The Heartbreak Lounge by Wallace Stroby

balance, swung at him, a big, strong right, and Harry dropped, let it pass over him, snapped the heavy flashlight hard against the point of the jogger’s right knee.
    Harry had learned the move years ago from a veteran trooper, practiced it with a baton until he could do it without thinking. He had taken down angry drunks with it, men twice his size, because the pain it produced was sudden and intense, in a place they hadn’t expected. You could disable a man immediately or, if you weren’t careful, break his kneecap into so many pieces he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

    The jogger cried out, grabbed at his knee, fell heavily onto his side, hugging his leg. Harry leaned over him quickly, batted one of his hands away, reached into the warm-up pocket and came out with the keys. He stepped away, trained the flashlight beam on the jogger’s face. The jogger squinted up at him.
    â€œI don’t know who you are,” Harry said. “And at this point, I don’t really give a fuck. But I guarantee you I’m not who you think I am.”
    He turned the flashlight off.
    â€œYou broke my knee.”
    â€œProbably not. I will next time, though. I promise you that. Is she home?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œGive it up. You did your duty. You can lay there all night or we can drive back, talk to her.”
    The jogger looked away, his shoulders rising and falling as his breathing settled.
    â€œI need you to help me up,” he said after a moment.
    â€œNo chance. Now, you can ride with me or walk. I don’t care. Up to you.”
    â€œDon’t hit me again,” the jogger said.
    Harry had to smile.
    â€œCome on,” he said. “Get in the car.”

8
    When they pulled up outside the house, the Blazer was back.
    â€œYou first,” Harry said and shut the car off.
    The jogger got out, limping. He went slowly up the walk to the porch, opened the front door. Harry followed him.
    The woman and the blond man were waiting. It was a simple living room, hardwood floor, a bookshelf against one wall, a black leather couch. Glossy decorating magazines fanned out on the coffee table.
    The woman wore jeans, a man’s blue work shirt with the tail out. When she saw him, she said, “It’s you.”
    The blond man looked at her. She shook her head.
    â€œNo, Jack,” she said. “Not him.”
    â€œI’ve been calling,” Harry said. “But I’ve been having some trouble getting through, it seems.”
    â€œWho is he?” the blond man said and as Harry started to answer, the jogger looped a thick arm around his neck, jerked him back.
    It took him off his feet, left him without leverage. He pumped an elbow back into a solid stomach with no effect.
    â€œReggie!” the blond man said.
    Harry kicked back, felt his boot heels meet shins. Reggie bent him forward, swung him around like a wrestler so that Harry was facing the floor in a reverse headlock, held him there.
    â€œJack, get his wallet,” Reggie said. “Check his ID.”
    Harry felt blood rush to his head, pain in his lower back. Jack came tentatively forward and Harry back-kicked at him, his boot hitting nothing but air. Jack retreated and Reggie hauled up, big arms tightening around Harry’s neck, cutting
the air off. He saw flashes of light around the edges of his vision. He stopped struggling, felt the wallet pulled from his back pocket.
    Jack took the wallet to the other side of the room. Reggie eased the pressure.
    â€œCheck his license,” he said. “Who he is.”
    Harry looked at Reggie’s legs, ankles.
    â€œWell?” Reggie said.
    Jack said, “I’m looking, I’m looking.”
    â€œHis license. What’s it say?”
    Harry spread his feet for balance, looped his right fist up hard into Reggie’s groin. He heard Reggie’s breath go out of him, felt the grip on his neck loosen. He reached down, caught both