The Heartbreak Lounge by Wallace Stroby Page A

ankles, pulled up.
    Reggie went over backward, crashed down onto the coffee table, smashed it. Harry straightened, saw him roll quickly back onto his feet, faster than he’d expected, too fast. He backpedaled, trying to put distance between them, catch his breath. The backs of his legs met the couch. On the end table to his left was a fluted glass vase filled with baby carnations. From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman run from the room.
    There was no boxing, no feinting. Reggie moved forward, planted his feet and drove a thick fist at Harry’s face, his whole body behind it.
    Harry ducked, felt the fist pass above him, reached across with his right hand, gripped the vase, brought it around backhanded. Reggie’s arm came up, blocked him forearm to forearm, and the vase flew from his hand, shattered against the wall, spraying glass and water.
    Reggie’s fist cocked back again and Harry kicked out, caught him in his injured knee. When he bent, Harry grabbed at his warm-up jacket, yanked it down over his head, tangling his arms, blinding him. He brought his right knee up once, twice, a solid impact each time. The jacket tore as Reggie pulled away and Harry got in a final knee, let go. Reggie flew back, fell onto his side, and Harry heard the unmistakable sound of an automatic pistol chambering a round.

    Everything stopped. Harry looked at the woman, tried to catch his breath. She held a small .25 automatic pointed at his chest. It was a Phoenix Raven, nickel, with imitation-pearl grips, a junk gun. The muzzle was small, but her grip was steady.
    â€œPut that away,” he said. The gun didn’t move. Behind her, the blond man stood white-faced.
    â€œSit down,” she said.
    Reggie moaned, rolled onto his knees. His jacket was in rags, blood dripped from his nose. He looked at Harry, then at the gun.
    â€œSit down,” she said.
    Harry locked his eyes on hers, measured the distance.
    â€œDon’t try it,” she said. “Please don’t try it.”
    â€œPoint that somewhere else.” He took a step forward.
    â€œI said sit the fuck down.”
    â€œThat’s a tiny gun,” he said. Another step. “I don’t think you could even—”
    She lowered the muzzle and fired once into the couch near his right leg. The noise was no louder than a stick breaking, but he felt the movement of the bullet past his leg, saw the impact as it slapped a hole in the leather. He froze. A thin mist of smoke and gun oil drifted from the muzzle. A shell casing rolled across the floor. She raised the gun again.
    â€œSit down, ” she said.
    He lowered himself slowly onto the couch, his eyes on her. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. Flowers lay on the hardwood like fish out of water.
    There was silence in the room. Reggie started to get to his feet. He pulled the remnants of the warm-up jacket off, exposing a bloodstained white T-shirt beneath. He touched his nose, looked at Harry. But the violence was gone from the air, the gunshot ending it as quickly and finally as a door closing.
    â€œNikki,” the blond man said finally, “you know that’s Italian, don’t you?”
    â€œJack,” she said, not taking her eyes off Harry, “take Reggie into the kitchen. Make sure he’s all right.”

    She lowered the gun until it was pointed at the floor. For the first time, Harry could see she was trembling slightly.
    â€œNikki, are you sure?”
    â€œGo on.”
    Reggie had taken his headband off, was holding it up to his nose to staunch the blood. He looked at Harry until Jack took his elbow, started to lead him away. He limped as they went down the hall into the kitchen.
    â€œMaybe I should call the police,” she said.
    â€œCall whoever the fuck you like.” He saw his wallet open on the floor where Jack had dropped it, contents spilling out.
    â€œJack saw you parked outside. He panicked, called here on his cell. Reggie went