The Heartbreak Lounge (26 page)

Authors: Wallace Stroby

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge

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He locked the front door behind him, zipped his leather jacket up. The frozen porch boards creaked under his feet.

He pulled his gloves on as he walked to the Mustang. He still had the smell of her on him, her taste on his tongue.

At the Mustang, he stopped and looked back at the house. He could see the warm glow of the candles in the bedroom window. Wished he were still up there.

Johnny looked up at the lighted window, then down at the Mustang. He heard the engine start, saw the lights go on.

He was in a stolen Mazda, parked halfway down the street. He'd been out here for three hours now, in the cold, watching.

He twisted the ignition wires together and they sparked, the engine catching immediately. He watched the Mustang pull away, then looked up at the house again, saw a shape moving behind the window.

The Mustang was at the end of the street now, signaling to turn. He took a last look up at the window, then pulled away from the curb, his lights off.

Driving back to Colts Neck, cold air streaming through the wing window, he found himself thinking of Cristina again, of their days together. Back when his life still made some kind of ragged sense.

Halfway home, he knew he'd need a drink if he wanted to sleep. He pulled into the lot of a storefront bar and liquor store on Route 33. All the diagonal spots in front were taken, so he steered into the alleyway, parked beside a Dumpster.

The bar was crowded, a sea of cigarette smoke, noise and laughter, a Christmas party in full swing. The bartender wore a Santa hat. The Ronettes' version of “Sleigh Ride” was playing on the jukebox.

Harry chose a bottle of red wine from the wall rack. A TV high on the wall was showing
It's a Wonderful Life
with the sound off. Jimmy Stewart running down a snow-covered street past bars and dance halls, flashing neon signs.

He paid for the wine at the bar, pocketed his change and went back out into the cold, the bottle in a paper sack in the crook of his left elbow.

At the Mustang, he got his keys out, sniffed the air. Cigarette smoke. Close.

He turned just as the figure stepped out from behind the Dumpster, still in shadow. On the wall above, a security light flickered.

“Hey,” the figure said. “Got a light?”

He let the wine bottle slide easily down into his hand, grasped its neck through the paper. The man's face was still hidden, but Harry could see jeans, heavy work boots, a dark
army jacket. A hand came up into the light, holding an unlit cigarette.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I don't smoke.” He unlocked the driver's-side door.

“Too bad,” the man said. He took a lighter out, flicked it open. It flared, the flame illuminating his face for an instant.

Harrow.

The lighter clicked shut, went away. The tip of the cigarette glowed. Harry stepped slightly away from the Mustang to give himself room, let the bottle hang at his side, half hidden by his leg.

“Nice car,” Harrow said. He stepped out of the shadows, hands empty, looking at the Mustang, the cigarette hanging from his lips.

Harry watched him, waited.

“So tell me something,” Harrow said.

“What?”

“Are you fucking her?”

Silence between them. Harrow grinned, no humor in it. He nodded at the bottle in the bag.

“You going to hit me with that?”

Harry didn't answer.

“Shame to waste it, whatever it is.”

The alley light buzzed, flickered.

“Why don't you just step back from the car?” Harry said.

Harrow raised his hands, backed away.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I know who you are. So cut the bullshit. Just walk away.”

Harrow nodded, took another half step back, looked at the ground, pushed at gravel with the toe of his boot. Harry hefted his keys in his right hand, ready to throw them.

Harrow took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew on the tip until it flared. Then he flicked it casually onto the back window of the Mustang. It burst into sparks on the glass, rolled onto the trunk and lay there glowing.

Harry looked at it. He'd have to cross in front of Harrow to knock it off. A school yard game, a line in the sand.

Harry let his breath out slowly, centering himself. He set the bottle upright on the roof, shifted the keys to his left hand. With his right, he reached out, plucked the butt off the trunk lid, saw the penny-size burn it left on the paint.

Harry looked at the cigarette, turned back to Harrow.

“Talk about a waste,” he said. “There's plenty of tobacco left here.” And he flicked the cigarette at those blue eyes.

Harrow jerked his head back, but not in time. The cigarette hit his left cheekbone, ashes flying. Harry grabbed the bottle, swung it backhanded as Harrow came forward. The bottle thudded into an upraised arm and Harry punched with his left, keys angled out from between his fingers. He felt them scrape flesh and then pressure exploded in his left knee, bent it inward. He went down, dropped the bottle, heard it shatter, took a knee to the chest that flung him back up against the car.

He tried to roll away, caught a kick in the low ribs that stole his breath. Harrow loomed over him and Harry saw him pull something from beneath his coat. He heard the snick of metal, a slide being racked back.

“Cock
sucker,
” Harrow said and pointed the gun at his head. Harry looked into the muzzle of a suppressor, smelled gun oil.

Harrow touched the cut on his cheek just below his left eye. His fingertips came away bloody. His gloved finger tightened on the trigger.

Harry turned his face away, the suppressor inches from his right temple.

“I should,” Harrow said. “I fucking should.”

When the shot didn't come, Harry turned, looked up at him again.

Harrow snapped his wrist and the steel suppressor cracked against the bridge of Harry's nose. Water filled his eyes, pain shooting back through his sinuses. He put his hand to his face and blood came from his nostrils.

The alley light flickered. Harrow's face fell into shadow, lit up again.

The suppressor touched Harry's forehead, pushed his
head back against the car. He could taste blood in his mouth. Harrow crouched, reached around and pulled Harry's wallet from his jeans. He took the gun away, sat back on his haunches, looked through the wallet. He came out with Harry's driver's license, read it, looked back at him.

“I should have known,” he said. “That lying bitch.”

He dropped the license on the blacktop, the smell of wine rising around them.

“Now I know who
you
are,” Harrow said. “I know where you live. I know the car you drive. I know every fucking thing I need to know if I want to find you.”

Harry coughed, spit blood onto the blacktop.

“So I'll ask again. Are. You. Fucking. Her?”

Harry looked at him, didn't respond.

“A gentleman,” Harrow said. He let the hammer down on the gun, slid it into a jacket pocket. From the other he took a folded Buck knife.

“But you know what they say.” He opened the knife. The alley light glinted on the blade. “About virtue untested.”

Harry watched the knife.

“Open your legs,” Harrow said.

“Fuck you.”

Harrow's left hand closed around his throat, pushed his head back. He jabbed him on the inside of his right thigh with the point of the knife. It punched through the material of his jeans, broke the surface of his skin. Harry's leg jerked away involuntarily and he felt the warmth of blood on his skin.

“That's better,” Harrow said and pushed the tip of the blade into Harry's jeans just below his scrotum, the blade angled up. The point broke through the material.

“I wouldn't move if I were you,” Harrow said. “I wouldn't even twitch.”

Harry could feel the knifepoint against his skin.

“I'll ask a third and final time. Are you fucking her?”

Harry looked into his eyes.

“No,” he said.

The knife jerked up, slicing easily through the material of the jeans, from seat to zipper. Coldness flooded in.

Harrow took the knife away, closed it.

“I'm not sure if I believe you,” he said. “But you should know this. She's taken, partner. Trust me. I don't know what she told you, what she wants from you, but you have to ask yourself if it's worth getting your balls sliced off. Is it?”

He put the knife away.

“Because I promise you that is what will happen if I catch you around her again.”

Harrow rose, took the gun back out. Harry could hear his knees creak.

“Or maybe I'm making a mistake, letting you go,” he said. “Maybe I should tie this up right now.”

He flicked Harry's nose with the suppressor, then touched it to his upper lip, pressed until his head touched the car again, lip mashed back against his teeth. Harry could taste oil and gunpowder. The suppressor moved down, scraped against his teeth, pushed into them. He kept his jaws clamped.

“Don't want to give it up, huh?” Harrow said. “Good for you.”

He took the gun away. Harry tasted fresh blood.

“Next time,” Harrow said, “we won't dance. We'll just get to it.”

The gun disappeared under his jacket again.

“You may think you know me,” he said. “But believe me, you don't.”

Harry felt blood in his throat, gagged. He leaned to the side and vomited, a thin fluid of blood and bile and stomach enzymes. He coughed, spit. When he looked back, the alley was empty.

He pulled into an Exxon station on Route 33, left the engine running while he got out, fed change into a pay phone next to the air machine. He dialed the number Sherry had given him, waited. The air hose hissed behind him.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hey, baby,” he said.

Silence.

He watched cars go by, heard her breathing.

“Long time,” he said. “Nothing to say to me?”

“Johnny.”

“You knew I'd find you, right? That it was only a matter of time?”

“How did you get this number?”

“Does it matter? One way or another I would have found it, found you.”

“Where are you?”

“Close. We need to talk, babe.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“You scared of me? You shouldn't be. Everything that happened back then â¦ it's forgotten. You want to get on with your life, I understand. That's fine. But you owe it to me, to meet me face-to-face. One time. That's all I'm asking.”

“Johnny, I don't have anything to tell you. Nothing I can say is going to changeâ”

“Face-to-face, Nicole. You can't deny me that. Seven years is a long time. How do you think it feels, after all that, coming back, finding the mother of my child with another man?”

“Another man? What are you talking about?”

“Don't fucking lie to me, Nicole. After all this time, please don't fucking lie to me.”

“Johnny, what did you do?”

“Not much. He didn't put up much of a fight. But I don't think he's going to be coming around anymore. Look at it this way: I did you a favor. You can do better than him.”

“Why, Johnny? Jesus Christ, why?”

“Because you and I need to have a serious conversation. And the last thing I need is some boyfriend of the moment running around with a hard-on, thinks he's protecting you. I don't have time for that bullshit, Nicole. This is between you and me.”

She didn't answer.

“Come on, babe,” he said. “You knew this day would come. Don't pretend otherwise.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk, like I said. Get some things straight. Give me that. Then you can do whatever you want, with whoever. I'll leave you alone, you'll never see me again.”

“Why did you come back?”

“Things to do. But once they're done, I'm gone. I'll call you tomorrow night at nine at this number. You make sure you answer. We'll work it out, arrange a place to meet. If not, then I have to come find you, and neither of us wants that.”

“Don't stay, Johnny. Leave. Tonight. For your own sake. There's nothing for you here anymore.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

“Nothing at all.”

“Tomorrow,” he said and hung up.

He got back into the Mazda, pulled out onto the highway. He was breathing normally again, his hands steady.

One more stop to make.