No Shelter by Robert Swartwood

conversation you’re supposed to tell me that’s a crazy idea.”  
    Nova looks down at his feet, looks back up. His voice suddenly soft, he says, “Holly, you have to be honest with yourself. Walter ... he is right. You have changed. That shit back in Vegas, you never would have done that before.”  
    “Another one of my fucking little crusades, right?”  
    “Holly—”  
    “Why do you do it, Nova?”  
    “Why do I do what?”  
    “The work you do.”  
    His gaze steady on mine, he says, “Work is work.”  
    “It’s that simple for you?”  
    “Why do people become accountants? Why do they become bank tellers? Why do they become CEOs of fucking oil companies? They have to do something. And me, well, I have to do something too.”  
    “But why killing?”  
    “Our work is more than just killing.”  
    “Answer the question.”  
    He stares at me, his eyes still intense. Finally he looks away, shakes his head.  
    “No,” he says. “It’s none of your goddamned business.”  
    “That’s what I thought. People like us, we’re driven to do this work. Something in our past makes us who we are.”  
    “What the fuck are you now, a shrink? Of course something in our past makes us who we are. It’s the same for everybody.”  
    “But we kill people.”  
    “We do more than that.”  
    “Do you want to know why I do it?”  
    “Why?”  
    “To save lives.”  
    Nova just smiles. He takes a swig of the Cuervo, tilts his head back and gargles it like mouthwash before swallowing.  
    “I’m serious, Nova.”  
    “I’m sure you are.”  
    “That’s how I’ve always rationalized it. We kill the bad guys so the good guys keep living.”  
    “And what’s changed now?”  
    “Apparently I’m on a gradual decline.” My voice seethes with sarcasm. “ Have been on a gradual decline.”  
    Nova says, “What is this really about? Is this about Scooter? You feel guilty now and you’re having a fucking pity party for yourself?”  
    “It’s not like that.”  
    “Isn’t it?”  
    “I don’t know what you and Walter are talking about. I haven’t changed at all.”  
    Nova barks out a loud laugh. “That’s a good one. Got anymore?”  
    “Fuck you.”  
    “You want the truth, Holly?” He takes three quick strides until he’s standing in front of me, his face right in front of my own. “You’ve become reckless. You’ve become irresponsible. You don’t give a shit about anybody else except yourself. And the worst part about that? I don’t even think you like yourself very much.”  
    He hasn’t shaved in the past two days and his face is full of stubble. Normally he looks very good—hence his name, Casanova—but now his eyes are bloodshot, his face haggard.
    My voice low and steady, I say, “You don’t know anything about me.”  
    “Yes I do. I know more than I fucking want to.”  
    “You don’t know shit.”  
    “Oh fuck you.” He turns away, takes another swig of the Cuervo. His back to me, he says, “Quit being a cunt, Holly,” and I’m moving before I even know it.  
    I come up behind him and kick at the back of his knees. He loses his balance and falls down, dropping the bottle, and with the heel of my hand I punch him in the ribs. He groans, tries to reach for me, and I grab his arm, twist it up behind his back.  
    “Call me a cunt one more time.”  
    “Cunt,” he spits.  
    I twist his arm even more, right to the point it’s ready to dislocate.  
    “Go ahead, Nova, say it again.”  
    But he doesn’t say it again. He’s drunk off his ass and he weighs one hundred pounds more than me but he’s not stupid, not when he’s in this position.  
    “I’m in control of my own life,” I whisper into his ear. “Got it? And there’s nothing fucking wrong with me.”  
    In one quick motion I let go of his arm and stand back up, step out of his reach. It doesn’t matter. He just stays on the ground, his face against the