The Heartbreak Lounge (32 page)

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Authors: Wallace Stroby

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
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When Joey answered the phone, Johnny said “It's me.”
“What the fuck is going on? Where are you?”
“Back here now.”
“There were state cops at my house, asking about you. What the fuck, John?”
“It's nothing. They haven't got shit.”
“It didn't sound that way. They said it had to do with a homicide.”
“What did you tell them?”
“
Ugatz
. What do you think? But you owe me an explanation, John.”
“Just calm the fuck down.”
“What did you say?”
“I said calm down. They're grabbing at straws. They're trying to railroad me back inside.”
“This is no good, John. We've got business to take care of. I talked to that guy today. The one with my uncle.”
“And?”
“They're ready. They want to do it tonight.”
“Are you ready?”
“Ready, yeah. Happy about it, no.”
“Where?”
“Same place as last time. Midnight. Tell the truth, I don't like it.”
“We have much choice?”
“Lindell will drive you, wait outside. You two get there and you don't like the looks of it, feel like you're walking into something, you turn around, come back.”
“You think it's a setup?”
“I don't know. But if it is, then we move on to the next stage. And then we'll see who comes out on top.”
 
The Lexus jeep slowed, steered to the curb. Johnny pulled the passenger door open, got in.
“Yo,” Lindell said.
“How's it going?”
They pulled away. The first flakes of snow were starting to fall, glistening on the windshield.
“Man's not too happy,” Lindell said. “Cops around. Bad news.”
“Life's bad news. That's all it is.”
Lindell turned the stereo on. Music seemed to surround them. Marvin Gaye. Johnny could feel the bass through the seat.
“I was talking to Joey,” Lindell said. “We were saying, after tonight, you should take some time, man. Hit the road.”
“Joey afraid I'm going to fuck up his thing?”
“Ain't that, man. He's thinking about you. Heat's on right now. You need to chill somewhere, let some of this shit blow over.”
“Blow over?” He had the sudden image of Connor's head snapping back, blood hitting the window.
“That,” he said, “is never going to happen.”
 
The cash was banded in stacks of $2,000. Johnny watched as Joey counted it a final time. They were in the office above the store, the money laid out on the desk, a plastic suitcase open on a chair.
“This is a fucking crime,” Joey said when he was finished.
Lindell pulled on his goatee, looked at the money. Joey began to stack the bills in the suitcase.
“This is the last fucking money that old man ever sees from me,” he said. “Not another fucking dime is he getting. Ever.”
The suitcase filled up quickly. They watched without speaking. When Joey was done, he closed the lid, snapped the latches shut. He hoisted the suitcase up.
“Shit's heavier than you'd imagine,” he said, set it on the floor.
Johnny got his cigarettes out, lit one.
“Where's Viktor?” he said.
“Storeroom. Doing inventory,” Joey said. “I didn't want him in here, see all this, get ideas.”
Johnny blew smoke out, looked at the suitcase—black plastic pregnant with green paper. He checked his watch. Almost time.
Joey settled down behind the desk, sighed.
“This is what they don't tell you,” he said. “You can get what you want, what you deserve, but you always have to pay a price. You always have to put up with someone else's bullshit along the way.”
“That's the nature of it,” Johnny said.
“The nature of what?”
“Getting what you want. It's never as simple as it looks.”
“That's for goddamn sure.”
Lindell pulled a chair away from the wall, sat down.
“And what about you, Johnny Blue Eyes?” Joey said. “You get what you want?”
“Working on it.”
“Still? Even with the cops looking for you? You should be in the wind, brother. Back to Florida or somewhere. South America, even better.”
“And what would you do without me?”
“After we settle this business with my uncle, maybe we get a little breathing room, coast for a while. You want to take an extended vacation, you let me know.”
Johnny walked over to the window, looked out. The parking lot was empty except for Joey's Escalade and Lindell's jeep. It was snowing steadily now, both vehicles covered.
“Let's wrap this up,” Joey said. “And let me buy both of you a drink.” He opened a drawer, took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, set it beside the phone.
Johnny watched the dark car roll into the parking lot, lights off. It pulled up alongside the Escalade.
Joey had three glasses out, was pouring drinks. Johnny
reached under his jacket, took the Sig out, turned away from the window.
“Here's a toast,” Joey said. “To greedy old bastards. May we all live long enough to become one.”
Johnny raised the Sig and Joey looked up then, saw it. The first bullet shattered the scotch bottle, hit him in the chest. The second punched into his left shoulder, sent him and the chair over backward.
Lindell was getting up quick, reaching beneath his suit coat. Johnny tagged him before the gun came out, high in the right chest, the impact spinning him around and over the chair. When he hit the floor, Johnny fired once into his back. The smell of cordite drifted through the room.
He turned, spit his cigarette out, pointed the Sig at the storeroom door. When Viktor Ismayla came through, he shot him through the forehead, watched him crash back into a pile of cardboard boxes. He hit the floor and lay still.
Johnny turned back, walked around the desk. Joey lay face-up, the back of his head against the wall. He grimaced in pain, his white cotton shirt soaked through with blood. Johnny kicked the chair away. There was blood on the wall too.
Joey coughed, spit blood, looked up at him, raised a hand as if to ward him off.
“You surprised, Joey? You shouldn't be.”
Joey closed his eyes, opened them. His face was whitening.
“It's like you said,” Johnny said. “There's always a price.” He lifted the Sig.
“Stop!” Joey said, blood on his lips. “Just fucking stop!”
Johnny waited.
“Is this about Nikki?” Joey said. “That whore? Is that was this is about?”
“No,” Johnny said and fired twice.
He turned away, went to the window, saw the car still waiting outside. He hoisted the suitcase up, surprised at its heaviness, headed for the door.
He heard the noise, the scrape of the chair, and turned to
his left, saw Lindell there, on one knee, the silver gun in his right hand. Johnny tried to bring the Sig up but the angle was wrong. His arm hit the door frame. He lifted the suitcase, heard the crack of the gun, felt the hammer blow as the suitcase smashed into him.
His legs tangled and he fell back into the hallway, Lindell still firing, the bullets chipping the doorway, whizzing off into the hall. Johnny snapped a shot, heard it strike a metal cabinet. Lindell aimed, fired and plaster flew from the wall over Johnny's head. Johnny kicked the suitcase away, lifted the Sig. Lindell fired again, the shot high and to the right, and then the slide on the gun locked back empty. Johnny took careful aim and shot him in the face. Lindell toppled backward, didn't move again.
Johnny lay there for a moment, trying to catch his breath, feeling the pain in his side where the suitcase had hit him. He set the Sig down, felt for a broken rib, and his fingers touched wetness, warmth. Lindell's first shot had passed through the suitcase and money, out the other side and into him.
He rolled to his knees and the pain hit him then, taking his breath away. He stayed like that for a moment, then rose slowly, leaning against the wall for support.
He righted the suitcase, saw the matching holes in each side. Then he went to Lindell, rolled him over, found the jeep keys in his jacket pocket. He picked up the Sig, let the hammer down, pushed the gun into his belt.
He dragged the suitcase through the door, saw he'd left bloody handprints on the wall. Halfway down the stairs he let the suitcase go, watched it tumble to the bottom. He followed it down, wiped his palm dry on his jeans, pushed open the fire door.
The Town Car still waited, exhaust billowing behind it. The headlights went on, pinning him there, the snow dancing in their beams. He raised his right hand in front of his face to shield his eyes.
A door opened and he saw a figure in silhouette get out. The lights went off then and he could see the figure wore a black overcoat. He gestured at the open door, the lighted interior.
Johnny picked up the suitcase, felt the pain, let the fire door shut behind him. His breath was coming in pants now, frosting in the air. He carried the suitcase to the car, looked in.
Frankie Santelli sat in the far corner of the wide seat, gloved hands in his lap. He looked at Johnny, expressionless. Johnny hefted the suitcase, got it in the car, then slid in behind it, sat down. The suitcase rested against his legs. The man in the overcoat got in, shut the door behind him, killing the interior light, sat in a jump seat facing Johnny. He was in his early forties, slick black hair shot with gray, jaws working as he chewed gum. His right hand stayed in his overcoat pocket.
“Well, here we are,” Santelli said.
There was tinted glass separating them from the driver's compartment, and Johnny could see two men up there. Overcoat watched him, chewed gum.
“We should get this over with,” Santelli said. “The weather and all. Everybody wants to go home.”
Johnny unsnapped the hasps on the suitcase, let it fall open. Some of the bundled bills fell onto the floor.
“You all right, John?” Santelli said. “You look a little pale.”
“I'm fine,” he said. “Let's do it.”
Overcoat took his hand out of his pocket, reached up and turned the interior light on. He opened the case wider, money spilling out.
“You count it?” he said.
“No. But I watched it get counted. It's all there.”
“You take your share already?” Santelli said.
Johnny shook his head.
Overcoat picked up one of the banded stacks, looked through it. He set it on the floor, picked up another, looked at it, then held it up. Johnny could see the dime-size hole through the bills where the bullet had gone through.
“Leave that one,” Johnny said. “I'll take it.”
Overcoat reached under the seat, came out with a black canvas bag. He opened it wide, set it on the floor, began to count money.
Johnny could feel sweat on his forehead, his hands. He wiped his right palm on his jeans, flexed his fingers. Overcoat saw it, looked at him. After a moment he went back to counting.
“Our friend?” Santelli said.
“Gone.”
“And the
mulignan
?”
“Both. The Russian too.”
Santelli nodded.
“I have to say, John, we're impressed. Anthony and I both. We didn't know if you could pull this off or not. When you reached out to us … well, who would have thought?”
“I'll take the bag,” Johnny said. “You keep the suitcase.”
Overcoat looked at him.
“I'm traveling light,” Johnny said. “I need something I can carry easily.”
Overcoat looked at Santelli, who nodded. Overcoat began to set bricks of money inside the bag.
“I'll count it when you're finished,” Johnny said.
“You've got nothing to worry about, John,” Santelli said. “When Anthony makes a deal, it's a deal. When people are straightforward, when they keep their part of the bargain, he'll do whatever it takes to keep his. His word is his bond.”
“I know,” Johnny said. The pain was back, a low throbbing, and a sharper pain inside, deeper.
The bag was starting to fill with money.
“What happened, with Joey,” Santelli said. “It's best for everyone. It allows us all to get back to business. It's a better world without him, safer too. You did the right thing.”

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