The Barbed-Wire Kiss (23 page)

Fallon stood. He put the bundles back into the bank bag one by one.

“There’s a lot of things you can do to a man,” he said. He zipped the bag shut. “You can hurt him physically. You can humiliate him. You can take away whatever it is that he cares about. But the worst thing you can do is treat him like a fool and expect him to like it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Fallon started around the desk.

“It’s impossible to keep a secret from me, you know that? I’ve got too many friends, too many people I’ve done favors for. Too many people who owe me.”

“Sit down,” Harry said.

“What I have, I worked for. And I did what was necessary to keep it. No one ever gave me anything. And no one’s going to take anything away from me either.”

Harry looked at Dunleavy, still sitting, relaxed. He turned back to Fallon.

“You’ve got your money. What you do now is your business. I’m going home.”

Dunleavy laughed, uncrossed his legs. When he started out of the chair, Harry turned and drove a straight punch at his face, his whole body behind it.

Dunleavy was off balance, half standing, an easy target. But he pushed the chair over as he rose, got the room he needed, swiveled, and Harry saw it was too late to stop. His fist met nothing but air and then his momentum carried him forward and something hit him hard in the lower ribs, bent him. Dunleavy’s left elbow drove toward him in a blur, snapped his head back, and sent sparks dancing along the edges of his vision.

He tried to back away, get his hands up, and then another sharp pain in his ribs took his breath away. He started to go down and Dunleavy caught him, spun him, drove him fast and hard into the door, face first. He rebounded, felt himself falling, but Dunleavy had his left arm twisted behind his back, holding him up. He slammed him into the door again, pinned him there.

“Whoa, boy,” Dunleavy said. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

He tried to suck in air, his left cheek against the door, heat spreading through his locked elbow. He could taste blood. Dunleavy grabbed his hair, yanked his head back so that he couldn’t gain any leverage. He looked up at the stained tiles of the drop ceiling.

“Break it,” Fallon said.

He put a knee against the door, tried to push away, and Dunleavy twisted the arm higher. The pain brought him onto his toes. Dunleavy leaned into him.

“There’s a lesson for you here, partner,” he said softly. “Never swing on someone unless you’re sure you can take him out.”

“Do it,” Fallon said.

Dunleavy let go of his hair. Harry felt him shift his grip, one hand around his wrist, the other at the elbow.

“Mickey …” he started to say, and then the elbow went up, hard, and a feeling like electricity surged through his arm. Water rushed into his eyes.

“That’s my interest,” Fallon said.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, drew deep breaths. Slowly, Dunleavy eased the pressure on his arm. It felt loose, limp.

“Turn him around,” Fallon said. “Hold him up.”

Dunleavy wheeled him around. He tried to pull away, and Dunleavy twisted his arm again as if he were wringing a towel. The pain ripped the breath out of him. His knees sagged.

“I should have done that myself,” Fallon said. He pulled the tie from around his neck, began to wrap it around the knuckles of his right hand. Harry watched as he moved closer. “Hold him good.”

He put the fingertips of his left hand on Harry’s chest, as if measuring the distance.

“That was for interfering in my business,” he said. “This is for my wife.”

His fist blurred in the air. Harry felt his nose give way, the pain a sunburst behind his eyes. They fell back against the door with the force of it, Dunleavy still holding him tight. Harry kicked out instinctively, aiming for the groin, but Fallon stepped inside it, caught the kick on his thigh. He cursed, drew back, and Harry spit blood at him, saw it spot his shirt.

The fist filled his vision again. His head snapped to the side and he felt something wet leave his mouth and fly off. The lights in the room dimmed.

“Break your hand like that,” Dunleavy said.

“Let him go.”

Dunleavy pushed him away and Harry took two lunging steps and went down, cold concrete under him. He fell onto his side, saw Fallon above him, shaking his right hand, flexing the fingers. Fallon drew a deep breath and Harry saw what was coming, but not quick enough, and the toe of the shoe hit him hard above the left eye. He tried to cover up, to protect his head, but his left arm wouldn’t respond. The second kick, solid into the midsection, stole his breath. Hot fluid rose in his mouth and spilled from his lips. He tried to curl up, take the kicks on his arms, his elbows, his legs, but Fallon was aiming them now, taking his time, and the hard heels and toes were getting through, thumping into his sides, his armpits, the sides of his face. He pulled his knees toward his head, and finally the blows slowed and stopped.

He could hear heavy breathing above him. Fallon spit and Harry felt the wetness on his face.

“You go near her again and I’ll cut your fucking throat. Do you understand?”

Harry opened his mouth, gulped air. Fallon kicked him again in the ribs, weaker this time.

“And I’ll do your friend and his cunt wife for the hell of it. Do you understand? Answer me, you fuck.”

Harry coughed, trying to clear the fluid from his throat.

“Take the pictures,” Fallon said.

Harry was aware of Dunleavy beside him. There was a flash that blinded him, then a whir. He tried to bring his right hand up to cover his face, but Fallon put a foot on his wrist, pinned it against the concrete. The camera flashed and whirred twice more, and the rest of the room seemed to grow dim around it.

“Get a couple more,” Fallon said.

More flashes. Fallon took his foot away.

“Now get the fuck out,” he said.

Harry tried to move, slowly. He looked back toward the door.

“Out,” Fallon said.

He pushed the floor away, crabbed toward the door, the sides of his boots slipping on the smooth concrete. He heard Dunleavy’s voice.

“Think about what I said, Eddie. Come all this way, we might as well finish it.”

He pushed closer to the door, looked up and saw a pattern of tiny blood droplets across the wood.

“That piece of shit’s not worth it,” Fallon said.

Dunleavy’s feet moved aside. The door opened wide.

He was getting air now, but every breath brought pain. He slid over the bump of the doorway and into the outer room, the floor seeming to tilt away beneath him. There was a drain in the center of it and he took that as his target, crawled toward it. Then there were legs in front of him, barring his way. He looked up, saw Wiley standing there.

“Hey,
poliziotto
,” a familiar voice said from behind him. “You’re a mess.”

He turned and the heavy man was there, Tommy alongside him.

Wiley leaned down, caught his right wrist, slid his other hand beneath his left arm.

“Come on.” he said. “Get up.”

He didn’t have the strength to pull away. He got his feet under him and Wiley helped him up, slowly. He couldn’t see from his left eye, and his right was blurring in and out of focus. He leaned against Wiley until he was steady.

“Having a hard time standing up straight, huh?” Wiley said.

He looked at the open fire door, the alley beyond. He took a step toward it, wobbled. Wiley caught the sleeve of his windbreaker, held him up.

“Where you think you’re going?” he said.

Harry pulled away, felt the hand catch his jacket again.

“Turn around. Look at me.”

He tried to lunge toward the door, but his legs were loose, drunken.

“Look at me.”

He turned then, saw the fist rising toward him. But he never felt it.

The thunder woke him. He felt it in the ground beneath him, more vibration than sound. There was a drop of wetness on his face, thick and warm as crankcase oil, then another. A second rumble of thunder, closer now, more drops. He blinked, opened his eyes.

He was on hard blacktop, the bulk of a car in front of him. It took him a moment to realize it was the Mustang. He rolled onto his side, triggered a spasm of pain that forced him to lie still again until it faded. His left arm was limp beneath him.

Thunder cracked, almost directly above him now, and the rain came down. He rolled onto his stomach, got his knees under him. He put his right hand against the car, waited like that, the rain bouncing off his hunched shoulders, until the world stopped spinning.

He slowly got to his feet, using the side of the car for support. Rain was moving in sheets across the parking lot now, illuminated by the pole lamps. The club was dark.

He slid around to the driver’s side, pulled the keys from his jeans pocket, dropped them. When he bent to pick them up, a wave of nausea rolled through him. His stomach clenched and he threw up, thin and watery, onto the blacktop. He got the keys, straightened, saw the spiderweb crack in the driver’s side window, the dent in the door, a footprint in the center of it.

He fumbled the door open, slumped into the seat, had to reach across with his right hand to close the door, lock it. After three tries, he got the key into the ignition, started the engine.

Twice on the way, he felt himself losing consciousness, the lights of oncoming traffic blurring in front of him. Each time horns blared and he had to drag the wheel back to the right.

When he got off Route Nine, he drove slowly, looking at street signs. He got lost twice before he found the right one. He pulled into Ray’s driveway, saw his Toyota Camry parked nose first against the garage door. He shut off the engine, closed his eyes, and felt himself drift. He woke with his head against the steering wheel, Ray standing outside in the rain, tapping on the window.

Harry tried to smile. He unlocked the door, felt it pulled open, and then he tumbled sideways out of the car. Ray caught him, lowered him to the ground. There was no pain now, no nausea. He looked up into the falling rain, felt it on his face. He closed his eyes.

The nurse’s name was Elita. He read her name tag as she leaned over to check the IV needle on the back of his right hand. She was thirtyish, Hispanic, and pretty. She smelled of sandalwood. He tried to tell her this, but his throat was too dry, his lips too swollen.

“Try not to move around too much,” she said, “or you’ll pull the needle out. I’ll be back in a little while to give you something to help you sleep.”

Locked in silence, he nodded, watched her walk away, then looked out the window. A gray morning outside, rain still streaking the glass.

“You look like hell,” Ray said from his chair at the foot of the bed. “Not that you were ever pretty.”

His face felt swollen, hard. The cast lay like a dead weight across his stomach, thick plaster that reached almost to his wrist. He touched his nose with his right hand, careful not to dislodge the needle. His nostrils were packed with cotton, a strip of heavy surgical tape across the bridge.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Ray said. “Edda thought you were dead.”

Harry gestured at the plastic glass of water on the rolling table beside the bed. Ray got up and brought it to him. He sucked on the straw, cool liquid filling his mouth. He coughed once, water dribbling onto his chin, and Ray took the glass away.

“You’re lucky they had a room open,” he said, “or you’d still be down in the ward sleeping in the hall. It took a while, but I managed to talk them into moving you.”

“Thanks.” His voice was hoarse, low. He leaned toward the glass, sipped more water, felt it soothe his throat.

“Where am I?” he managed.

“St. Peter’s in New Brunswick. It was closest.”

“I don’t …” he said and coughed.

“Easy.” Ray brought the glass closer and he drank again, waited a moment before speaking.

“I don’t have any insurance.”

“All full-time employees of RW Security get a benefits package, including hospitalization. You’ve been one for about four hours now. And when you get out of here, I’ve got a private doctor for the follow-ups.”

“I’m causing you a lot of trouble.”

“You’ll be out tomorrow. They just want to keep you for the night for observation, do a couple more tests, a CAT scan.” He dragged his chair over, sat down. “You want the full damage report?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got a dislocated elbow, which you probably already know. Plus a broken nose and a mild concussion. A lot of bruises too, but it doesn’t look like there’s any internal damage. If you start pissing blood, let somebody know.”

“I will.”

“So are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I delivered the rest of the money to Fallon last night. It was a setup.”

“Where?”

“Club he owns in Sayreville.”

“You went alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Stupid.”

“Maybe.”

“You should have called me.”

“There was no reason to. We’d worked it all out.”

“I can see that. Was Fallon there?”

He nodded.

“Who else?”

“Wiley, Dunleavy. Two others. Andelli’s people, maybe. I’d seen them before.”

“Those two get in on it?”

“Not while I was conscious, at least.”

“You’re lucky you’re not in a coma. Or dead. I think we need to get some other people involved here.”

“No.”

“Then you better come up with a story to tell the resident who treated you, because he’s going to want one, and I’m not much for lying. He wanted to call the New Brunswick cops when we got here, but I put him off until I could talk to you.”

“Tell him I fell down the stairs.”

“Original.”

He held out the glass again and Harry raised himself enough to reach the straw. He drained the water, settled back against the pillows.

“You should get some rest now,” Ray said. “I’ll see if I can find that nurse.”

Harry nodded, eyelids fluttering, sleepy. He felt as if he were sinking deeper into the bed.

Ray stopped at the door, turned.

“I don’t know if it means anything to you,” he said. “But I want you to know that, one way or another, this gets squared. There’s no way it doesn’t. Whether it’s by me or by the locals, it gets squared. Bet on it.”