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Authors: Wallace Stroby

The Heartbreak Lounge (20 page)

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
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“When I was in California, I used to go out to the pier in Santa Monica all the time,” she said. “They had rides, games, Skee-ball. It reminded me of home. Bright lights, noise and then the ocean just going on forever. Have you ever been to California?”
“No.”
“You need to get around more.”
“Maybe.”
“It's the same feeling you get here. Of being on the edge of something. Something that doesn't end.”
“It does,” he said. “Eventually.”
“You know what I mean. When you were a kid, did you come here, to Bradley?”
“Not here. But other places like it. Long Branch mostly, where I grew up. Asbury.”
“It was so long ago. Those nights seem like a dream now.” She was looking out the window again.
“Funny,” she said, “how a memory like that, something that small, can bring so much back.”
“It's selective. We remember the good things, block out the bad.”
“No,” she said without turning. “I remember the bad too. You have to concentrate to bring back the good things, or something has to set it off. Like this place. But the bad, it's always with you.”
A gust of wind blew from the ocean, shook the car almost imperceptibly.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm babbling. But I'm not drunk. Really.”
“I didn't think you were.”
“Whenever we came to the beach, we came to Bradley. We had season badges. I'd stay in the water for hours. My mother would have to drag me out.”
“Are your parents still around?”
She shook her head.
“My mother died when I was fourteen. I never knew my father. He left after I was born.”
“You grew up on your own?”
“A foster home first. Then some relatives, my mother's cousin. I stayed with them for a while. It wasn't good. Then I ran away.”
“Why?”
“I had my reasons. Do you mind if we stay here a little while? I just want to sit.”
He shut the headlights off.
After a moment, she said, “It's not fair, is it?”
“What?”
“How all those things that happen to you as a kid, things you had no control over, how you never get out from under them, no matter what happens afterward.”
“I guess it's what you do with it that counts.”
“That's one of the things you learn in therapy. Sometimes, when you're finally able to talk about something, say its name, it loses its power over you. I learned a lot about myself, my patterns of behavior. Other people's too.”
“Good.”
“It was, for a while. The therapy, I mean.”
“What happened?”
“At the end of one of our sessions, she tried to kiss me. I let her.”
“Your therapist?”
“Yes.” She turned to him. “Are you shocked?”
“That doesn't sound very professional.”
“It wasn't. But I brought it on myself too. I guess I was giving off a certain vibe, flirting with her. I could see the effect it was having. And she knew the business I was in, so I'm sure she figured it would be a safe bet. But I think the only reason I let it happen was because the therapy had started to get a little too on-target, uncomfortable. I needed to take control of the situation again, protect myself. So that's what I did. That's what I've always done, my whole life.”
“You go back to her after that?”
“Once or twice, but it wasn't the same. So I stopped going. I'd gotten what I wanted, and after that kiss, she was no good to me anymore. I didn't respect her. Plus, three hundred dollars a week was starting to become a problem.”
“So you came back here.”
“Eventually. It was Jack that suggested it. He was done with things out there. He and Reggie wanted a quieter life, I think. So I came along. Jack was like the brother I never had.
And the only man I'd ever met, since I was fourteen, that didn't want to fuck me.”
He looked out the windshield.
“Cute,” she said. “To see you can still blush.”
“I'm glad you're amused.”
“Cut a little too close to home?”
“You don't quit, do you?”
“Sorry.” She looked back out the window. He could see she was smiling.
“Your friend Jack. How much does he know about Harrow?”
“I told him most of it. It wouldn't be fair otherwise.”
“Nice of them to want to help.”
“I know why they're helping me. Jack loves me and Reggie loves Jack. But why are you? Have you thought about that?”
“Like you said, you're paying me. It's a job.”
“I don't believe that for a minute. Not totally, anyway.”
“Believe what you like.”
“Did I offend you? I'm sorry.”
“Forget about it.”
“I know why you're helping me, though.”
“Why's that?”
“You're not that different from other men I've known. You find somebody—especially a woman—that seems to be down on their luck and you want to help them, solve their problems, save them from themselves. But it doesn't work that way. Nobody saves anybody.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Can we go now?”
“In a minute,” she said, and leaned toward him.
He turned and she cupped the back of his neck with her hand, pulled him close. He tried to get his hands up between them but then her lips were on his, her eyes closed. Her mouth opened and he could taste the sweetness of alcohol. He met her tongue with his own. His hands came up, cupped her face, and she held his wrists as they kissed, then pulled away, smiling. He was breathing shallowly, his heart racing.
“Sorry,” she said. She let go of his wrists. “I probably shouldn't have done that, should I?” She leaned back against the door, watched him. “It's just like what I was telling you. The way I deal with things.”
He watched her, saw her amusement, felt the first flush of anger.
“Are you mad at me?” she said.
He let his breath out, put the headlights on, let the brake go, shifted into reverse.
“You are, aren't you? I can tell,” she said.
“You can? Good for you. You'll be ready to open your own practice soon.”
He backed out into the street, turned toward the beach again. She put her left hand lightly on his thigh.
“I'm sorry,” she said.
He took one hand off the wheel, used it to gently ease her hand from his leg.
“Now comes the silence, right?” she said after a moment. “You don't say another word the whole way home?”
“Give me a break.”
“Take me to your house, I'll give you more than that.”
He looked at her. She looked back, not smiling.
He turned left onto Ocean Avenue, shook his head slowly.
“You sure you want to pass up this opportunity?” she said.
They swung around the long turn on Fletcher Lake, the inlet that separated Bradley and Ocean Grove. He didn't answer.
“But you will, won't you?” she said. “Because you want me to know you're different.”
He didn't answer, made the right over the bridge into Ocean Grove. After a few blocks, she said, “I ruined your night.”
“Just drop it.”
He drove by darkened houses, read street signs.
“Make a left on Beach,” she said.
He went up two blocks, turned right onto Bath, saw the house ahead. There was no Blazer outside.
“Poor Reggie,” she said. “I don't know what I'm going to tell him.”
He parked at the curb.
“I guess I should thank you,” she said. “For—”
He pulled her to him, cupped her face, kissed her, felt her sudden intake of breath. Her mouth opened and he tasted her again, his fingers in her hair. Her left hand slipped into his jacket, touched his chest. Her right slid quickly up his thigh, stroked his hardness through his jeans.
He began to undo the buttons of her car coat. His hand slid inside and she caught it, lifted it to her left breast. He cupped its warm softness, felt the nipple harden through the cloth.
She broke off the kiss, pulled away, looked at him. He felt dizzy, out of breath. She leaned back against the door.
“Well,” she said. “I wasn't expecting that.”
He looked straight ahead, tried to slow his breathing. Neither of them spoke.
“I guess,” she said after a moment, “I better go.”
He turned to her and she leaned toward him, slower this time. She kissed him lightly, then touched the line of his jaw, kissed him quickly again.
She got out of the car without a word, the cold air rushing in. She shut the door and he watched her go up the walk to the porch. Keys in hand, she looked back at him a final time, then let herself in, closed the door behind her.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, engine running, waiting for his breathing to return to normal, his heart to slow down.
Johnny watched the Honda park beneath the streetlight, snow flurries swirling down around it. Sherry got out, shouldered her bag, started up the slate walk to a three-story house with two front doors, mailboxes on the wall between them. Apartments.
He was behind the wheel of a Nissan he'd stolen an hour earlier. The plastic steering column was cracked, colored wires sticking out from where he'd pulled them loose and hot-wired them. The engine was running, the heat on low. He'd followed her from the Heartbreak to Avon, keeping as far back as he could without losing her.
He watched her go in, shut the door behind her. He smoked, waited. Snow was starting to dust the Nissan's hood. He pulled the wires apart and the engine coughed and died.
After a few minutes, the front door opened again. A skinny, long-haired girl in her early twenties came out, stood on the porch talking to Sherry, who was just inside the door. Then, while Sherry watched, she got into an old Plymouth Horizon parked across the street.
Johnny slid lower in the seat. The Plymouth pulled away from the curb, headlights sweeping across the Nissan. But she drove past him without slowing. The front door closed and the porch light went out.
He got the Buck knife from his pocket, opened the long blade and used it to pop the lens off the Nissan's dome light, then unscrewed the bulb. He folded the knife, put it back in his jacket pocket and got out of the car.
There was a driveway on the side of the house, a car parked against a closed garage door. In the back, a wooden
stairway doubled as a fire escape. He stood in the backyard, snow blowing around him, saw third-floor lights go on.
The stairs were already slippery with snow, so he went up carefully. All the windows he passed were dark until he got to the top. He stood on the landing, looked through a lighted window into an empty kitchen.
He heard footsteps inside, sat down on the landing. Snow drifted around him. A shadow fell on the landing as someone moved around the kitchen. Then the light went out.
He waited, looking at his watch occasionally, his hair wet with snow. After a few minutes, he heard the low thrumming noise of a shower somewhere inside the apartment.
He got up, brushed snow from his jeans. He'd bought another pair of cotton work gloves, and he pressed his palms flat against the outside storm window, pushed up. It wasn't locked. He slid it up gradually, carefully, so as not to knock it out of its frame. It slipped into its notches, stayed there.
He looked in, the kitchen still dark. Through the door he could see a dim hallway light.
He pushed against the inside window. It was old, set loosely into the frame, hinged horizontally so it opened into the room. It swung in a quarter inch, stopped, and he could see the hook and eye that held it shut on the right side. He got the Buck out again, held the window open with one hand, used the straight side of the blade to pop the hook out of the eye.
He put the knife away, climbed into the kitchen, tracking snow on the linoleum. In the darkness a clock ticked, an old-style radiator clanked.
He could still hear the shower. He went into the corridor. To the left, at the end of the hall, was a closed door, light beneath it, the sound of the water coming from within. There were two other doors, both partially open, lights out. To his right, the corridor opened onto a small living room, lit by a single lamp.
He got the Mag-Lite out, went left down the hall. He shone the thin beam into the first room he came to. Inside was a child's bed, a dollhouse, toys on the floor. A Mickey
Mouse night-light glowed in an outlet on the wall. A girl of about four was sleeping in the bed, her breathing regular and undisturbed.
He backed out, flashed the light into the second room, saw a neatly made bed, a dresser, a full-length mirror against one wall. On the nightstand was an ashtray, a tiny ceramic carousel horse figurine and a rosary. No sign of a man's presence anywhere.
He switched the Mag off, walked quietly down the hall to the small living room. There were paper cutouts of Santa Claus and reindeer taped to the walls, smiling snowmen. Lights blinked on a miniature artificial Christmas tree, maybe two feet tall, on a table. There was a low shelf filled with children's books, videos, a VCR atop the TV.
He sat on the couch, unzipped his jacket, left his gloves on. On the coffee table in front of him was a phone, a glass ashtray, a pack of menthol cigarettes and a cheap lighter. He pulled out drawers, looked through them. Bills, children's drawings. No address books. Then he moved the phone, saw the card that had been hidden beneath it.
He picked it up. RW SECURITY embossed on the front. On the back a handwritten name—Harry Rane—and a phone number.
He heard the shower shut off. He closed the drawers, put the card in the pocket with the Buck. He could hear her humming softly to herself down the hall. Then the sound of the door opening, the smell of steam.
He waited, one arm thrown over the back of the couch. She came into the room without seeing him at first, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe, toweling her hair.
“Hey, Sherry,” he said.
She jumped, choked the scream off. He lifted an index finger to his lips.
She backed into the doorway and froze, as if deciding whether to turn and run.
“Johnny,” she said. “What are you …”
“Take it easy,” he said. He pointed at an ancient recliner to the left of the couch. “Come sit down.”
“Janey's here. She's right down the hall.”
“I know. I saw her. Have a seat.”
“Let me get dressed first, it's cold in—”
He shook his head. He could see the fear in her, knew she would do whatever he said. He picked up the pack of menthols.
“Go on,” he said. “Sit down.”
He took a cigarette, slid the pack across the table. She looked at it, settled slowly into the recliner, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
He broke the filter off his cigarette, used the lighter. He blew smoke out, put the lighter atop the pack. She leaned forward, the robe opening slightly, got a cigarette out. He could see her hands shaking as she lit it.
“How'd you get in?” she said.
He didn't answer, leaned forward again, tapped ash in the ashtray.
“What do you want?” she said.
He sat back, looked at her.
“Heard from her?” he said.
“From who?”
He smiled, turned his head to the side, blew smoke out softly.
She had the towel in her lap, her long red hair dark and straight and wet. Ash fell from her cigarette to the floor unnoticed.
“Come on, Sher. I only want to talk to her. Just once. Is that too much to ask?”
“Johnny, I told you everything I know.”
“Did you? I've been thinking about it and I wonder if you did. Tell me everything, that is. You're a good friend to her. Always were. You'd protect her if you thought she needed it, right? Even lie to me. But there's no reason to. No one's going to hurt her. And lying to me … well, it just makes things worse.”
She looked away.
“Why are you doing this, Johnny?”
“Doing what?”
“Why can't you just leave things alone?”
“I've come a long way, Sherry. A lot of miles and a lot of time. Look at me.”
She did.
“I'm owed,” he said.
She blinked and he saw wetness in her eyes.
“She may be around here,” he said, “or she may be somewhere else. Another state. Country, even. But I have the feeling that wherever she is, you know.”
She shook her head quickly, noticed the growing ash on her cigarette. She leaned forward to tap it off, missed the ashtray.
“Janey's very pretty,” he said. “Like her mother.”
She looked at him then.
“Nikki can take care of herself,” he said. “We both know that. You should be worrying about yourself—and Janey.”
“Don't say that, Johnny. You would never—”
“Seven years, Sherry. People change.”
“I told you all I know.”
He took the card out, flipped it on the table in front of her.
“Who's that?” he said.
She dropped the cigarette, picked it quickly off the carpet. “Just some guy,” she said. “That I met.”
“At the Heartbreak?”
She nodded.
“You're a bad liar, Sherry. You always were.”
“I'm not lying.”
“Just some guy. And what's this security business? He do burglar alarms, locks, that kind of thing?”
“I don't know.”
“You should ask. Maybe he can put some in here. You should have them, living alone like this. You know what I used to get in? Just this.”
He took the folded knife out of his pocket, put it atop the card. She looked at it.
He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.
“That number I gave you,” he said. “You didn't lose it, did you?”
“No.”
“But you didn't call. I was disappointed.”
She dropped the cigarette again, picked it up and put it out in the ashtray.
“Don't make this tougher than it should be,” he said. “We've got all night. I can leave here in five minutes—or five hours. It's your choice. So maybe you want to get your priorities straight. About who's worth protecting and who's not.”
She couldn't look at him now, and he knew it had settled in.
“Two ways to go, Sherry,” he said. “You give me what you
do
have—an address, a phone number, whatever. Or you convince me you're telling the truth. But I'm not leaving until you've done one or the other.”
“Johnny …”
“Come here.”
She looked at him, slowly got up from the chair.
“Closer.”
He took the towel from her hands, dropped it on the floor, slipped one gloved finger into the knot of her belt.
“Please, Johnny, no. Not here.”
He tugged and the knot came loose, the robe falling open.
“Please,” she said. “Janey …”
He looked at the empty doorway, the hall beyond. Then he dragged her down to him.
 
He left the Nissan in Asbury, on a side street near the projects, engine running. He walked the six blocks to the Sea Vista, snow still falling lightly. Up in his room, he took out the phone number Sherry had written down for him. It was a local exchange. He'd known she was near, had never doubted it.
He dropped the paper on the bureau top, then took out the card. He wasn't sure why he'd brought it with him. But he felt it again, the momentum, the energy. The world arranging itself around him, things falling into place. Fate now, or something like it.
BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
11.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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