Retribution by Regina Smeltzer Page A

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