The heartbreak lounge, p.7
The Heartbreak Lounge, page 7
“About what?”
“That would be between us, wouldn’t it?”
“Answer the question.”
“I just did.”
“You got any ID?”
“I do,” Harry said. “And a couple minutes ago, I would have shown it to you. But now you’re just pissing me off. You want to give me my keys back?”
“I’m pissing you off? Tough shit.”
“I guess that’s a no.”
He brought the flashlight up, pressed the button, shone the bright halon beam full into the jogger’s eyes, blinding him. The jogger’s left hand came up to block the beam and Harry reversed the flashlight, cracked the base of it across the hand still on the door.
The jogger pulled his hand away and Harry shoved the door open, drove him back. He got out, the flashlight at his side.
“And don’t touch the fucking car,” he said.
He saw what was going to happen, knew there was no way around it. The jogger recovered his balance, swung at him, a big, strong right, and Harry dropped, let it pass over him, snapped the heavy flashlight hard against the point of the jogger’s right knee.
Harry had learned the move years ago from a veteran trooper, practiced it with a baton until he could do it without thinking. He had taken down angry drunks with it, men twice his size, because the pain it produced was sudden and intense, in a place they hadn’t expected. You could disable a man immediately or, if you weren’t careful, break his kneecap into so many pieces he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life.
The jogger cried out, grabbed at his knee, fell heavily onto his side, hugging his leg. Harry leaned over him quickly, batted one of his hands away, reached into the warm-up pocket and came out with the keys. He stepped away, trained the flashlight beam on the jogger’s face. The jogger squinted up at him.
“I don’t know who you are,” Harry said. “And at this point, I don’t really give a fuck. But I guarantee you I’m not who you think I am.”
He turned the flashlight off.
“You broke my knee.”
“Probably not. I will next time, though. I promise you that. Is she home?”
“Who?”
“Give it up. You did your duty. You can lay there all night or we can drive back, talk to her.”
The jogger looked away, his shoulders rising and falling as his breathing settled.
“I need you to help me up,” he said after a moment.
“No chance. Now, you can ride with me or walk. I don’t care. Up to you.”
“Don’t hit me again,” the jogger said.
Harry had to smile.
“Come on,” he said. “Get in the car.”
8
When they pulled up outside the house, the Blazer was back.
“You first,” Harry said and shut the car off.
The jogger got out, limping. He went slowly up the walk to the porch, opened the front door. Harry followed him.
The woman and the blond man were waiting. It was a simple living room, hardwood floor, a bookshelf against one wall, a black leather couch. Glossy decorating magazines fanned out on the coffee table.
The woman wore jeans, a man’s blue work shirt with the tail out. When she saw him, she said, “It’s you.”
The blond man looked at her. She shook her head.
“No, Jack,” she said. “Not him.”
“I’ve been calling,” Harry said. “But I’ve been having some trouble getting through, it seems.”
“Who is he?” the blond man said and as Harry started to answer, the jogger looped a thick arm around his neck, jerked him back.
It took him off his feet, left him without leverage. He pumped an elbow back into a solid stomach with no effect.
“Reggie!” the blond man said.
Harry kicked back, felt his boot heels meet shins. Reggie bent him forward, swung him around like a wrestler so that Harry was facing the floor in a reverse headlock, held him there.
“Jack, get his wallet,” Reggie said. “Check his ID.”
Harry felt blood rush to his head, pain in his lower back. Jack came tentatively forward and Harry back-kicked at him, his boot hitting nothing but air. Jack retreated and Reggie hauled up, big arms tightening around Harry’s neck, cutting the air off. He saw flashes of light around the edges of his vision. He stopped struggling, felt the wallet pulled from his back pocket.
Jack took the wallet to the other side of the room. Reggie eased the pressure.
“Check his license,” he said. “Who he is.”
Harry looked at Reggie’s legs, ankles.
“Well?” Reggie said.
Jack said, “I’m looking, I’m looking.”
“His license. What’s it say?”
Harry spread his feet for balance, looped his right fist up hard into Reggie’s groin. He heard Reggie’s breath go out of him, felt the grip on his neck loosen. He reached down, caught both ankles, pulled up.
Reggie went over backward, crashed down onto the coffee table, smashed it. Harry straightened, saw him roll quickly back onto his feet, faster than he’d expected, too fast. He backpedaled, trying to put distance between them, catch his breath. The backs of his legs met the couch. On the end table to his left was a fluted glass vase filled with baby carnations. From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman run from the room.
There was no boxing, no feinting. Reggie moved forward, planted his feet and drove a thick fist at Harry’s face, his whole body behind it.
Harry ducked, felt the fist pass above him, reached across with his right hand, gripped the vase, brought it around backhanded. Reggie’s arm came up, blocked him forearm to forearm, and the vase flew from his hand, shattered against the wall, spraying glass and water.
Reggie’s fist cocked back again and Harry kicked out, caught him in his injured knee. When he bent, Harry grabbed at his warm-up jacket, yanked it down over his head, tangling his arms, blinding him. He brought his right knee up once, twice, a solid impact each time. The jacket tore as Reggie pulled away and Harry got in a final knee, let go. Reggie flew back, fell onto his side, and Harry heard the unmistakable sound of an automatic pistol chambering a round.
Everything stopped. Harry looked at the woman, tried to catch his breath. She held a small .25 automatic pointed at his chest. It was a Phoenix Raven, nickel, with imitation-pearl grips, a junk gun. The muzzle was small, but her grip was steady.
“Put that away,” he said. The gun didn’t move. Behind her, the blond man stood white-faced.
“Sit down,” she said.
Reggie moaned, rolled onto his knees. His jacket was in rags, blood dripped from his nose. He looked at Harry, then at the gun.
“Sit down,” she said.
Harry locked his eyes on hers, measured the distance.
“Don’t try it,” she said. “Please don’t try it.”
“Point that somewhere else.” He took a step forward.
“I said sit the fuck down.”
“That’s a tiny gun,” he said. Another step. “I don’t think you could even—”
She lowered the muzzle and fired once into the couch near his right leg. The noise was no louder than a stick breaking, but he felt the movement of the bullet past his leg, saw the impact as it slapped a hole in the leather. He froze. A thin mist of smoke and gun oil drifted from the muzzle. A shell casing rolled across the floor. She raised the gun again.
“Sit down,” she said.
He lowered himself slowly onto the couch, his eyes on her. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. Flowers lay on the hardwood like fish out of water.
There was silence in the room. Reggie started to get to his feet. He pulled the remnants of the warm-up jacket off, exposing a bloodstained white T-shirt beneath. He touched his nose, looked at Harry. But the violence was gone from the air, the gunshot ending it as quickly and finally as a door closing.
“Nikki,” the blond man said finally, “you know that’s Italian, don’t you?”
“Jack,” she said, not taking her eyes off Harry, “take Reggie into the kitchen. Make sure he’s all right.”
She lowered the gun until it was pointed at the floor. For the first time, Harry could see she was trembling slightly.
“Nikki, are you sure?”
“Go on.”
Reggie had taken his headband off, was holding it up to his nose to staunch the blood. He looked at Harry until Jack took his elbow, started to lead him away. He limped as they went down the hall into the kitchen.
“Maybe I should call the police,” she said.
“Call whoever the fuck you like.” He saw his wallet open on the floor where Jack had dropped it, contents spilling out.
“Jack saw you parked outside. He panicked, called here on his cell. Reggie went out to take a look. They thought … well, you know what they thought.”
He nodded at the floor.
“Can I get my wallet back?”
“How’d you find me?”
“License plate. Like I said, I’ve been trying to reach you. I called that number you gave Ray. Left messages.”
“That’s Jack’s cell. I use it sometimes. Why were you trying to call me?”
“To apologize for the way I acted that day.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Believe what you want. I’m going to get my things.”
He got up and she took another step back. He leaned over, pain in his back, picked up his wallet, the things that had fallen out of it—a credit card, a small color snapshot of Cristina on the beach, taken when they were in Captiva last year. He slid them back in the wallet, replaced it in his jeans pocket, stood up. His neck ached.
“I’m sorry if you got hurt,” she said. “He was just protecting me.”
“Whatever. I’m leaving.”
“Wait.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve had enough. Fuck this. And fuck you. I won’t call again.”
Jack appeared in the doorway, looked from her to Harry then back.
“Nikki,” he said, “we need to get Reggie to a hospital. I think his nose is broken.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “Take the Blazer.”
He looked at Harry.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It was a misunderstanding. Go on.”
A minute later, Jack led Reggie through the room, a bloodstained dish towel held to his face. He glared at Harry as Jack got coats from a closet, helped him into one. Harry watched him. Jack caught Reggie by the arm, led him through the front door. After a moment, they heard the Blazer engine start, watched through the window as it pulled away.
“Who’s William Matthews?” he said.
“What?”
“The Blazer is registered to a William Matthews. That’s how I found this address.”
“That’s Jack. His real name is William, but nobody calls him that anymore.”
“That makes as much sense as anything else around here, I guess.”
“I’m sorry about all this. Reggie can be a hothead. He comes on too strong sometimes. And I guess we’re all a little on edge.”
“Because of Harrow?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
He went to the front door, had it open when she said, “Hold on.”
He looked back at her.
“You’re serious?” she said. “About why you came here?”
“Forget it,” he said and went out the door. He stopped, looked back at her.
“This your package out here?”
“What?”
“On the porch. You didn’t see it?”
“What package?”
“Right here.”
He held the door open. When she started to move past him, he threw his weight into her, pinned her hard against the left doorjamb. He caught the wrist of her gun hand, twisted. She flailed and he leaned into her.
“Let go of me.”
He got both hands on the wrist, bent it until she gasped and her fingers opened. He took the gun away from her, spun her around and put the fingers of his left hand between her breasts, shoved. She took three off-balance steps into the living room, sat down hard on the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” she said, and then he stepped back into the room, pushed the door shut behind him.
She froze, looked at him, the gun.
He ejected the magazine, worked the slide. The chambered shell flew out, hit the floor and rolled beneath the couch. He put the gun in his jacket pocket, then thumbed the shells out of the magazine one by one into his left hand. When he had all four out, he opened the door again, went onto the porch. He shook them like dice, the brass clinking in his grip, then tossed them out into the yard. He looked back at her, still sitting, then flung the magazine away in another direction, heard it land in winter-bare bushes.
He went back into the living room. She’d made no move to get up. He felt his anger start to fade. He held up the Raven.
“Never point a gun at someone who you’re not ready to shoot,” he said.
He lobbed the gun at her. It thumped against her chest, fell into her lap. She didn’t try to pick it up.
He went back out, left the door open behind him, went down the walk to the Mustang. He didn’t look back.
9
At least ten years since he’d driven through Newark, but little had changed. Johnny steered the Firebird through block after block of brownstone tenements with boarded windows, trash-strewn empty lots. When he hit red lights, he slowed only a moment before driving through.
When he saw the sign for Frelinghuysen Avenue, he turned left, went up a block and turned left again onto a street of warehouses and garages. The address he’d been given was on the right, halfway up the street, next to an auto body shop with a sign that read COLLISION SPECIALISTS.
He steered into the narrow lane between the two buildings, the Firebird’s engine chugging as it crawled along. At the end of the alley, he turned right into the warehouse parking area.
The lot was fenced with chain link and razor wire, windblown plastic bags trapped in the coils. There were a dozen vehicles here, mainly SUVs, lit by a floodlight mounted over the loading dock. Most of the SUVs had cages in the cargo area, the rear seats taken out to make room for them.
There was a single door next to the loading dock and two black men stood there, watching him. Johnny pulled the Firebird up beside a Lexus jeep, cut the engine, wished he had a weapon.
He got out of the car, locked the door. The two men watched him come toward them. The one on the left was tall, wearing a leather jacket and pants, his hands gleaming with gold jewelry. His partner was shorter and heavy, dressed in a suit with a topcoat over it. Both their jackets were open despite the cold.
Johnny stopped about six feet from them.
“Here to see Lindell,” he said. “He’s expecting me.”
The men appraised him. Topcoat reached inside his jacket, scratched. Johnny watched his hand.
“Lindell, huh?”
There was nothing to say to that. He waited.
“Chill here,” the tall one said to his partner.
Topcoat nodded and the other man opened the door, went through.
They waited like that, the wind picking up, whistling through the razor wire. Topcoat was looking at the Firebird.
“Looks like you need you some new wheels,” he said.
Johnny looked at him but didn’t answer. He got his cigarettes out, lit one. He was halfway through it when the door opened again.
The tall one held it open, cocked his head inside. Johnny gave Topcoat a last look, stepped in. It was a narrow cement corridor lit by fluorescent tubes. At the far end was a dark green metal door.
“Go on. He waitin’ for you.”
The tall man went back outside, shut the door behind him.
Johnny started down the hall. There was a surveillance camera bolted high on the wall halfway down. He could already hear the noise, muffled through concrete—talking, yelling, barking.
When he got to the door, it swung open, a heavy black man holding it wide. He went through, saw the door had four different deadbolts and a police lock that fit into a plate in the floor. Mounted on the wall behind it was a closed-circuit TV screen showing the corridor he’d just come down.
Now the noise hit him fully, along with the smell of smoke and sweat and urine. He turned right into a small anteroom lined with lockers. A dead pit bull lay on a tarp thrown in one corner, its gray coat matted with blood, eyes half open.
He went through into the main room. The warehouse was a single open space, maybe two hundred feet in each direction. Metal-shaded bulbs hung on cables from the ceiling and smoke moved in their light.
There was a ring marked off in the center of the floor, bordered by wooden shipping crates. About twenty men in the room, all black, some sitting on metal folding chairs, some standing, all watching the ring where two men held back snarling dogs. The dogs—one a rottweiler, the other a pit—were raised up on their chains, snapping at the air, barely a foot of space between them. The pit’s handler wore a black vest with no shirt, a black cowboy hat. The kid holding the rott was barely out of his teens. He wore a white knee-length T-shirt, a gold medallion and a black nylon stocking cap that lay like a mane on his shoulders.
Johnny stayed where he was, the others oblivious to his presence. A white-haired man in a suit spoke quietly to the handlers in turn, got nods from both of them. They pulled their dogs back, crouched beside them, began to unsnap their collars.
“Let ’em go,” the white-haired man said, and in a flash the dogs were at each other, colliding in midair. As the handlers stepped back, the rott snarled, snapped, caught the loose flesh around the pit’s throat, bore it down. But the pit twisted free, bit the rott deeply behind its left ear. First blood. Some of the men began to shout.
The rott pulled free, leaped again, caught the pit’s ear and shredded it, but lost its hold almost immediately. The dogs fell and rolled. The rott snapped, drew blood from the pit’s muzzle, then released its grip to find a new target. In a flash, the pit was in, locking its jaws on the rott’s muzzle, its flat dinosaur face impassive.
The rott kicked, squealed, but the pit held on, its front legs braced against the floor. It dropped, bringing the rott down with it, and Johnny heard the sharp crunch of bone. The pit released, lunged again, buried its muzzle deep in the rott’s throat, bore it down once more. The kid shook his head, looked away. The rott’s bowels emptied, the smell sharp in the air. It kicked almost reflexively until its struggles slowed, stopped.
