Where There's Smoke

Momentarily Hap returned. Taking a seat on a case of Beefeater’s, he lit a cigarette, then offered one to Bowie, who accepted and tipped his head forward as Hap lit it for him. They smoked in companionable silence. Finally Hap said, “Might ought to think about looking for another job.”

Bowie propped himself up on one elbow. He wasn’t surprised, but he wasn’t going to take the news lying down—literally. “You firing me, Hap?”

“Not outright, no.”

“I had nothing to do with that bitch.”

“I know.”

“Then why am I catching the flap? Who is she anyway? You’d think by the way y’all talked about her that she’s the Queen of Sheba.”

Hap chuckled. “To her husband she is. Fergus Winston is superintendent of our school system. Owns a motel on the other end of town and does pretty good with it. He’s ’bout twenty years older than Darcy. Ugly as a mud fence and not too bright. Folks figure she married him for his money. Who knows?” He shrugged philosophically.

“All I know is, anytime Darcy can shake Fergus, she’s out here looking for action. Hot little piece,” he added without rancor. “Had her myself a time or two. Years back when we were just kids.” He pointed the lighted end of his cigarette toward Bowie. “If a thief did break into her bedroom last night, she might have shot him for not raping her.”

Bowie shared a laugh with him, but the humor was short-lived. “Why are you letting me go, Hap?”

“For your own good.”

“As long as I don’t personally serve liquor, my parole officer said—”

“It’s not that. You do the work I hired you for.” He regarded Bowie through world-weary eyes. “I run a fairly clean place, but lots of lowlifes come through the door every night. Anything can happen and sometimes does. Take my advice and find a place to work where you ain’t so likely to run into trouble. Understand?”

Bowie understood. It was the story of his life. He just seemed to attract trouble no matter what he did or didn’t do; and an honest, hardworking sort like Hap Hollister didn’t need a natural-born troublemaker working in his bar. Resignedly he said, “Employers ain’t exactly lining up to offer jobs to ex-cons. Can you give me a few days?”

Hap nodded. “Until you find something else you can bunk here. Use my pickup to get around if you need to.” Hap anchored his cigarette in the corner of his lips as he stood. “Well, I got a stack of bills to pay. Don’t be in a hurry to get up. You had a short night.”

Left alone, Bowie lay down again but knew he wouldn’t go back to sleep. From the start he’d known that there was little future in working at The Palm, but the job had also provided lodging. He had thought—hoped—that it would be a temporary respite, like a halfway house between prison and life on the outside. But no. Thanks to a broad he didn’t even know, and to some son of a bitch committing a B and E, he was back to square zero.

Where he’d been stuck all his life.

Chapter Three

Jody Tackett and her son gazed at each other across the distance that separated them. It was a gulf that hadn’t been spanned in thirty-six years, and Key doubted it ever would be.

He forced a smile. “Hi, Jody.” He’d stopped using any derivative of Mother years ago.

“Key.” She turned a baleful gaze on Janellen. “I guess this is your doing.”

Key placed his arm across his sister’s shoulders. “Don’t blame Janellen. Surprising y’all was my idea.”

Jody Tackett harrumphed, her way of letting Key know that she knew he was lying. “Did I hear you say the coffee was ready?”

“Yes, Mama,” Janellen replied eagerly. “I’ll cook you and Key a big breakfast to celebrate his homecoming.”

“I’m not so sure his homecoming is cause for celebration.” Having said that, Jody turned and walked away.

Key let out a deep sigh. He hadn’t expected a warm embrace, not even an obligatory hug. He and his mother had never shared that kind of affection. For as far back as he could remember, Jody had been unapproachable and inaccessible to him, and he’d taken his cues from her.

For years they had coexisted under an undeclared truce. When they were together, he was polite and expected the same courtesy to be extended to him. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t. This morning she had been flagrantly hostile, even though he was her only living son.

Maybe that was why.

“Be patient with her, Key,” Janellen pleaded. “She doesn’t feel well.”

“I see what you mean,” he remarked thoughtfully. “When did she start looking so old?”

“It’s been over a year, but she still hasn’t fully recovered from… you know.”