The Heartbreak Lounge (14 page)

Authors: Wallace Stroby

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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“Considerate of him. What happened?”

“He only told me part of it afterward. But I read it in the
Asbury Park Press
the next day. He left one of them in a coma.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“You sound like my shrink. Is this going to cost me one-fifty an hour?”

“Like I said, just curious.”

“It made me feel a lot of things. It scared me, and maybe made me feel a little sorry for those two men. But I didn't have to be frightened of them anymore either. I was terrified of them and then one day they were gone and they never came back. How do you think it made me feel?”

“Nothing came of it?”

She shook her head.

“He said they wouldn't go to the police. That they knew better. And he was right.”

“Because if they did â¦”

“He'd kill them.”

He let that hang in the air.

“And had he?” he said.

“What?”

“Killed anyone? That you know of?”

“I never asked him. But there were times â¦” She looked away, then back at him.

“So he did?”

“Do I think he did? Yes. Did I want to know about it? No.”

“Did you know he'd been in prison?”

“I suspected. Later, he told me. I can't say I was surprised.”

“Is that where he got the tattoo?” He touched his chest.

She shook her head.

“Johnny would never let one of those prison artists touch him. He got that done in Asbury. I got one myself that same night. It felt like a bond, you know? A promise. Like I said, I was just a kid.”

“Why did he go to Florida?”

“I don't know all of it. I only know what he was convicted of.”

“He was working for someone, wasn't he? He wasn't down there on his own.”

The waitress came back with the coffeepot, saw they hadn't touched their cups, went away again.

“Have you ever heard of Joey Alea?” she said.

He shook his head.

“He's from North Jersey. His uncle was some big mob boss up there back in the day. Joey owned a bunch of places. Had a piece of the Heartbreak. That's how Johnny got to know him. Then he started doing some work for him, here and there.”

“What kind of work?”

“What do you think?”

He sipped coffee, waited.

“All I knew, there was some guy down there owed Joey money. He'd been up here a couple times, at the Heartbreak. A loudmouth, couldn't keep his hands off the girls. I think he owned a club down in West Palm. One night, he and Joey had a screaming fight in the back room at the Heartbreak. Then he left.”

“And Harrow went after him.”

“Not until a month or so afterward. I'd just found out I was pregnant. I was still dancing, counting the days until I stopped. We were living together by that point. Then one morning Johnny told me he had to go down to Florida for a couple days, nothing big. But I had a bad feeling about it. I asked him not to go, for me, for the baby. He went anyway. I never saw him again.”

“So you don't know what happened down there?”

“Only what I read. The club owner was involved with the FBI, some sting or something down there. A drug thing. They had agents working undercover at his club. Nothing to do with Johnny or Joey or anyone up here. It was just bad luck. Three days after he left, I got a call that he'd been arrested, charged with attempted murder, assault. On the day he was sentenced, I went into labor.”

“How well did you know this Joey Alea?”

“Well enough, I guess. I worked for him. He's the one that hooked me up with some people in L.A., to get me started out there. He said he was doing me a favor. That's not the way it turned out.”

He let that sit.

“He know you're back?”

“Not as far as I know. But I've had no contact with himâor that worldâsince I've been here, thank God. I'd like to think that part of my life is over.”

He sat back, pulled an earlobe, trying to put it all together in his mind.

“You have friends?” he said. “Back then?”

“One or two. Why?”

“Any of them still around?”

“Maybe.”

“I was thinking what we need is an early warning system. If Harrow was back in this area, asking around, he'd start with people you knew. We can talk to them, see if they've heard from him. Chances are he would have gone back to the Heartbreak at some point too.”

“There's only one person from those days I kept in touch with after I left,” she said. “And I haven't even done that in a couple years. She was in Jersey at least until then. I know that. She danced at the Heartbreak too. She might still be around.”

“Can you give me her name, the last address you had for her?”

“I can do that.”

He gathered up the papers. The waitress saw them, came back and left the check at his elbow. He got his wallet out.

“You're different,” she said.

He took a five out, looked at her.

“Than what?”

“Than the way I thought you were when we met.”

“We didn't quite get off on the right foot.”

“No, we didn't. And it was my fault as much as yours. I'm sorry.”

“Forget about it. There's one thing I agree with Simmons on, though.”

“What's that?”

“Even if Harrow's looking for the boy, the chances he could find himâthat he could navigate that system and come up with a name and addressâare pretty slim. He doesn't have those types of resources.”

“But Simmons does. And if Johnny got ahold of Simmons, it wouldn't take him long to find out everything he wanted to know, to get him to look up whatever he wants him to look up.”

“Maybe you're giving him too much credit.”

“Maybe I am. But you don't know him.”

“I'll take your word for it. He have any family up here?”

“A brother, half brother, really. Mitchell. He might still be around, I don't know. He had a younger sister too, Belinda. But she died in a car accident while he was in Rahway. They wouldn't let him go to the funeral.”

“Parents?”

“His mother's been dead a long time. He had a stepfather, but I don't know if he's still alive.”

“That would be Mitchell's real father?”

“No. Mitchell and Johnny grew up together, but their mother remarried when they were kids. Johnny never spoke much about it, so I don't think I ever got the whole story. But I don't think Johnny or Mitchell ever knew their real fathers.”

“Mitchell older or younger?”

“Younger. I didn't know him well.”

“They get along?”

“As far as I could tell. I think Mitchell always looked up to him.”

“I guess what I'm wondering is, even if he did find out where the boy was, what would be the purpose? What's he going to do, kidnap him? Go on the lam with a seven-year-old in tow? It doesn't make any sense.”

“I don't know. But I don't want to just wait around to find out either. Giving my baby away was the most painful thing I've ever done in my life. But it was the best thing too, and the only thing I've done in the last twenty years that I'm even slightly proud of. I gave him a chance to grow up and live a life without people like his father around him. And I won't have that threatened. I won't let anyone take that chance away from him.”

He looked into her eyes. She didn't look away.

“Come on,” he said. “I'll give you a lift home.”

“No, I can walk from here. It's only a couple blocks.”

“It's cold.”

“I'll be fine.”

He paid at the register and they pulled on their coats and went out into the darkening afternoon. The trees on Main Avenue were strung with Christmas lights, already glowing. The Mustang was parked up the street, outside another restaurant, in front of which a white-haired man, bundled against the cold, was playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on a saxophone. A handful of people stood around listening to him. The open instrument case at his feet was half-full of bills.

Harry stood on the sidewalk, people moving around him, and watched her walk away. Then she turned at the corner and was gone.

He got the Mustang keys out, dropped a five into the saxophone case. The man nodded at him, never stopped playing. As he pulled away, the street lamps started to go on, one by one, as if lighting his way.

When the phone rang in the motel room, Johnny was cleaning the Sig on the bureau top. He had a sheet of newspaper spread out, the gun's disassembled parts gleaming with oil. He'd bought a cleaning kit and a can of gun oil at a sporting goods shop that afternoon, along with a Buck knife with a five-inch blade.

He wiped his hands on a rag, picked up the phone. It was Lindell.

“Yo, Johnny Boy. We need to talk, man.”

He pinned the phone between shoulder and chin, wiped oil from his fingers.

“Who's we?” he said.

“You, me and the J Man.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Soon as possible. Some shit went down today needs to be discussed.”

Johnny looked at his watch. It was four-thirty.

“Where?”

“Find a pay phone, ring my cell. I'll let you know.”

“What's going on?”

“Phone's not cool, bro. We'll talk later, fill you in.” He hung up.

Johnny replaced the receiver, went back to the Sig. He finished cleaning the barrel with the push brush, then began to fit the pieces back together, snick them into place. When he was done, he shook the box of cartridges onto the newspaper, felt each individual shell for imperfections. He loaded one of the clips, thirteen rounds, slid it into the grip of the weapon until it locked in place. He racked the slide, felt the
shell chamber, the mechanism working smoothly. He lowered the hammer.

Out on the balcony, he lit a cigarette, watched the gray waves. The wind pulled at him. He looked across at the darkened boardwalk, the gutted carousel house of the Casino. Somewhere, a loose drainpipe rattled and banged. He thought about Frazer.

After a while, he flicked the cigarette away, went back through the sliding glass door, shut it behind him. He got the Sig from the bureau top, sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the phone into his lap. He felt in his pocket for the slip of paper, touched the rabbit's foot. He'd forgotten it was there. He pulled it out, turned it over in his hand. Wind shook the sliding glass door.

He put the rabbit's foot down, picked up the Sig. He ejected the clip, worked the slide again. The chambered shell popped out of the breech, fell on the sheets. He let the slide clack home, the hammer up.

He looked at the rabbit's foot, then snugged the Sig's muzzle into the soft skin beneath his chin. His index finger slid over the trigger, felt the pull. He could smell the fresh oil.

He closed his eyes, imagined the path of the bullet. Up through his jaw, his tongue, the roof of his mouth. Then exploding through his sinuses, up into his brain and out. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell dryly on the firing pin.

He sat that way for a while, his eyes closed, then took the gun away, set it on the sheet beside the rabbit's foot. His hand was slick with sweat.

He picked up the phone again, dialed the number, punched in his own and hung up. Five minutes later, while he was rinsing his face at the rust-stained bathroom sink, the phone rang.

He dropped the wet towel on the bed, picked up the receiver.

“What've you got?” the voice said.

“Meeting tonight.”

“Again? So soon?”

“Something's up. I don't know what.”

“Who? Where?”

“Lindell, Joey, maybe the others. Don't know where yet. I'm supposed to call later, find out.”

“No clue what it's about?”

“Probably just some bullshit.”

“Maybe not. You've got time. Come by here, we'll gear you up.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not? We could be wasting an opportunity here. Take five minutes to get you set up.”

“Too soon. He's still wary. We could blow the whole thing.”

“When then?”

“Next time maybe.”

“Don't dick me around, John.”

“No one's dicking you around.”

“We had all this straight down in Florida. That's why I got you out of that shithole. You want to be back there tomorrow? I can arrange it.”

“Don't threaten me.”

“Then don't fuck around.”

“I know what our arrangement is. But I have to run it the way I see it, or neither of us is going to get what they want. I'll let you know when the time is right.”

“The time better be right soon.”

“What have you got on that other thing?”

“Working on it. Like I told you, it takes time. There's lots of issues involved.”

“Now who's dicking around who?”

“Don't like the way it feels, huh? Then I guess my answer to you is the same as yours to me: patience.”

“Just find him,” Johnny said and hung up.

He watched snowflakes blow against the windshield, only half listening to what Joey Alea was saying. They were in Joey's Cadillac Escalade, parked behind the office of a limo company he owned in Plainfield. Tuco was at the wheel, Johnny beside him. Lindell and Joey sat on opposite sides of
the wide leather backseat, Lindell reeking of cologne and the faint sweet scent of marijuana.

“You dreaming up there, John?” Joey said.

Johnny turned toward him.

“I heard every word you said.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think you already know what you want to do.”

Joey smiled, looked at Lindell.

“Cuts right through the shit every time, doesn't he?” he said. “That's what I missed about you, John. It's good to have you back.”

Johnny got his cigarettes out. Lindell was looking out the window, as if wishing he were somewhere else.

“No smoking in the car, homes,” Tuco said.

Johnny stopped, Camel halfway to his mouth. Tuco was facing forward, not looking at him.

“I let Denise drive this sometimes,” Joey said. “Take the kids to soccer practice. I let someone smoke in here I'd never fucking hear the end of it.”

Johnny put the cigarette back in the pack.

“Shit'll kill you,” Tuco said.

Johnny looked at him, put the pack away.

“I need your counsel here, John,” Joey said. “These are rough people. Hard-core scooter trash. I've butted heads with a couple of them in the past, but this shit today was bold.”

“How badly is your guy hurt?”

“Bad enough. Two broken arms, some cracked ribs. And his eye's all fucked up. He may lose it.”

“He use your name?”

“If he did, I guess it didn't do him much good. But I'm not worried about him. He knew the risks. There's a principle at stake here.”

“If he did say your name,” Tuco said, “shit should have been over with right there.”

“What's your history with them?” Johnny said.

“Couple years back maybe, they moved some product for me,” Joey said. “But they're unreliable, these people. And
once they started producing themselves, they didn't need me anymore. Fine. Live and let live, you know? What the fuck. It's a big market.”

“They say anything to your guy?”

“He'd just made a drop-off in Keyport,” Lindell said. “They followed him home from the bar, pushed their way in. They busted him up, took the rest of the crank and his money. Told him he best not be moving any more shit unless he was getting it from them.”

“Guy's only worked for us, what”âJoey looked at Lindellâ“two, three months? I could give a fuck. But there's a larger issue here. If I do nothing, then the next thing I know it's not just the crank they're cutting in on. It's the pot, the coke, the E maybe. These fucking guys are ruthless.”

“I thought you wanted to get away from that shit,” Johnny said.

“I doâand I will. But on my own terms, in my own time. And yeah, six months from now, I might not give a shit who moves meth and where. It'll be a fucking memory to me, and good riddance. The money's not worth the trouble. But in the meantime, I'm not going to have it taken away from me by a bunch of white-trash Neanderthals who don't even bathe.”

Johnny thought about the thirty-five thousand, how Joey had called fifteen thousand of it a retainer. It hadn't taken long.

“When and how?” he said.

“What?”

“You want to send a message, right? So it comes down to when and how.”

The snow was starting to stick. Johnny looked out the window, watched it settle on the parked limos.

“What are you thinking?” Joey said.

“How many of them? Altogether.”

“I don't know. Ten, maybe fifteen at most. They're independent.”

“You know where they operate? Their clubhouse?”

“Down South Jersey somewhere, I don't know for sure. But there's one thing I do know.”

Johnny turned to face him.

“What's that?”