Act of Revenge by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page B

for the whole legal business . . .”
    â€œMarlene, just see her . . .”
    â€œ. . . naming the abuser, prosecuting for assault . . .”
    â€œMarlene, five minutes. She asked if she could see you.”
    â€œ. . . and so on. What is this now, the cute puppy school of bodyguarding? If I like her looks, I’ll waive the rules?”
    Mattie turned up her glower a notch and thrust forward her heavy jaw. “Don’t be a bitch, Marlene.”
    â€œOh, that’s delightful, coming from you.” She rose and gathered up her bag. “I have to go. I will drive out and see Chester, and then I will go home. I have children. And a husband.”
    Mattie’s face darkened to mahogany, and her heavy brows almost met in the middle. An interesting moment passed, during which both of them realized that, manlike as were some of their doings, they were not in fact men and didn’t have to carry on so. The big woman sucked in breath and said, “Marlene, please. For me. Just see her and maybe she’ll talk to you. If she don’t, no harm. You can just forget her, okay?”
    A request in these terms from Mattie Duran was so unusual as to stun Marlene’s normal prudence, and, of course, she was intrigued.
    â€œOkay, I’ll see her.”
    Mattie smiled, brightening the room with a show of gold and bright enamel against her dark skin. “Great! You’re a pal, chica . She’s in 37.”
    She would be. Room 37 was the only single room for clients in the EVWS, tiny, in the center of the building, windowless, its doors and walls heavily reinforced. It was the most secure place in the shelter, and was reserved for people that Mattie had determined were under threat from people who knew what they were doing when it came to dispensing lethal violence. Some time back, the shelter had been attacked by a group of actual international terrorists, who had made off with a young girl, and Mattie wanted to make sure it would not happen again.
    Marlene climbed the stairs against the flow of women and children descending for the evening meal. She greeted those she knew, a substantial proportion. Marlene’s role at the EVWS was to represent clients in court, to move them to (they hoped) safe apartments, to train them in self-defense, and to provide her brand of counseling to the significant others. Given Marlene’s rep around town, this often sufficed. Marlene had not lost a client in some years, and her clientele was selected from among the most endangered women in the city, or rather those of the most endangered who had the sense and the nerve to get out.
    The woman who opened the door of 37 to Marlene’s knock was still lovely in the frozen way that some wealthy women adopt, a look that peaked in the Kennedy years. Not a mark was visible on the face, which didn’t mean much. A lot of guys were careful about the face, wanting to preserve the trophy value of the arm piece. Her eyes, a nice china blue, and big ones, showed more mileage around the edges than one might gather from a first look at the face and body. A well-preserved forty, was Marlene’s thought, three days a week at the gym, a few surgical tucks maybe, strict diet, winters in the Islands. She was dressed in a ratty purple sweatshirt and jeans several sizes too large for her, and a pair of cheap tennis shoes, all clearly out of the shelter slop box.
    â€œYou wanted to see me,” said Marlene, and introduced herself, extending a hand. The woman’s grip was soft and hesitant, and her eyes, which Marlene now observed were fuzzy and unfocused, slid away from contact. Oh, pharmaceuticals! thought Marlene. She loved these types.
    The woman did not give her own name, but turned away and sat on the narrow bed. Marlene shut the door and sat beside her, there being nowhere else to sit. The room was tiny, a cell eight feet on a side, holding only a steel cot, a varnished deal bureau, a rag rug, and a rickety night