Free Private Heat by Robert E. Bailey

side. I unlocked the door and stepped back. Karen exploded through the door with her eyes fixed on the middle of my forehead and a camping hatchet poised over her head.
    I sidestepped the swipe and caught Karen’s wrist with my right hand. With my left hand I grabbed the top of the hatchet and wrung her wrist and the hatchet in opposite directions. Karen gave it up with a yip. She caught me with an open-handed roundhouse on the side of my head. My glasses fled the scene.
    Karen kept swinging. I caught most of the blows with my right forearm while holding the hatchet behind my back. “Come on now!” I said. “Stop. Quit.” She didn’t. I gave her a little shove and swept her feet from under her with my right leg.
    Sitting on the floor, looking up, Karen launched into a discussion of my parentage, questioned my manhood, and suggested things anatomically impossible.
    â€œIs that the mouth you kiss your mother with?” I asked, stealing a line from my youngest son—all that came to mind. I picked up my glasses, tossed the hatchet into the garage, and locked the door. When I turned back, Karen was getting up from the floor. I caught her by the upper arm, walked her back to the front room, and deposited her on the sofa.
    â€œIt’s time to clear up the ‘Who-Struck-John,’” I said.
    Who-Struck-John is what you call the legalese in a contract—“party of the first part” kind of thing—verbiage meant to obscure the facts. Karen’s face went blank. I guess she didn’t know John or who hit him, so I said, “We can start with an explanation of your little tirade. Make it good, and make it fast, or I’m outta here.”
    Karen deflated into the sofa and shook her head. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œArnie has one of those caller things. He’s gonna know.”
    â€œSo fire me.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” she said and sat up straight. She pointed her finger. “You’re just like Randy and his tough-guy pals. You do what you want and when it goes to hell you’re nowhere around. I’m the one that gets used. I’m the one that gets smacked around.” Her eyes clouded up and her voice wavered. “I’m the one that goes to jail.”
    I took the hanky out of the breast pocket of my jacket and unfolded it until I found a dry spot. I offered it to her.
    Karen waved it off and wiped her eyes on her forearm. “You’re fired, just go away,” she said in a little-girl voice and rolled her eyes up slowly to make sure that I was still there.
    â€œSo who’s going to protect you? Arnold Fay? Is that why you lied about him being here today?”
    Astonishment washed down Karen’s face.
    â€œIs that why the parts of this house that you occupy are immaculate, except somebody just held a wrestling match on the bed? Is good old Arnie one of the tough guys who’s using you?”
    â€œIt’s none of your business.”
    â€œIt’s my business, Karen. For the next two days anybody that wants to kill you has to kill me first.”
    â€œBig deal, two days,” she said. Rivulets ran down her cheeks. “I’d be better off dead. My life is shit.”
    â€œA dirt nap lasts forever,” I said. “But in two days you talk to the U.S. attorney. Your prospects may improve.”
    â€œYou just don’t get it.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t. I asked you about the ‘something else’ and you said no—same as your uncle. But I get this, they shot your old boss in the back of the head and left him to rot in the trunk of his car because he knew two things. He knew who the players were, and he knew where the money was.”
    â€œI was in Nevada,” she said.
    â€œMaybe you set him up. Maybe you’re setting up Randy to take the fall as the shooter.”
    Karen shook her head, slowly, side to side.