The Heartbreak Lounge (34 page)

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Authors: Wallace Stroby

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
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Harry stood on his porch, watched the snow. The wind whistled through the weeping willows, their bare branches fluttering.
He went back inside, put kindling and logs in the fireplace, poured a glass of wine. He turned on the television, switched to the Weather Channel. The local forecast ran as a crawl across the bottom of the screen. Six to ten inches of snow, winds up to forty miles per hour. A good night to stay in.
He drank wine, watched television, looked at his watch. Ten P.M. Not too late.
In the kitchen, he set his glass on the counter, dialed the hotel, then direct-dialed the room. It rang five times, then switched to voice mail. He hung up, looked out the kitchen window into the backyard. The drifts were already collecting against the house, the wind sweeping the snow across the yard.
He finished the glass, tried the number again. Five rings and voice mail. After a few minutes, he dialed Ray's home number. Edda called him to the phone.
“What's up?” Ray said.
“You sleeping?”
“Watching the news. Feeling grateful I'm not out tonight. What's the problem?”
“It's probably nothing. I called Nikki at the hotel a couple times. There was no answer.”
“How long ago?”
“Just now.”
“How many times did you let it ring?”
“Enough. Is Errol still out there?”
“He was. But he called me twenty minutes ago to say he was going home. He was worried about getting stuck there with this weather. I told him to go, we'll pick it up again tomorrow. Nobody's moving out there tonight, anyway, with this snow.”
“Maybe I should head over there.”
“This could be nothing, you know. She could be down in the hotel bar. Night like this, that's where I'd be.”
“You're probably right.”
“But if it's really bothering you, call the desk. Have them send someone up to check. If she's in the bar, they can page her.”
“Maybe I'll do that.”
“Listen, if you have a bad feeling about this, I'll call Errol's cell, have him go back. He wouldn't be home yet, anyway.”
“No, that's okay.”
“I wouldn't go out there if I were you, not in that thing you drive. It'll be all over the road. You'll end up in a ditch until morning.”
“I'm not sure what I'm going to do.”
“I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. Try her again, see if she answers.”
“I will,” he said. “I'll call you back later.”
He dialed the room again. When the voice mail picked up, he hung up, got his leather jacket from the peg by the door. He found his car keys and headed out into the storm.
 
“Long time,” Johnny said.
She was sitting on the bed, watching him. He'd pulled a chair away from the desk, sat facing her. The phone was behind him and she would have to cross in front of him to reach the door. His side was stiff and ached dully, but the sharpest pain was gone.
He studied her, seeing the changes. The crow's-feet around her eyes. Her long brown hair lighter, chopped short. She wore jeans, boots, a dark sweater.
“You look good,” he said.
“Did you do it?” she said.
“Did I do what?” He got his cigarettes out.
“Kill her?”
He looked at her, lit a cigarette, put the lighter away, didn't answer. He saw the fear in her eyes, but something else too.
“You shouldn't have done it, John. There was no reason to.”
“Easy to look back, say that,” he said. “But in the actual situation? Things don't always go as planned.”
“You shouldn't have done it.”
“She was warned. Face-to-face. She wanted to send me back inside. I couldn't let that happen.”
“She never did anything to you, Johnny.”
He blew smoke out.
“Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?” he said.
He looked around the room.
“You're here alone,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Where's your boyfriend?”
“Why are you doing this, John?”
“A guy back in Glades once told me women are like monkeys. They never let go of one branch until they have a firm grip on another. And you've just gone from branch to branch to branch, haven't you?”
She didn't answer, wrapped her arms around herself.
“And you always land on your feet, don't you? No matter what. Because the world's still full of guys you can fuck to get what you want, isn't it?”
“What do you want, John?”
“I went through a lot to get here right now,” he said. “To be with you. I just want to talk.”
“I never did anything to hurt you, John. Ever.” He could see she was trying to get her edge back, her composure. Trying to turn the situation to her advantage.
“Well, I guess that's all relative, isn't it?” he said.
“How did you find me?”
“Wasn't hard. Did you really think you could hide from me? I mean, Christ, babe, seven years. I'd hope you'd at least want to see me once. For old times' sake.”
Snow blew against the window.
“You have any idea what I've gone through since I went away?” he said. “The things I've done? The things I've had done to me?”
“Why, Johnny? Why all this? You were out of there. You could have gone anywhere.”
“You think so?”
“Why come back?”
“I don't know. Maybe because I wanted to see you. See my son.”
She looked at the floor.
“He's not here,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“I know. And I didn't have a say in that either, did I?”
“I did what was right.”
“Because you didn't want him growing up with a father like me?”
She shook her head, looked away.
“Then what? What were you trying to protect him from?”
“Me,” she said.
He looked at her, blew smoke out, said nothing.
“Wherever he is,” she said, “he's better off. He has a chance now. We were all out of chances, even back then.”
He got up, walked to the window, looked down into the parking lot. The station wagon was gone. Snow swirled in the lights.
“You're right,” he said. “He is better off. I've seen him.”
He turned to her, met her eyes.
“I found him,” he said. “I thought I wanted to take him away, take him with me, do whatever I had to do to make that happen. But I guess I really just wanted to see him. Once. Something you never gave me the chance to do.”
“I had no choice, Johnny. It was the right thing. The only thing.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe it was.”
He moved back to the chair, swung it around to straddle
it, winced at the pain. She saw it in his face. He sat down, the Sig digging into his back. He pulled it out, set it on the bureau beside him. She looked at it.
The phone began to ring. They turned to it. It rang five times, fell silent.
“How is he?” she said.
He looked back at her, shrugged.
“Good,” he said. “As far as I could tell. Big house. Family. A life. A real life.”
“It tore me apart to give him away. You think it didn't? He was my baby. I had to lay there, watch them take him out of the room, knowing I'd never see him again. Do you think that was easy? But I did what I had to do.”
“And taking up with Joey A. after I was gone? That something you had to do?”
“I needed money. I needed to get by. He offered to help me. I wasn't in a position to turn him down.”
“Yeah, I guess. And what's another fuck more or less, right?”
“I loved you, Johnny. But I had to go on. You'd left me with nothing.”
He felt the anger then. He dropped the cigarette on the carpet, ground it out with a boot.
“Did your boyfriend tell you what I did to him?” he said. “Did he tell you I had him on his knees? He was practically crying when I let him go. If he'd been in Glades with me, I would have made him my bitch, then passed him around the tier. You couldn't do any better than him?”
“He wanted to help me.”
“And look where it got him. I have to hand it to you, Nikki. You were always a piece of ass. Better than most. But to get somebody to risk their life, for you, take a beating for you … well, you must be a better fuck now than you ever were then.”
“He's got nothing to do with this, with us.”
The phone rang again. Five times, stopped.
“You're popular these days,” he said. “Ten o'clock at night and people calling you. Think that was him? Maybe next time I'll answer.”
“Leave, Johnny. For both our sakes, just go.”
“So you can invite him over? Think I can live with that? Knowing that five minutes after I left, some guy's over here fucking you? How do you think that makes me feel?”
She looked at the floor.
“Please, John.”
He felt the heat in his face.
“I loved you,” he said. “But all you did was use me. Just like everybody else in your life.”
“That's not true, Johnny.” She looked up, met his eyes. “It's not.”
The fear was strong in her now, he could see it. But she didn't look away.
He stood up.
“Take your clothes off,” he said.
She watched him.
“You heard me,” he said. “Why should everyone else be getting some, and not me? Doesn't make much sense, does it.”
“Johnny, please—”
“Take them off.”
“Johnny, I—”
He hit her high in the right forehead with his open hand, knocked her onto her side on the bed. She tried to curl up and he caught her throat with his left hand, straightened her out and pinned her there, leaning his weight into her. She slapped at him, kicked, and a knee thudded into his thigh. Pain shot up through his side and he reached into his pocket, got the Buck out. He opened the knife one-handed, snapped his wrist so that it locked into place. She stopped fighting, looked at the blade.
He could feel sweat on his face, wet warmth against his side, fresh bleeding. Pain like a tearing inside him. He touched the point of the knife to her face, just below her left eye.
She looked up at him, met his eyes. He knew then he didn't want her, would never want her again. He took the knife away, held her there with his hand, his weight still pinning her.
“You're beautiful,” he said. “You always were.”
He felt her relax slightly under him.
“And that was the problem all along, wasn't it?” he said and dragged the edge of the blade from her left cheek to her chin.
She closed her eyes as the blood welled up, didn't scream. He let go of her throat, stood up. The phone rang again. Five times, then silence.
“You had it coming, baby,” he said. “You can't say you didn't.”
She touched her hand to her face, began to shudder and sob silently. He wiped the blade clean on the pillowcase, folded the knife and put it back in his pocket.
She curled up on the bed, shaking, still making no noise. Blood dripped from her face onto the comforter.
He was breathing heavily, the pain inside deeper now.
“You got off easy,” he said. “Look at it that way.”
He got the Sig, pushed it back into his belt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bureau. His face was white, dark circles under his eyes.
He turned to her and she wasn't on the bed anymore, was kneeling on the floor, a shoulder purse in her lap, hand inside.
“What are you—” he started to say and then the hand came out and there was a gun in it.
He reached under his jacket for the Sig but she already had the gun up, was aiming. A flat crack and the mirror behind him broke. He raised his left hand and she fired again. Something hard slapped his palm and hot blood spotted his face. He reeled away from her, his legs hitting the chair, and then he was falling. He landed on his side, the pain tearing through him, heard a bullet hit the chair, saw splinters fly from the leg.

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