Authors: Wallace Stroby

The Heartbreak Lounge (22 page)

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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“I'll call her again tomorrow, try to talk to her.”

She looked at him.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing.” And she raised up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

He felt himself flush.

“You're a good man, Harry Rane,” she said. “Don't let anybody tell you different.”

At the wheel of the Firebird, parked a half block down, Johnny watched her go back inside. At first, he hadn't recognized her. Her hair was shorter, her movements more confident. But it was her.

He watched the man in the leather jacket kiss her, get into the old Mustang. He'd followed Sherry to the Heartbreak, waited there, seen the man come out. He'd trailed the Mustang then, not sure why. And this was where it had led.

He let his breath out slowly, looked at the house, saw figures moving behind the windows. She wasn't alone. But he knew where she lived now; she would keep. As he watched, a second-floor light went on. He looked up at it, saw a shadow behind the shade, knew it was her.

When he pulled the Firebird up next to the trailer, Mitch was standing outside in the cold, waiting for him. He rolled to a stop and Mitch pulled open the passenger-side door, got in.

“Keep going,” he said. “Don't stop.”

Johnny pulled away again, looked in the rearview.

“What's wrong?”

Mitch turned, craned his neck.

“Keep driving. Swing around toward the exit.”

Johnny made a circuit of the trailer park, headed back out onto Route 9.

“Go up here and turn around,” Mitch said.

“Tell me.”

“There was someone watching the trailer.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. They were parked up by that old Sunoco station. All day. Old man who lives one trailer over called the cops. Sharonda saw them up there, talking to some black guy in a station wagon.”

“What Sunoco station?”

“Behind the park. It's out of business. I'll show you.”

They turned around and headed back in the other direction on 9. Mitch pointed out the turnoff to him. He slowed at the boarded-up station. All that was left of the pumps were bolts sticking out of the concrete.

“They're gone now,” Mitch said. “Drove off with the cops.”

Johnny pulled into the station lot, parked on the gravel.

“What are you doing?” Mitch said.

He got out of the Firebird, walked around to the rear of
the station. Graffiti covered the back wall. He saw the tire tracks in the snow, where they ended. He stood at the top of the slope, looked across the creek. He had a clear view of the front of Mitch's trailer.

He heard Mitch come up behind him.

“What do you think?” Mitch said.

“Someone was here. Looking for me, I expect.”

“Who knows you've been here? Who could have told them?”

Johnny got his cigarettes out, lit one.

“Only one person I can think of,” he said.

The sky was clear, the moon out, when he eased the Firebird up the dirt driveway. He killed the lights, wondered if the old man had heard the muffler. He shut the engine off, sat there in the darkness. The moon cast the snow-covered ground in a bone gray light.

The Sig was on the seat beside him. He took it as he got out of the car, shut the door quietly behind him. The gun went into his belt in the small of his back, cold against the skin.

There was a single light on in the house, throwing a square of yellow into the side yard. The living room. Johnny couldn't remember the last time he'd been here. This was the house he'd grown up in, had slept in every night until his first time in Jamesburg.

There was a car up on blocks in the backyard, its doors gone, the interior white with snow. Frazer's pickup was parked at an angle near the back door, one tire in a stone-circled area of bare ground that had once been a flower garden.

He waited, listening, heard the low drone of a TV inside. There were trees on three sides of the house, but he could hear the traffic on Route 18 in the distance. Somewhere, a dog began to bark.

He stubbed his boot on a discarded wheel rim, half-frozen in the dirt. He tugged it free with one gloved hand, dragged it over to a window and stood on it. He looked into the mudroom, the kitchen beyond. There were wet footprints
on the floor of the mudroom, two white recycling buckets full of Budweiser cans, more cans on the floor. Frazer's heavy red hunting jacket hung on the wall.

He went to the mudroom door, tried the knob. The door was loose in its frame, but held when he pulled. He took the Buck out, sliced an inch-thick sliver of rotted wood from the frame. It opened easily then, creaking on its hinges.

He put the knife away, stepped through. He could still hear the TV inside. He pulled the door closed behind him.

The kitchen smelled of grease and staleness, with the faint undercurrent of rotting food. The lidless trash can was overflowing, the sink full of dishes, faucet dripping.

He didn't need a light in here, knew every step by heart. He crossed peeling linoleum, floorboards creaking beneath, and stood in the doorway to the living room.

The old man was asleep in front of the TV. He wore the same clothes Johnny had seen him in last time and his breathing was labored, a wheezing, tubercular snore. There were two empty beer cans on the coffee table, one on the floor. On the television, a black-and-white documentary, bombs falling, the camera pointing straight down out of the bay, following their flight.

The room was warm, close, and smelled of the old man. He coughed, stirred, then slipped back into sleep. Johnny watched him. The only father he'd ever known.

He settled into an overstuffed chair across from the couch, got his cigarettes out. Only one left. He lit up, blew smoke toward the old man. It drifted around his face. Frazer sneezed, coughed, opened his eyes, saw him there.

Johnny waited. The old man rubbed at his gummy eyes, coughed again, deep and wet.

“John?”

Johnny didn't answer, finished his cigarette.

“What are you doing here?”

Johnny got up, went into the kitchen. He dropped the butt into the sink, ran water on it, then pulled open the latch on the old-style refrigerator. It was empty except for beer, some cold pizza on a plate.

He took out two cans of Bud, kneed the door shut. Back in the living room he handed one to the old man, sat back down across from him.

“You awake now?” he said.

Frazer looked at the beer, pushed moisture away from the pull top with his thumb.

Johnny popped his can open, sipped. It was watery, flat.

“You should have let me know, John. That you were coming.”

His words were slurred. Johnny saw the bridge resting on a paper towel on the end table.

“Go ahead,” he said, pointing at it. “Put that in.”

Frazer looked at him, then reached for the bridge. He turned his head slightly to hide the process, made wet noises as he slid it home, adjusted it. Johnny took another sip of beer.

“What time is it?” Frazer said, his words clearer.

Johnny looked at his watch.

“Midnight,” he said.

“Awful late, John.”

“Drink your beer. Then we're going for a walk.”

“A walk? Where?”

Johnny drank beer, watched him. The old man fumbled with the can, got it open. Foam spilled onto his pants.

Johnny looked at the television screen, a map of Europe with animated arrows spreading across it. He heard the old man slurp beer, felt his eyes on him. Johnny ignored him, drank from his can. When it was almost empty, he shook the contents, set the can down on the coffee table with the others.

“There,” he said. “Now we've had our drink together. Get your coat.”

“John.”

“Come on. Get up.”

He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, waited for him. Frazer got up slowly, one hand on the couch arm to steady himself. He broke wind loudly, then stood up, shoulders stooped.

“Where we going?”

“Just out back. I want you to show me a couple things. It's been a long time since I've been here, remember?”

“I don't have my shoes.”

“Those slippers are fine. We'll only be a couple minutes.”

Frazer looked at him, then twisted his feet into a pair of brown corduroy slippers on the floor. Johnny went into the mudroom, got the hunting jacket off the peg, stood there with it.

The old man shuffled into the kitchen, coughed deeply.

“Wait a minute,” Johnny said.

Frazer looked at him.

“The money I gave you. What did you do with it?”

“What?”

“The five hundred. You couldn't have spent it all by now. Where's the rest?”

“I'm saving it, Johnny. For groceries.”

“Get it.”

“You taking it back?”

“I'm not here to steal your money, old man. I just want to make sure you haven't spent it all yet. Get it.”

Frazer went to the sink, leaned down and opened the cabinet beneath it, broke wind again. He reached under the pipes, came out with a Maxwell House coffee can.

“That your bank?” Johnny said.

Frazer put the can on the counter.

“Take it out,” Johnny said.

He rooted through it, brought out matchbooks, nuts and bolts, then a roll of cash, wrapped tightly with a rubber band.

“There it is,” he said. He put it on the counter. “There's four hundred there. Just like I said. I've still got most of it.”

“Good,” Johnny said and opened the mudroom door, nodded outside.

Frazer took the coat, pulled it on. Johnny went out first.

“It's colder than a witch's tit,” Frazer said. “That's what your mother used to always say. Remember that?”

Johnny didn't answer.

Frazer shut the door behind them, buttoned the jacket up.

“Let's walk,” Johnny said.

“Where?”

“Over here a little.”

The backyard sloped down through trees to a fallow field, a collapsing barn on one side. With the moon, it was almost as bright as day.

“Used to play out here,” Johnny said. “As kids.”

He walked down to the field, watching his footing. He looked up at Frazer, who had stopped halfway down the slope.

“Come on,” Johnny said. “Just a little ways.”

“I need my boots, John.”

“No, you don't. It's fine here.” He stamped the frozen ground. “You won't fall.”

They walked out into the field, the ground furrowed and hard. Frazer had wrapped the coat tighter around himself. He coughed once, spit. Johnny turned his back on him, walked out farther into the field. Through the trees on the far side he could see houses, Christmas lights.

“Who did you tell?” he said.

“What?”

Johnny turned to him. He reached under his jacket, got the Sig out.

“Who did you tell that I was back here?”

Frazer saw the gun then.

“No one, Johnny, I swear.”

Johnny worked the slide, locked the hammer back, let the gun hang at his side.

“I don't believe you.”

“Put that thing away, John.”

“I just want to know who you told. Then we can go back inside.”

“Why would I tell anyone about you?”

“Because you couldn't resist. Because you can't shut your mouth for five goddamn minutes. Who did you tell?”

Frazer looked back at the house, then at the trees on the other side of the field, as if comparing distances.

“Nobody special,” he said finally. “Just people that know you, that would be happy to see you again.”

“What people?”

“Down at the Jumping Brook. At the bar. People you know. That's all, John. Everyone always asks about you, about my sons.”

“Who else?”

“That's it, Johnny, that's it, I swear to the Lord Jesus â¦” His voice trailed off into a deep cough.

“I think you're lying. I think you called the police, told them I was back, that I had money. Got them interested in me again.”

“No, Johnny, I didn't. Why would I?”

“Because you were scared. Angry.”

“I didn't, Johnny. I swear on your mother's grave I didn't.” Johnny looked across the field again.

“Kneel,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Face the barn. Do it.”

“Johnny, Iâ”

“Don't make me ask you twice.”

The old man turned slowly, coughed, the single one growing into a chain that wracked his body. Then he lowered himself to one knee, a hand on the ground to steady himself. He set the other knee down heavily, nearly lost his balance.

“Shape you're in,” Johnny said, “I'd be doing you a favor if I put you in the ground.”

“John, I'm your father. I love you. I always loved you, all you kids. I always did my best for you. Raised you like my own.”

“Beating the shit out of us, terrorizing us? That how you did it?”

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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