The Heartbreak Lounge by Wallace Stroby Page B

out to take a look. They thought … well, you know what they thought.”
    He nodded at the floor.
    â€œCan I get my wallet back?”
    â€œHow’d you find me?”
    â€œLicense plate. Like I said, I’ve been trying to reach you. I called that number you gave Ray. Left messages.”
    â€œThat’s Jack’s cell. I use it sometimes. Why were you trying to call me?”
    â€œTo apologize for the way I acted that day.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious.”
    â€œBelieve what you want. I’m going to get my things.”
    He got up and she took another step back. He leaned over, pain in his back, picked up his wallet, the things that had fallen out of it—a credit card, a small color snapshot of Cristina on the beach, taken when they were in Captiva last year. He slid them back in the wallet, replaced it in his jeans pocket, stood up. His neck ached.
    â€œI’m sorry if you got hurt,” she said. “He was just protecting me.”
    â€œWhatever. I’m leaving.”
    â€œWait.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œI’ve had enough. Fuck this. And fuck you. I won’t call again.”

    Jack appeared in the doorway, looked from her to Harry then back.
    â€œNikki,” he said, “we need to get Reggie to a hospital. I think his nose is broken.”
    â€œGo ahead,” she said. “Take the Blazer.”
    He looked at Harry.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said. “It was a misunderstanding. Go on.”
    A minute later, Jack led Reggie through the room, a bloodstained dish towel held to his face. He glared at Harry as Jack got coats from a closet, helped him into one. Harry watched him. Jack caught Reggie by the arm, led him through the front door. After a moment, they heard the Blazer engine start, watched through the window as it pulled away.
    â€œWho’s William Matthews?” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe Blazer is registered to a William Matthews. That’s how I found this address.”
    â€œThat’s Jack. His real name is William, but nobody calls him that anymore.”
    â€œThat makes as much sense as anything else around here, I guess.”
    â€œI’m sorry about all this. Reggie can be a hothead. He comes on too strong sometimes. And I guess we’re all a little on edge.”
    â€œBecause of Harrow?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, good luck with that.”
    He went to the front door, had it open when she said, “Hold on.”
    He looked back at her.
    â€œYou’re serious?” she said. “About why you came here?”
    â€œForget it,” he said and went out the door. He stopped, looked back at her.
    â€œThis your package out here?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOn the porch. You didn’t see it?”
    â€œWhat package?”

    â€œRight here.”
    He held the door open. When she started to move past him, he threw his weight into her, pinned her hard against the left doorjamb. He caught the wrist of her gun hand, twisted. She flailed and he leaned into her.
    â€œLet go of me.”
    He got both hands on the wrist, bent it until she gasped and her fingers opened. He took the gun away from her, spun her around and put the fingers of his left hand between her breasts, shoved. She took three off-balance steps into the living room, sat down hard on the floor.
    â€œSon of a bitch, ” she said, and then he stepped back into the room, pushed the door shut behind him.
    She froze, looked at him, the gun.
    He ejected the magazine, worked the slide. The chambered shell flew out, hit the floor and rolled beneath the couch. He put the gun in his jacket pocket, then thumbed the shells out of the magazine one by one into his left hand. When he had all four out, he opened the door again, went onto the porch. He shook them like dice, the brass clinking in his grip, then tossed them out into the yard. He looked back at her, still sitting, then flung the magazine away in