford at the time. She—his wife—was as kind a woman as I ever knew. Ugly as sin but a good heart, you know?”

Janellen nodded.

“She’d do favors for me. Sew on shirt buttons, stuff like that. Sometimes she’d bring me leftover stew or a slice of pie because she said bachelors never ate right and a body couldn’t survive only on Wolf Brand Chili.”

He bounced his hat on his knee. “One day I met her on the stairs. She had a black eye. She tried to hide it from me, but the whole left side of her face was swollen. She made up an excuse, but I knew right off that her old man had worked her over. I’d heard him yelling at her plenty of times. I didn’t know he’d started using her as a punching bag.

“I cornered him and told him if he wanted a fistfight I could give him a hell of a good one. He told me to mind my own business. Then he beat her again a couple of weeks later. That time we had more than words. I slugged him a few times, but she intervened and begged me not to hurt him.”

He shook his head. “Go figure. Anyway, I warned him then that the next time he hit her, I’d kill him. A few months went by, and I thought he’d gotten the message. Then one night the racket downstairs woke me up. She was screaming, crying, begging for her life.

“I ran down to their apartment and kicked the door in. He had thrown her against the wall hard enough to put a hole in the sheetrock and to break her arm. She was cowering against the wall, and he was whipping her with a leather belt.

“I remember sailing through the air and landing square in the middle of his back. I beat the holy hell out of him. Almost killed him. Luckily one of the other tenants called the police. If they hadn’t gotten there when they did, I’d’ve been sent up for manslaughter.” He stopped, thinking back. “I’d had to deal with bullies like him all my life. I’d had enough of it, I guess, and just sorta snapped.”

He was silent for a moment and stared at his hands. “At my trial, he broke down and cried, made his apologies to God and man and swore he’d never raise a hand to his wife again. My lawyer advised me to tell the jury that I didn’t remember the attack, that I’d gone temporarily wacko, that I was too enraged to realize what I was doing.

“But, seeing as how I’d sworn on the Bible to tell the truth, I told them in all honesty that I wished I’d killed the son of a bitch. Any man who beats a defenseless woman like that needs killing, I said, and I meant it.” He shrugged resignedly. “So he walked, and I went to the pen.”

After another silence, Janellen’s chair creaked slightly as she got up and moved to a tall metal filing cabinet. From it she withdrew several forms. “I’ll need you to fill these out, please.”

He remained seated and looked up at her. “You mean I’m hired?”

“Yes, you’re hired.” She quoted him a starting salary that flabbergasted him.

“And after hearing your story,” she said, “I’m willing to waive the probationary period. It was a silly idea anyway.”

“Not so silly, Miss Tackett. You can’t be too careful these days.”

His smile seemed to fluster her. She hesitated a moment, then leaned down to lay the forms on the desk in front of him. “These are tax and insurance forms. A nuisance, I’m afraid, but necessary.”

“I don’t mind the paperwork if it means a job.”

As she talked him through the forms, Bowie tried to concentrate on them, but it was tough to do with her standing so close. She smelled good. Not overwhelmingly perfumed like the whores he’d gone to following his release.

She smelled clean, like soap and bedsheets that had dried in the sunshine. Her hands were slender and delicate and pale. They entranced him as she sorted through the documents and pointed out the dotted lines on which he signed his name.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her in profile. She wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t downright ugly, either. Her skin was smooth and fair, practically translucent. There was no wiliness in her expression, not like some women who you could tell were calculating their next move on you. Instead she seemed to be straightforward and honest and kind, qualities he’d rarely run across. He liked listening to her voice, too. It was as soft and soothing as he imagined a mother’s lullaby would be.

And her eyes… Hell, those eyes could have dropped a man at fifty paces if she’d chosen to use them that way.