Retribution (11 page)

Roger's open door provided a modicum of safety. Latoya could hear every word. So could the City Planning Department next door, most likely.

“Look, sit down and let's talk this through.”

Desmond dropped into the chair opposite the desk, his dark scowl deepening.

“You make enough money at Takis to pay your rent.” Roger spread out the budget sheet they had developed together. “You only have to pay 40% of the actual rent. The government pays the other 60%. Where's the money going?” He frowned at the big man.

“The government can pay it all.” Desmond's shoulders slumped. “They're the reason a man can't get a decent job.”

“But you have a job, Desmond.”

“So you gonna put my old lady and my kids out on the street like all the others you shoved outta their houses?”

“You're doing it to yourself.” Roger hissed through clenched teeth. Freeloaders. Bums. All standing with their hands out instead of doing an honest day's work. He knew how to take care of users unwilling to meet their obligations, but in Darlington, his options were limited to those socially acceptable. Desmond ranked among the worst of the abusers. “What are you doing with the money you're supposed to send here? You signed a contract. You agreed—”

“You can't tell me what to do with my paycheck!”

“I can if you're not paying your rent!”

They stared at each other, blazing gray eyes meeting hateful black slits.

Desmond might believe cleaning tables was beneath him, but he had endured this job for the past two years. Even after the fire, he still had come to work. Men do that. At least Desmond had the decency to not bring his kids this time. Last month their pathetic faces had bought him another thirty days, but that trick wouldn't work again.

“You have a week to pay up before I evict you.”

The wooden chair hammered against the wall as Desmond jumped to his feet. “Just try,” he snarled. He turned to leave then stopped. “You know, there are more ways than one to get what I want.”

“Are you threatening me?”

The man laughed and gooseflesh rose on Roger's arms.

“I see you hangin' around Takis when that woman is there eating.” He leered at Roger. “Not enough of a man to come in and talk to her; you got to spy on her. It sure would be sad if something happened to that pretty face.” His laugh followed him from the room.

No doubt, Desmond was capable of hurting, or even killing another human being. But would he? And how would that work into Roger's plan if Lillian were removed by someone other than him?
How long
before someone puts a bullet through my chest?
This business with Lillian needed to be finished before someone like Desmond ended it for him. He clutched his head as a second hammer joined the first in his brain. Grimacing against the pain, Roger passed a disinfectant wipe across the surface of the desk in steady, even swipes.

“You all right?” Latoya asked from the doorway.

“Do me a favor, will you? Call Children's Services and let them know they'll have three kids needing foster placement in a week.”

The phone jangled. He turned his back to the glare of the window. “Roger Jenkins.”

“Meester Jenkins?”

His heart clenched. Why today? Why now? He would rather be dealing with a scum like Desmond than taking this call. “Hello, Mrs. Hernandez.”

“I went to see the place you told me about. It is so small.”

“It will only be temporary.” He talked slow, enunciating each word, hating that he didn't have better options for Mrs. Hernandez. Then he remembered. Because of Desmond, there probably would be a vacancy. “There is another house that might be available next month.”

“So we stay here for now.”

“You can't stay there, Mary. We've talked about this. The inspector found lead paint on the window frames when he was there. By law, I can't allow small children to live in that house.”

“But I keep it clean. I keep Mica in his playpen.”

“You know what could happen to Mica if he eats lead. You don't want him to be retarded.” They had talked about the risks of children in lead-tainted houses.

“We work so hard…”

“I know that.”

“I send money home to my parents. They want to come here, you know. They can help me with the children. I can work more hours.”

“Mary, your children cannot live in a house with lead paint.”

The unfairness of life. His throat swelled with frustration. He needed to pound the desk until only splinters remained. Or punch Desmond in his smug jaw. Instead, he kicked the waste basket, sending it flying against the far wall, leaving bits of torn paper scattered across the thin carpet. After taking a deep breath, he swallowed a mouthful of stale coffee, regaining control before speaking to Mary again.

The sound of children filtered through the receiver, their Spanish voices mixed with the clatter of small feet.

“I called your homeowner,” Roger finally said. “I asked him to pay for the lead abatement that would allow you to stay there. I told him how well you care for his house, what a good woman you are.”

“And he said yes?”

The hope in her voice added to the spikes already in his head. “He said no.”

“
Sì
. You have done your best.”

“I'll arrange a moving van for you.” He ended the call, knowing that because of the size of the family he could have made an exception, but no…the lead. The headache devoured his brain. He closed his eyes, seeking relief, but instead the limp body of his newborn daughter filled the anticipated blankness. A knife pierced his heart. He stumbled from the office. “I'm going home.”

Latoya stared at his face. She knew. She had been in Darlington when it had happened.

~*~

Roger drove blindly, the pounding in his head keeping time with his pulse. Stumbling into the kitchen, he gulped two pain killers and collapsed on the living room couch, the pressure between his temples intense. How much more could he stand?

An hour later, with the worst of the pounding gone, he walked to the bedroom and closed the blinds. From the top shelf, he pulled down the fireproof box, lowered it to the bed, and inserted a key into the lock.

Most days his fingers wandered through the contents, randomly drifting from one item to the next: his marriage license, Elizabeth's birth certificate, the title to a non-existent house. He would linger over pictures of smiling faces, an envelope with a snip of auburn baby hair. And then he would come to the death certificates on the bottom of the box: three of them.

Ignoring the memories, he dug through the box, searching for the blue thumb drive, an ordinary object purchased at an office supply store that now earned placement among his treasures.

The sound of his fingers tapping against the desktop seemed loud as he waited for the computer to boot up. He logged in with an encrypted ID, pulled up the new data he had sent himself, and downloaded the contents to the thumb drive.

He stared at the list of sub-files. He had made them all, added content as needed. Choosing one, he opened it, typed for a couple of minutes, hit save, and logged out. The thumb drive was returned to the metal box, and then the box was locked and shoved deep onto the shelf.

~*~

By the time Roger arrived at Ted and Trina's, Paul's car was already in the drive. He had wanted to show up early and watch Lillian's face when Paul walked through the door, gauge her interest in the man, but no big deal. There would be opportunities to check out Lillian's feelings throughout the evening. After a cursory push to the front doorbell, Roger let himself into the foyer.

“Hey Roger, right on time,” Bill said from the hall. “Put these on the table, will you?” He handed Roger a stack of dinner plates and lumbered back to the kitchen.

The smell of basil, oregano, and thyme permeated the air. And garlic. Always garlic. Roger whiffed appreciatively as his stomach growled in hunger. He had missed lunch. Again.

Laughter erupted from the kitchen. While Roger stood listening for Lillian's voice, Paul, his fist full of silverware, walked into the room with Lillian close behind, holding napkins.

Always attractive, but tonight there seemed to be a special glow about Lillian, as though a stage light had been assigned just for her. With eyes flashing and a smile that seemed to be ongoing, she didn't look like a helpless maiden in need of rescue.

Jimmy, Sandra's six-year-old grandson, ran through the door and slid to a stop on the wooden floor. “Miss Lillian, I have another one for you!” His blue eyes sparkled.

Lillian waved the napkins in the air. “No more!” she said, laughing. “My sides will split open if you tell me one more joke.”

“After we eat?” he asked.

“After we eat.”

“Hi, Roger.” Lillian smiled and nodded toward the plates in his hand. “Looks like you have a job, too. Trina runs a tight kitchen.”

Thankfully, she said nothing about the ruckus of the other night. Best to avoid the topic with Paul around. No sense angering the man in Lillian's presence.

Roger scowled, wondering whose side Lillian would take. He began placing the plates on the table.

Lillian followed with the napkin and Paul trailed her with silverware.

The thump, rustle, and chink as they worked reminded Roger of musical chairs. Who would end up without a seat?
It won't be me.

“Watch out! Heavy load coming!” Sandra balanced a tray with glasses of ice water.

Paul rushed toward her. “Here, let me take that.” He lifted the burden from her hands.

“Thanks, Paul. You're good to have around.”

What a kiss-up.
Roger took a deep breath; already his nerves felt as if they had been sprinkled with some of the red pepper flakes that he knew Trina would put in the pasta sauce.

Trina entered carrying a cloth-covered basket, and the aroma of baking bread mingled with Italian seasoning. “All right, guys, time to eat.”

Roger frowned when Trina directed him to a seat across from Lillian, until Paul was given the spot beside him, with Bill next. Lillian sat between Jimmy and Sandra. Ted and Trina filled the ends of the table.

“Let's pray,” Ted said, extending his hands to Bill and Sandra.

Roger hated that part of the Hancock tradition. He extended his hand, hoping Paul would ignore it, only to feel the pressure of the man's grip.

~*~

The taste of garlic mixed with oregano, basil, and a hint of thyme made Lillian's mouth water. Looking at the heads bent over food, listening to the clink of silverware on stoneware, she smiled. These were her friends.

Jimmy sat beside her slurping strings of spaghetti through his lips.

Sandra turned toward the boy, but Jimmy remained focused on his plate.

Lillian smiled, glad she could run interference for him.

“Do any of you know anything about the homeless shelter here in town?” Lillian asked.

Roger raised an eyebrow.

“What do you want to know?” Ted asked, licking sauce off his lips.

“Is it a good place? Is it well run? How is it staffed?”

“I used to go one day a week and help cook and serve supper until I got too big to fit behind the counter,” Trina said with a laugh. “But the rest of the family still goes.”

Jimmy tugged at Lillian's arm. “I help too.”

“You thinking about volunteering, or are you just curious?” Sandra's strong southern drawl sounded right at home in the historic house. “We can use all the help we can get.”

Trina giggled. “Remember that time mashed potatoes was on the menu and the electric potato scraper broke? We had to peel 30 pounds of potatoes by hand.”

“I remember,” Ted interjected. “I thought my hands were going to fall off.”

“Well, I got the blasted machine fixed,” Bill said. “I'm not peeling any more bushels of potatoes. Reminds me of the Army.”

“It wasn't bushels, Dad.”

“Close to it.”

“But the men really enjoyed the meal,” Sandra added. “That's what's important, y'all.”

“Do any of the local attorneys volunteer?” Lillian asked.

Roger's head turned toward her as if he stared, but when she looked at him, he was intent on twirling spaghetti in his fork.

“Not that I know of,” Sandra said.

“What if I volunteered a few hours a week, maybe on the night you guys work? Do any of the men need legal counsel? I won't be able to serve as their attorney, but I can advise them on the law.”

“I can't think of a greater need.” Bill wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Some of the men are homeless because of the red tape they don't know how to navigate.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Roger bit into warm garlic bread.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Lillian challenged him.

“You're young. And pretty. All those men—”

“Oh, for heaven sakes, Roger,” Sandra said. “What do you think those men will do to her?”

“I have to agree with Roger,” Paul said. “We don't get that many calls at the station from the shelter, but the ones that do come are serious. Knifings, for instance.” His eyes softened but maintained their seriousness as he looked at Lillian. “Some of the men have shady backgrounds. The city has a volunteer legal service for the low income. I think the office is actually located in your building, isn't it Roger?”

Roger nodded. “I'll be glad to connect you with them, Lillian.”

“We can discuss this later.” Sandra tipped her head toward a wide-eyed Jimmy.

“Anyone for seconds?” Trina passed the pasta bowl to Paul.

“I saw in the paper one of your houses burned down last night.” Bill sopped up the last bit of sauce on his plate and popped the saturated bread into his mouth.

Lillian's throat tightened and she tried to close her ears against the conversation.