The Barbed-Wire Kiss (4 page)

“Hold on.”

There was the click of a dead bolt being drawn, the door swung open, and Bobby was standing there. He wore jeans and a white pocket T-shirt. In his right hand, half hidden behind his leg, he held a gun.

“Hey,” Harry said.

“Christ, come on in, man.” Bobby stepped aside. “I was expecting you to call.”

“I felt like going for a drive. Things that bad?”

Bobby raised the pistol as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. It was a nine-millimeter Glock 26, black plastic and steel. “Getting a little paranoid these days, I guess. I’m sorry. It’s probably the last thing you want to see. Come on in, sit down.”

Bobby closed and locked the door behind him. They were in a small living room, furnished with a couch, a coffee table, and a single chair facing the television. An acoustic guitar rested against the wall.

“Janine’s taking a shower,” Bobby said. “She’ll be down in a minute. Have a seat.”

“Are you moving?”

“You mean the sign? Landlord sent us a letter last month, said he was selling. Then two days ago the realtors show up and put that sign there. We have a lease, though, so he can’t kick us out until at least October.”

Bobby sank onto the couch, set the gun on the coffee table atop a
TV Guide
. Harry took the chair, turned it, and sat down. He picked up the Glock, checked the rear safety, pointed the muzzle at the floor, and ejected the thick clip. The gun felt alien in his hand. It occurred to him that it was the first time he’d held one since the night he’d been shot.

“You have a license for this?”

“You kidding? In this state? Not a chance. I bought that in Florida last year through a buddy. That’s a five-hundred-dollar gun.”

Harry pulled the slide back to clear it, looked into the breech, sniffed.

“You’ve been doing some shooting.”

“Out at the range in Englishtown. That thing kicks pretty solid. Not much weight to it.”

“You have a spare clip?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Move the shells from clip to clip every once in a while. It keeps the springs from wearing out. Automatics jam like crazy if you don’t take care of them. You always bring it with you when you answer the door?”

“Lately, yeah.”

Harry slid the clip home again, set the gun back down.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Bobby said. “We had dinner a little while ago, but I think there’s some pasta left.”

Harry shook his head. Behind him, from the other room, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Bobby opened a drawer in the table, slid the Glock in.

“She doesn’t like to see it around,” he said.

Harry stood, turned as Janine came into the living room. She was a full head shorter than Bobby, her long brown hair wet and dark from the shower. She wore jeans and a gray Monmouth University sweatshirt, was barefoot on the carpet.

“Harry, is that really you?”

“Hey, girl.”

They met halfway, hugged. She smelled of soap and henna.

“How are you?” she said. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he said. “Things are fine. You look great.”

“We talked last night,” Bobby said to her. “I took your advice.”

Her smile faded briefly, as if she’d been reminded of something unpleasant.

“Come on,” she said. “Sit down.”

He went back to the chair and Bobby made room for her on the couch. She sat beside him, pulled her feet up under her.

“I see Bobby hasn’t been a very good host,” she said. “Would you like a beer, a glass of wine?”

“No, thanks. You go ahead.”

“Not for me,” she said. “Not anymore.”

He looked at her.

“Bobby didn’t tell you, did he?”

He shook his head.

Bobby laid a hand on her knee, squeezed.

“Janine’s pregnant,” he said.

She was smiling again.

“You look shocked. It’s hard to believe, I know, especially after all this time. I’m not sure I’m used to it myself.”

“How long?” he asked.

“Almost four months. And I’m already starting to get fat. You didn’t notice?”

He shook his head, found himself smiling.

“That’s great,” he said. “I’m happy for you.” Meaning it.

“We’d been talking about it for a while,” Bobby said. “Even so, it was kind of a surprise when it happened. But the doctor says everything’s fine so far.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not twenty-four anymore, Harry,” she said. “These things get more complicated when you’re my age. In a year or two, we might not have the option at all. So we decided, if we were going to do it, now was the time.”

“That’s terrific,” he said.

“The idea of being a father still scares the hell out of me,” Bobby said. “But I’m starting to get used to it, I think.”

“For him, that’s a bold statement of commitment,” she said.

“Hey,” Bobby said, getting up, “I want to show you something out back.” He kissed the top of Janine’s head. “We’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

“That bike’s staying right where it is,” she said.

“Whatever you say, Mom. You’re the boss.”

Harry followed him through the kitchen and out onto a weathered deck. It was almost full dark now. Bobby closed the sliding glass door behind them.

“It was her idea I talk to you,” he said. “But I think she’s still pissed at me about this whole thing. Not that she doesn’t have a right to be.”

They went down the steps into the yard. There was a corrugated tin toolshed on the side of the house, the door open. Bobby went in, pulled the chain to illuminate the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. The shed was about six feet wide and ten feet long, a homemade workbench running along one side. It was full of car and boat parts, some in oil-stained cardboard boxes, others left out on the workbench. A grass-encrusted lawn mower was pushed into one corner. The shed smelled of newly mown grass and gasoline.

“Look at this,” Bobby said. Leaning against the far wall was the frame of an old motorcycle, the front wheel missing, brown paint chipped off the tank and body. It was low-slung with dual pipes, both pitted with rust.

“It’s an old Harley Panhead,” he said. “A ’fifty-nine. I bought it from some guy for a hundred bucks. Tough getting parts for it, though. Engine’s totally shot.”

He pulled it away from the wall, straddled it, the front forks digging into the dirt. He gripped the handlebars, settled back on the cracked and worn leather seat.

“Restored, these things go for about fifteen grand,” he said. “I always wanted one when I was a kid. Janine’s convinced if I ever get it running, I’ll kill myself on it.” He swung off the bike, set it back against the wall. “Maybe she’s got a point.”

“I was unsure what to say back there. I didn’t know if you wanted to get into it with Janine there or not.”

“She knows most of it. But, no, I don’t want her worrying more about it than she already has. Especially now.”

Mosquitoes were flitting through the shed, drawn by the light. Bobby opened a shallow drawer in the workbench, took out an El Producto cigar box.

“Can’t do this in the house anymore,” he said.

He set the box on the bench, took out a rolled baggie of marijuana and a packet of E–Z Widers. He pulled one of the papers free.

“I talked to a friend about your situation,” Harry said.

Bobby looked at him.

“No specifics. I just wanted to try to find out some more about Fallon.”

“Did you?”

“Not a lot, but enough. It could be this situation isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“That’s the closest thing to good news I’ve heard in weeks. What makes you say it?”

“Fallon’s a businessman. He’s no heavy hitter. He’s looking for his money, not trouble.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Bobby said. He rolled and sealed the joint, twisted the ends shut.

“How long have you known him?” Harry said.

“Like I said, about two months. I never met him before that time Jimmy introduced us, the night we made the deal.”

He took a disposable lighter from the box, got the joint going. He puffed deep on it, the paper crisping as it burned. He held out the joint, blew smoke to the side, the acrid smell of it filling the air.

Harry took the joint, drew on it, felt the harshness fill his lungs. He restrained the urge to cough, blew the smoke out in a thin cloud, waved it away from his face.

“He doesn’t have much in the way of an arrest record,” he said. He handed the joint back. “About fifteen years ago he was indicted for attempted bribery while trying to buy a bar in North Jersey. The case never went to trial and the charges were eventually dropped. The councilman he had supposedly bribed resigned, so that ended it.”

Bobby drew on the joint, turned his head, and blew smoke at a hovering mosquito.

“Right now, he owns five places. Two nightclubs in Florida, two clubs and a restaurant up here.”

Bobby offered the joint. Harry hit on it briefly, couldn’t control the cough this time. He handed it back, his eyes watering.

“He owns all the places himself, outright. But some people think he borrowed the seed money on a couple of them from some OC guys in North Jersey.”

“OC?”

“Organized crime.”

“Fuck.”

Bobby set the joint on the edge of the workbench.

“Keep in mind, though, the fact he borrowed money from them—if he actually did—doesn’t mean he’s one of them. Chances are, any loans he took out would have been paid back long ago. In fact, it looks like the biggest trouble he’s been in was that Empire East thing.”

“What was that?”

“Happened about twelve years ago. It was a dance club he owned up in Wayne. A real meat market—deejays, strobe lights, coke in the back room, the whole deal. One Saturday night, this woman—a regular customer—complained to the bartender that some kid was trying to pick her up, wouldn’t leave her alone. The kid was nineteen, drunk, shouldn’t even have been there.”

“I think I remember this.”

“The bartender tells him to take off, but the kid’s drunk—or just stupid—enough to put up a fight and, while the bouncers are throwing him out, he takes a swing at one of them. So they bring him into a back room and take turns knocking him around—five of them. The kid’s unconscious when they finally toss him out the side door. Come closing time, he’s still lying there. So one of the bouncers calls an ambulance and tells them the kid was drunk, went outside, tripped and fell. But he never woke up. He died in the hospital two days later. Multiple skull fractures.”

A thin line of blue smoke spiraled up from the unattended joint, hung in the air between them.

“I remember reading about that,” Bobby said. “I didn’t know it was one of Fallon’s places. I never made the connection. What happened to them, the ones who beat him?”

“Not much. At first they denied everything. Fallon claimed he wasn’t even there. But once the prosecutor’s office started talking to witnesses, the whole story fell apart. Finally, they managed to squeeze one of the bouncers into testifying against the other four as part of a plea agreement. They all eventually pleaded out, involuntary manslaughter and assault charges. Only three of them did time, one of them nine months, and that was the longest sentence. Alcoholic Beverage Control came down pretty hard on Fallon, since the kid was underage to start with. It cost him a few grand in fines and he ended up paying a settlement to the kid’s family. He shut the place down for good shortly afterward.”

“And that was it?”

“After the bouncers did their time, Fallon hired them all back to work in his other places. All except the one that turned, of course. One of the ones who went to jail was Lester Wiley.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Wiley was the one who did the nine months. He testified Fallon wasn’t there that night and didn’t know anything about what had happened.”

“
Was
Fallon there?”

“Depends who you ask. The bouncer who turned said it was Fallon told them to bring the kid in the back, then stood by while they beat him. But no other witnesses could put him there and the other four all stuck to their stories. Eventually there was no way they could prove anything. Fallon said he was home that entire day and night, had a birthday party for his daughter in the afternoon and never left the house after that. If he was at the club when the kid died, he covered his tracks pretty well.”

Bobby picked up the joint, pinched it out.

“When does the good news start?” he said.

“I just wanted to let you know who you were dealing with here. But the point is, Fallon doesn’t need any more trouble. If he can find a way to work this out without any, I’m sure he’ll take it. That’s why you should give him some money as soon as possible. A preemptive strike.”

Bobby picked a fleck of cigarette paper from his lip.

“I guess in the back of my mind I was thinking there might be some other solution,” he said.

Harry shook his head. “Like I said, I think you’re facing some limited options here.”

They heard footsteps outside. Janine stepped into the light wash from the shed.

“Am I invading the boys’ club meeting out here?”

“No,” Bobby said. “It’s only when we’re in the tree house that you can’t come in.”

She moved to stand beside him.

“It reeks in here,” she said. “I should have guessed.”

“Just kicking,” Bobby said.

She looked at Harry. “So what do you think about this situation?”

“Like I was just telling Bobby, it might not be as bad as it seems.”

“Thank God if that’s true,” she said.

“I have some ideas. A couple things to look into. We’ll work this out.”

She looked at Bobby. “See? What did I tell you?”

He smiled at her. Harry slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“I have to get going,” he said. “There’s someplace I need to be.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Bobby said.

Harry hugged Janine again.

“You should come by more often, Harry,” she said. “It’s no good, spending so much time alone.”

“I’ll be around,” he said.

He left them there in the light of the shed, walked out to the street. At the car, he turned to see them outlined in the doorway, talking low. He couldn’t hear their words.