The Heartbreak Lounge (27 page)

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Authors: Wallace Stroby

BOOK: The Heartbreak Lounge
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“You need to go to the hospital,” Ray said. “X-rays.”
Harry shook his head, limped into the kitchen and got the ice trays out of the freezer. He spread a dish towel on the counter, emptied the trays onto it.
“There's nothing broken,” he said. “I can tell. Are you sure she's safe?”
“I sent Errol and another man over as soon as you called me from the bar. “They'll spend the night parked outside. No sign of Harrow so far. Tomorrow we'll take her to a hotel, check her in.”
He twisted the towel around the ice, pulled up a kitchen chair, rolled up the leg of the sweatpants. The ruined jeans were in the trash.
“Sorry to wake you up,” he said. “But I didn't want to wait.”
“I understand. This changes everything, though. You know that, right?”
Harry settled the ice pack on his swollen knee, held it there.
“This looks worse than it is,” he said.
“Well, it looks pretty bad. And you ain't kissing anybody with that lip anytime soon either.”
“He was just trying to scare me off.”
“And did he?”
“What do you think?”
Ray pulled up a chair, sat down.
“We should talk strategy here. She told Errol that Harrow said he was going to call her tomorrow. That he wanted to meet.”
“Not much chance of that.”
“Maybe we should let her take that call. Set something up.”
“Why?”
“So we can get the locals involved. Arrest him for assault, battery. Gun charge. Enough to send him back.”
Harry shook his head.
“What?” Ray said. “You want to take this further? Keep fucking around with him, see what he does next? Enough.”
“I'm not going to the locals. Not for some bullshit assault charge he'll walk on overnight.”
“And then when he parks a bullet in your brain, you'll leave it up to me to deal with, right?”
“Like I said. He was just trying to scare me.”
“You've got fingermarks on your throat. You know that?”
Harry touched the tender spot under his jaw.
“They'll go away.”
“How did he find you?”
“He followed me from her house, that's all I can figure.”
“And how did he know where she lived?”
“I don't know.”
“And I'm not supposed to ask what you were doing there, ten-thirty at night?”
“You can ask.” He put the ice pack on the table, got up and limped to the refrigerator, took a Corona out. He waved the bottle at Ray, who shook his head. He twisted the top off, sipped, sat back down.
“I don't know if I want to ask,” Ray said. “Because I'm worried what the answer is going to be. Are you nailing her?”
Harry looked at him.
“What?” Ray said. “That's a simple question.”
“He asked me the same thing.”
“And we both hope the answer is no, I'm sure. What did you tell him?”
Harry put the beer on the table, the ice pack back on his knee, didn't answer.
“Okay,” Ray said. “But you know I've got to take you off this now, right?”
“Why?”
“If you can't figure that out, then I think he scrambled your brains as well. There's Errol, and others. We'll look after her.”
“You're missing the point. This makes things easier.”
“How's that?”
“Now we've got bait. For him.”
“Bait? What bait?”
“Me.”
“That is total bullshit,” Ray said. He stood up. “And you don't get to call the shots on this anyway. I do.”
“This guy isn't going to wait around, bide his time, Ray. He's got an agenda and he's on the move. This was just the beginning.”
“More reason to keep you out of the picture.”
“He's got to be stopped. One way or another.”
“He will be.”
“I'm the best chance we've got of finding him again.”
“And that's something you're anxious to do? It doesn't look like that first meeting went too well.”
Harry touched the bridge of his nose, tested the soreness there. He hadn't told Ray about the knife, or the wallet.
“He had an advantage. Surprise. Next time he won't.”
“You hope.”
“Well,” Harry said. “We'll just see what happens, won't we?”
 
After Ray left, he checked the front and back door locks, then limped upstairs to the bedroom. In the closet, he pushed clothes aside until he found the leather gun case against the wall. He pulled it out, set it on the bed, unzipped it. Inside was the Model 1300 Winchester twelve-gauge pump he'd bought the year before.
He got the box of shells from the top shelf of the closet, spilled them out on the bed. He took the sportsman's plug from the magazine, fed five thick red shells into the receiver. Bracing the butt on his right thigh, he worked the pump to chamber a shell, slid another into the receiver to replace it.
With the safety on, he carried the gun downstairs. There was a closet in the short hallway between kitchen and living room. He cleared the top shelf, set the shotgun there within easy reach, covered it with a folded blanket. He wasn't sure if it made him feel better or not.
Later, he lay in bed with the lights out, the whole thing playing through his mind again. There was a dull ache across the bridge of his nose, and when he touched it his eyes stung and filled with water.
When he couldn't take it any longer, he got out of bed, walked down the dark hall to the bathroom. He pulled the light cord, looked at himself in the mirror. There was a patch of purple bruise between his eyes, the skin around it still slightly swollen. His upper lip was puffy, scabbed with dried blood where it had split. He traced fingertips along the marks on his throat, remembered how Harrow's hand had felt there, his grip like stone.
He got the Percocet bottle from the cabinet, shook one out. He started to break it in half, then stopped. He swallowed it whole instead, washed it down with water from the sink. Then he switched the light off, walked back to his bed in the darkness.
“Scope,” Johnny said.
The Russian unwrapped it from the chamois, handed it over, watching. Johnny fit it into the runner atop the AR-15, slid and locked it into place. He wore rubber surgical gloves, could feel the coolness of the metal through them.
“Is good, no?” the Russian said. “Like M-16?”
He didn't answer. They were sitting on the floor of a storage room on the third level of an old house that had been converted into offices. The only illumination came from the parking lot lights.
He pulled the black gym bag toward him, took out one of the loaded clips. With the rifle in his lap, he thumbed the shells out one by one, rubbed his thumb along the polished tips. They were 7.62s with full metal jackets, one-shot stops anywhere in the body. He tested the springs in the clip, then began to fit the shells back in. He'd never used the rifle before, but he knew what it could do. He slid the clip home again.
“Have a look out the window,” he said. “See if they're there yet. Be careful.”
Viktor stood, went to the window that looked out on the parking lot, parted the blinds with a finger.
“Not yet,” he said.
Johnny stood up, his knees aching, leaned the rifle against the wall.
“Help me with the desk,” he said.
They hauled it from the center of the room, pushed it toward the window, raising dust. He felt the Russian's eyes on him. When he looked down, he saw the patch of dried day-old
blood on his jeans leg, the size of a half dollar. He hadn't noticed it before. Had worn the jeans all day without knowing it was there.
He pushed the blinds aside, looked out. Across the parking lot was the back door of the locksmith shop, one window lit. Snow flurries flew in the parking lot lights.
There were metal folding chairs along the wall. He opened one, dragged it to the desk, sat down. Viktor took another, straddled it.
“They come soon, I think,” he said. He tapped his watch. “Is time.”
Johnny looked over the gun, engaged the safety, then set it on the desk, lit a cigarette.
“One for me,” Viktor said. Johnny ignored him.
Fifteen minutes later, they saw headlights in the parking lot. Johnny went to the window, parted the blinds again. A dull black Cadillac and a gray Lincoln Town Car cruised slowly through the lot, parked behind the locksmith shop, facing it. Their headlights went off.
“Stay down,” Johnny said. He pulled the cord, raised the blinds halfway, then tugged the window up. There was no screen. Cold air swirled into the room.
There were heavy plat books atop a filing cabinet and he carried two of them to the desk, stacked them, sat back down. As he watched, another light went on in the back of the shop.
He rested the front stock of the AR-15 on the books, shifted his chair until he got the angle right. He fit the butt against his shoulder, looked through the scope. He twisted the focus dial until the scene below leaped into clarity. He tracked the crosshairs across the back door of the shop, lingered over the lighted windows.
Car doors opened. He watched men get out, two from the Town Car, three from the Cadillac. One of the three was Tony Acuna.
As he watched through the scope, the back door of the shop opened and someone greeted them from inside. The two from the Town Car went in while Acuna waited outside
with the others. He spoke to a man with silver-gray hair combed straight back, a topcoat and scarf. Frankie Santelli.
Johnny let the crosshairs drift over them. Acuna wore a heavy coat, thick glasses, a hat with a feather in it, leaned on a cane. If Johnny were to fire, he knew he would have to compensate for the angle, aim high, take into account the bullet's drop. He had a sudden image of the heavy shell striking home, vaporizing skull and skin, Acuna's body catapulting forward, nearly headless when he hit the ground.
The two Town Car men came back out. There was a brief discussion and all five went into the shop, closed the door behind them.
He set the gun on its side, sat back.
“Is him?” the Russian said. The room was cold enough now that his words misted in the air.
Johnny didn't answer, zipped his field jacket up, buttoned the collar.
Five minutes later, he saw Joey's Escalade pull into the lot. It parked sideways, using two spots. The headlights went off.
The cell phone in Johnny's pocket trilled. He opened it.
“Yeah?”
“We're here,” Lindell said.
“I can see that. Acuna's in there. Four others too.”
He heard Joey take the phone.
“You have a clear shot?” he said. Johnny could hear the tension in his voice.
“Yes.”
“If this goes bad, I want you to open up on those motherfuckers as soon as they come out the door. All of them. You understand?”
“Easy shots,” he said.
“Good. 'Cause remember what I said. My uncle won't take any chances. If I go, we all go.” The call ended.
He put the phone on the desktop, set his cigarette on the edge, lifted the gun again, put his eye to the scope.
For a few moments, there was no movement from the Escalade. Then both front doors opened, Lindell getting out
from the driver's side, Joey from the other. Johnny squinted into the scope, could see their breath. The back door of the shop opened, threw warm light onto the blacktop. They went to the door, spoke with someone there. Johnny could see a hand come out, touch Lindell's chest. More talking and then Lindell turned around, went back to the Escalade. Joey went inside the shop and the door closed behind him.
Lindell got back behind the wheel, and Johnny saw the plume of exhaust as he started the engine. Lindell would be running the heater, waiting, nervous. He let the gun rest again, took his cigarette from the edge of the desk. The cell phone rang. He picked it up.
“Yeah?”
“He's in,” Lindell said.
“I saw. You should stay off the phone. Someone'll look out a window, see you, wonder who you're talking to.”
“I don't like this, man. This waiting.”
“No way around it. Sit tight. If they were going to take Joey out, they wouldn't have left you outside. They would have let you go in with him, done you both.”
“I still don't like it.”
“Follow the plan.”
He ended the call, put the phone back on the desk.
“What's wrong?” the Russian said.
Johnny shook his head, picked up the rifle, leaned into it, feeling the coldness of the stock against his cheek. Through the scope he could see figures moving behind the lighted shop windows.
After twenty minutes, the back door opened again. Joey came out alone. He went to the Escalade, pulled open the passenger door and climbed up. The headlights came on as it pulled away.
The phone trilled again. Johnny set the rifle down, answered it.
“Get out of there,” Joey said, anger in his voice. “Clean the place up after yourself. Meet me at the warehouse.”
“What happened?”
“I'll tell you there.” He ended the call.
Johnny looked at the phone, closed it. The Russian was on his feet, watching him.
Johnny picked up the rifle, ejected the clip, worked the bolt to clear the breech. A shell clattered out onto the table. He fit it back into the clip.
“We go?” the Russian said.
“We go.”
 
Joey was pacing the break room. Johnny was in the same chair he'd had last time. Lindell sat across the table, watching Joey.
“That son of a bitch,” Joey said. “That cocksucking old
bastard.
”
He picked up a metal napkin dispenser, hurled it across the room. It hit a soda machine with a loud clang, bounced off and fell to the floor.
“What's the deal?” Johnny said. “How much?”
Joey wheeled on him.
“How much? Two hundred and fifty fucking K, that's how much. Can you believe that?”
“Could be worse.” He took his cigarettes out. “A couple days ago you were worried about even coming out of there alive.”
“That's beside the point. That old bastard wants two hundred five from me—
my
money, that
I've
earned—to keep the peace.”
“It's the nature of the business,” Johnny said. “You kick up.”
“‘Kick up'?
Fuck
him. What did he ever do for me?”
“I don't see you having a lot of options.”
“Options? How about I option to take out that old man and his whole fucking crew?”
Lindell looked up. Johnny turned away, looked out the window into the bay.
“And I could do it too,” Joey said, quieter now. “I've got the muscle, the people. I could do it.”
Johnny lit his cigarette.
“Don't talk nonsense,” he said.
“What did you say?”
Johnny let smoke out, looked up at him.
“Two hundred and fifty grand,” he said. “It's not worth it. Pay him. Get it over with.”
“Pay him?
You
fucking pay him.”
“It's a one-shot deal. Get the money together, give it to him. It keeps the peace, lets him know you're a serious player, lets you stay in business with his blessing. He's not going to be around forever.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“You talk like that and people hear you, you might not be around very long yourself. Give him the money, consider it an insurance payment, an expense. You'll earn it back triple within a couple years.”
“It's not your money.”
“You're right,” Johnny said. “It's not. You want to go after him, start taking out his guys? Just say the word. I'll do it. But I'm telling you I don't think it's a good idea. You think about it awhile, you'll realize I'm right.”
Joey turned away, looked out through the glass.
“When does he want it?” Lindell said.
“Four days from now,” Joey said. “Can you believe that? Four days to get that kind of money together and give it to him. Who the fuck does he think I am?”
“He thinks you're somebody that can raise that kind of money in four days,” Johnny said. “Which means he knows you're serious, that you're for real. Play it right, Joey, you'll come out of this way ahead.”
“And what's to keep him from whacking me as soon as I hand it over? I get the money up, give it to him, one of his fucking guys pops me, I end up buried at a chicken farm. What's to keep that from happening?”
“Me,” Johnny said. “I watch your back. I take the money to him myself if need be. Keep you safe. If he knows you can get the money, are capable of coming up with it, he won't fuck with you in the interim, endanger that.”
“You sound like you're sure about that.”
“I am,” he said.

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