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Authors: Wallace Stroby

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BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
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“Maybe.”
“Up here?”
“Looks like it.”
“And he's hooked up with Joey again?”
“I don't know that.”
Salerno nodded.
“Thanks for passing this on. I'll look into it. So where's your client fit into all this?”
Harry raised his hands, dropped them.
“Can't tell me, huh? I figured that. Had to ask, though.”
“I know.”
“I'll say this, though, as far as Tony Acuna is concerned …”
“Yes?”
“He may be an old man, but he's still got a few teeth left in his head. He wouldn't be happy about Joey Alea stirring up the pot, making muscle moves, if that's what's going on. And yeah, he's kept the peace for many years, run his operation with a minimum of drama, but he's not a guy to fuck with. Even now. You ever hear the story about the guys who robbed his house?”
“No.”
“Well, this goes back about ten years now. Not that long, really. Tony had some contractors working on his house in Holmdel, doing some plumbing, putting in a new bathroom downstairs, whatever. So apparently, the contractors are in the basement and they come across a safe, set right into the concrete floor, covered up by a humidifier or something. All this is just kind of pieced together after the fact, by the way. We never got the whole story.”
“I understand. Go on.”
“So one of the contractors tells some friends he found Tony Acuna's safe, loaded, no doubt, with diamonds and cash and heroin or whatever the fuck they thought they were going to find in there. And he tells them he can get them in the house, because he's there all the time doing work and has to shut the security system off, so he knows how to deactivate it … Like I said, this is all conjecture.”
“Got it.”
“These guys—a real group of white-trash losers, petty housebreakers—decide this is going to be the score of their lives. So, two weeks after the contractors are done, Tony's got his new bathroom, he and his wife are away for the week. They come home and the house has been broken into,
alarm turned off, and the safe is popped, contents missing.
“What I heard later was there were three of them did the actual job, plus the contractor who set it up. The contractor—a guy named Hurst—disappears like two days later. No one can find him, he just stops showing up for work. His girlfriend reports him missing, nobody knows a thing. Some people thought he just got smart, hit the road. But less than a week later, two of the other guys end up in the back of a shipping container in Kearney, burns on their hands and faces—an acetylene torch, likely—and two each in the back of the head.
“So the last guy tries to make a deal—he'll give everything back, pay up an extra fifty K and leave the state if they just let him go.”
“What was in the safe?”
“What I heard was some jewelry, not much. Family things, heirlooms. Apparently Tony'd been keeping them there because he was worried about the G coming in with a search warrant someday, taking that stuff with everything else, make him fight to get it back. Probably not worth a whole lot moneywise. Sentimental value, though, who knows?
“So this last guy gets in contact with one of Tony's people, says he has everything in hand, nothing's been sold, and let's work out a deal. Tony gives the go-ahead—he wants the stuff back. So the guy turns over the fifty K—who knows how many other people he had to rob to raise that—and he ends up getting a personal audience with Tony at some warehouse somewhere. He hands back the stuff and Tony tells him, sure, a deal's a deal. He can go wherever, they won't bother him. He can go to California tomorrow if he wants—but his dick has to stay in New Jersey.”
“What?”
“That's the deal they gave him. Lose your dick or your life. If he lets them take it, they won't touch him again. He's free to go. If he doesn't, he's dead. Because one way or another, he becomes a message. So the question is, does he want to be alive or dead at the end of that message?”
“What happened?”
“What would you choose? You got a guy with a Skilsaw on one side of you, guy with a thirty-eight on the other?”
“Is there much difference?”
“Depends how certain you are you're going to die, I guess. He must have been pretty certain. He let them take it off with a power saw, halfway down the shaft. Then they put a tourniquet on him, dropped him off at the hospital. He lived, poor bastard. And Tony kept his word. He never went after him. The guy—his name was Warren, Jimmy Warren—spent a month in the hospital and then fled for points unknown, as they say.”
“And the first guy, Hurst?”
“He ends up on a roadside in Sussex County, out in the sticks, two in the head. They held him that whole time, to find out about the others, then popped him when they were done with him. Nice story, huh?”
“And you said you liked this man.”
“That's the odd thing. I do. Aside from those four fuck-ups, I could count on two hands the guys Tony's had whacked in his entire career as boss. He was always the Great Negotiator, always trying to bring warring parties to the table. He was a little like Angelo Bruno down in Philly, but unlike Bruno, he managed to stay alive. And he kept a lot of people from being taken out, spoke up for them. Because his word was respected and he knew blood on the streets was no good for business. But with the robbery, that was a very public thing. So the response had to be equally public. It was a matter of honor. And he can be a cold son of a bitch when he needs to, even now.”
“Sounds like. So what you're telling me is, aside from that, his tenure has been a model of efficiency?”
“To a certain extent. Which has made it twice as hard to get him. And at this point, you know something? We're never going to get him. And he knows that. But his days are over, and he knows that too. He just wants to drink wine, sit in the sun, play with his grandchildren. He's been going back to Italy a lot in the last few years, back to Calabria. My feeling? He's getting ready to die.”
“And the nephew?”
“Who knows? Maybe Tony still feels guilty enough about what happened to Sam that he lets the kid have his leash. I don't know. Maybe he just doesn't care anymore. But Tony's worked his whole life to get to the point where he is right now—alive and free and enjoying the fruits of his labor, as it were. And if the kid even comes close to fucking that up, there's going to be trouble.”
Harry nodded, looked out the window onto the empty expanse of Broad Street. A police car flew by, lights flashing, siren fading as it headed across town.
“Thanks,” he said finally. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me.”
“No problem. Let me know how things work out with your client. And if it gets serious, you need to come back and see me. But you know that already, right?”
“Yes, I know. And I will. Thanks.”
He nodded at the box.
“You need a hand with those things?”
Salerno looked at it.
“Nah. I'm going to sit here a little while with them, I think. I'm supposed to take them up to his ex-wife in Little Falls. But it's strange. I'm in here sometimes and I think I hear his voice in the hall. I expect him to come walking in. It's like this stuff is the last of him, you know? Two weeks, maybe less, there'll be someone else at this desk, somebody else's pictures on the wall.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Thanks. And tell Ray he should give me a call. He still play ball?”
“Not too much these days, I don't think. Knees.”
“Well, tell him to lose some goddamn weight. I can't have friends checking out on me right and left. There aren't enough to go around.”
Tuco drove. They rode in a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows, made good time down the Parkway and into the Pine Barrens. The sky had cleared and the moon was a cold blue circle. They pulled into a rest stop outside Atlantic City and Johnny used a pay phone to call Lindell's cell.
“What's the word?” Johnny said. His breath frosted in the air.
“Where are you?”
“Near AC. We're turning west, should be there in about an hour, less if we can find the place easily enough. The moon will help.”
There was a pause as Lindell covered the mouthpiece, spoke to someone else. They would be together, Joey and Lindell, waiting to get the call that said everything had gone all right. Or that it hadn't. Or waiting to get no call at all, and knowing what that meant as well.
“He says go ahead. Call when you get clear. And be careful.”
“We will,” Johnny said and hung up.
He climbed back into the Explorer, pulled the door shut.
“Let's go,” he said.
Forty minutes later, they pulled down a dirt road wide enough for only a single vehicle, the woods dark around them. Ahead, a wooden fence blocked the road, red emergency reflectors set into the wood. Their headlights lit up the snow and bare trees beyond. Tuco slowed to a stop.
“Kill the lights,” Johnny said.
The darkness fell around them. Tuco left the engine running.
Johnny turned on the dome light, spread the hand-drawn map on the dashboard.
“There's a trail out there,” he said. “Straight ahead. We'll follow it, bear to the west. Supposed to be reflectors in the trees, every couple hundred yards or so. That's how we'll know we're on the path. A mile and a half in and we should be able to see the first signs of the lab, if it's still there. Smell it too.”
“How do we know that map's right? We could be out there for hours, walking around in the snow. Freeze our ass off.”
“Only one way to find out.”
He watched a bead of sweat creep out of Tuco's hairline, roll down the side of his face. Tuco wore a flannel shirt buttoned up to the neck
chulo
style, jeans and snowboots, black gloves. Johnny wore his own boots and jacket, cheap cotton work gloves he'd bought at a convenience store.
“You okay?” Johnny said.
“I'm okay. Worry about yourself, homes.”
“Then shut it down. Let's get moving.”
Tuco turned the ignition off. They got out, boots crunching in the snow. Tuco used the keypad to unlock the back hatch. It rose slightly.
Johnny pushed it all the way up, pulled away a blanket to expose the wheel well. Inside was a black nylon gym bag. Johnny unzipped it, took out the two Mini Mag flashlights, high-intensity bulbs in black aluminum tubes. He twisted one on, played the light over the contents of the bag. He handed the other to Tuco, who put it in a pocket without checking it.
Johnny put the cold metal of the flashlight between his teeth to free his hands. He took out the Mossberg shotgun with the pistol grip and folding stock, handed it over. Tuco grunted, took it. Johnny gave him the box of shells that went with it. Tuco pointed the muzzle at the ground, opened the box and began to thumb shells into the receiver. When the magazine was full, he pushed the rest of the shells into the right-hand pocket of his parka, dropped the box in the snow.
There were four sticks of dynamite in the bag. He wondered where Joey had gotten them. With them was a metal box containing blasting caps and fuses, a small chamois pouch. He opened the pouch. Inside was the flat black Aurora silencer he'd asked for, barely three inches long. He rolled it into his hand, reached under his jacket and took the Sig out of his belt. Tuco watched while he threaded the silencer into the barrel. When it was tight, he put the gun in the right pocket of his field jacket.
He rooted in the bag, came up with two small illuminated compasses, a pair of green ski masks. He handed over a compass and a mask, took the flashlight from his mouth. Tuco looked at the compass.
“In case we get separated,” Johnny said. He zipped the bag back up, pulled it out. Tuco leaned the shotgun against the bumper, began to pull the mask on.
“Wait on that,” Johnny said.
“Why? It's cold.”
“You're going to have a hard enough time seeing as it is. Put it on when we get there.”
Tuco looked at him, then wadded the mask up, pushed it into the pocket with the compass. Johnny swung the hatch shut. The doors clicked as Tuco locked them.
Johnny took the Sig out again, pointed it at the ground, worked the slide. Then he lowered the hammer, ejected the clip. He took a loose shell from his left jacket pocket, rubbed it free of lint, pushed it into the clip to replace the one he'd chambered. Then he slid the clip home again.
“You ready?” he said.
“Just waiting on you, homes,” Tuco said and picked up the shotgun.
Johnny slid the Sig back into his pocket, hefted the bag.
“Let's go,” he said.
They walked for fifteen minutes, the pinpoint beams of the Mags lighting up the ground in front of them, before they found the first reflector. It was a simple lens from a car's brake light, nailed into the trunk of a scrubby pine tree.
Johnny took the compass out, checked to make sure they were still facing west.
“This is the way,” he said.
“You sure of that?”
Johnny didn't answer, kept going, his boots breaking through the crust of snow. Every few minutes he would stop, play the light across the snow around him, looking for other footprints. Nothing.
Cold and silence fell around them as they walked. Tuco's breathing got heavier, his feet scuffing in the snow. Johnny had slung the nylon bag over his shoulder to keep his hands free, could feel the dynamite sticks bouncing off his back with each step.
Five minutes later, they found the next reflector. Johnny stopped. He could feel the adrenaline working inside him now, the slow and steady beating of his own heart. His mind was clear. He didn't feel the cold.
“What's up?” Tuco said and Johnny raised a hand to silence him. He twisted his own light off, waited for Tuco to do the same.
“Follow me,” Johnny said in a low voice. “Don't use your light.”
They moved forward again, the trees thinner here, moonlight shining off the snow. He could see the path clearly now, even without the reflectors to follow. He stopped again, listened. Faint at first, then clearer. The distant thump of a generator.
He put the flashlight in his pocket, took out the Sig, held it loosely in his right hand, muzzle pointing at the ground. He moved forward slowly, knowing noise would be a factor now, flicked the safety off.
Another five minutes of walking and the sound was louder, unmistakable. He could smell gasoline. A cloud passed over the moon and dropped them into darkness. He stopped, felt Tuco bump into him from behind. He waited, and after a moment the cloud was gone and the moon lit their path again. They went on.
Ahead, the glow of a light. He stopped, listened, heard faint voices.
There was a gentle downhill slope ahead. Johnny motioned Tuco to stay where he was. He moved closer, watching his step.
At the rim of the slope, he stepped behind a tree, looked down. There were two shacks laid out in an L in a clearing below, plywood and tar paper with corrugated metal roofs. There was light coming from the nearest one, illuminating the snow around it. Beside the shack, a gasoline generator chugged irregularly. Alongside it were two fifty-five-gallon drums. He could smell the generator exhaust and a harsher chemical odor that made his eyes water. He blinked it away, eased around the tree to see what was beyond the shacks.
There was an outhouse there, slapped together with boards and canted drunkenly to the left. Near it, a motorcycle and pickup were parked side by side. There would have to be a road from the west, he knew, so that equipment and vehicles could be moved in and out. The footpath they had come in on would be an escape route only.
He waited, watched. Figures moved in the lighted shack, threw shadows on the snow. He heard voices again, then a back door opened. A big, bearded man in a leather vest with a blue bandanna on his head came out, stood next to the pickup and urinated loudly into the snow. He zipped up and went back inside.
Johnny eased the bag off his shoulder, set it at the base of the tree. He retraced his steps, found Tuco standing on the path with the shotgun at port arms. He came up close to him before speaking, his voice low.
“Two huts. At least two people inside, maybe more.”
Tuco nodded.
“I'm going to find another way down the slope,” Johnny said. “You move up to that tree there, wait for anybody trying to run out the back.”
Tuco shook his head.
“What?” Johnny said.
“Joey says I shouldn't go in. Said I should watch your back, but not get into it.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“No, homes. Way it is. You're the fucking ninja anyway, right? He told me not to go, so I'm not going.”
Johnny looked at him.
“That prick …” he said.
“Shouldn't call him that, homes. He'd be angry if he knew.”
Johnny shook his head slowly, looked back toward the clearing.
“I'll be right here,” Tuco said. “Watching your back. Like the man said.”
“Good,” Johnny said. “You stay right there. And don't you fucking move.”
Tuco said nothing. Johnny gave him a last look, then moved back to the slope.
More shadows on the snow below, voices. He began to make his way to the right through the trees, stepping carefully over frozen roots that had pulled from the ground. The longer shack was dark, with a row of windows. He could hear voices clearly now from the front one, could see the flickering blue glow of a television through a curtained window.
He started quietly down the slope, boots sliding in the snow, his eyes on the lit windows. At the bottom, he stopped, pulled the ski mask on, adjusted it so he could see clearly.
He went to the dark shack first, shone the Mag-light through the window. There were cheap canvas curtains inside, but enough of a gap that he could see most of the room. He walked the beam of light across the floor, saw the tables laid end to end, the beakers and paint masks and cans of denatured alcohol atop them.
Beyond were the plastic vats, six of them. Even through the glass he could smell the sting of the chemicals. He raised the beam, bounced it off the back wall. There were exhaust fans built into the windows there, a fire extinguisher propped in a corner.
He shut the light off, slipped it back in his pocket, moved
along the wall of the shack until he reached the corner. He switched the Sig to his left hand, flexed the fingers of his right to loosen them.
There were voices from the other shack, close. The rear door opened again, spilled light onto the vehicles and the outhouse. A second man, bald, wearing an identical leather vest over a rebel flag T-shirt, stood in the doorway. He tossed a beer can into the darkness, unzipped his pants.
“Do that shit out in the yard,” a voice said from inside. “I don't want to be slipping on your frozen piss in the morning.”
The biker laughed.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“And close the fucking door.”
The biker spit on the ground, pulled the door shut, walked out into the yard, pants still unzipped. He went up to the outhouse and began to urinate against it, the stream smoking in the cold.
With the moon, Johnny could see as if by daylight. He switched the Sig back to his right hand, felt the adrenaline, the tightening in his groin, the thrill almost sexual. He stepped away from the corner, silently crossed the distance between them, the Sig coming up as if on its own. At the last moment, his right boot snapped something beneath the snow and the biker turned quickly to face him, looked into the muzzle of the silencer.
The Sig made a whooshing
chug
and blood spattered the outhouse wall, steamed there. The biker fell hard onto his side on the frozen ground. Johnny pinned him with a boot, leaned over, picked a spot behind his right ear and fired again. The biker shivered and lay still.
He pointed the Sig at the closed back door, waiting for someone to come out. When no one did, he flicked the safety on, put the gun back in his jacket. He stepped over the widening patch of red snow, caught the biker by both wrists and dragged him around and behind the outhouse, left him slumped there.
He counted to ten, catching his breath, then stepped out from the cover of the outhouse. He could still hear the TV.
His breath misted in front of him as he took the Sig out, crossed the yard.
BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
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