The Heartbreak Lounge (Harry Rane, Band 2) - Hardcover

Stroby, Wallace

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0312300956 ISBN 13: 9780312300951

Verlag: Minotaur Books, 2005

Inhaltsangabe

Ex-state trooper Harry Rane, who first appeared in Wallace Stroby's brilliant debut novel, The Barbed-Wire Kiss, is at loose ends. Doing some investigative work for a friend's firm just to keep himself busy, Harry meets Nikki Ellis, a woman desperate for help. Her ex, Johnny Harrow, was just released from prison after a seven-year stretch for attempted murder. Nikki hasn't spoken to him since he went down, but she knows what he's capable of, and that he'll be looking for her-and for the baby she put up for adoption after Johnny went away. She knows it's up to her to protect the child once again. And she's afraid.

As Harry finds out, she should be. Johnny is headed home to New Jersey to settle up with anyone who did him wrong while he was gone, including Nikki and his former employer, mobster Joey Alea. Then he's planning to find his son and start a new life.

Johnny starts at the Heartbreak Lounge, where Nikki was a dancer when she first met Johnny, and works his way through their old life, leaving a trail of blood and fear in his wake. Only Harry might be tough enough-or reckless enough-to help her. What happens next shows why the searing talent and explosive writing evident in The Barbed-Wire Kiss was only the beginning, and why Wallace Stroby is destined to be one of the finest crime writers of a generation.

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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Wallace Stroby is an editor for the New Jersey Star Ledger. His first novel, The Barbed-Wire Kiss, was a finalist for the Barry Award for Best First Novel. He lives in New Jersey, where he was born and raised.

Wallace Stroby is an editor for the New Jersey Star Ledger. His first novel, The Barbed-Wire Kiss, was a finalist for the Barry Award for Best First Novel. He lives in New Jersey, where he was born and raised.

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Heartbreak Lounge

1

Two days out of prison and twenty miles south of Daytona, Johnny decided he'd walked far enough.

He slipped the duffel bag off his shoulder, dropped it in the parched grass. There wasn't much in it: two pairs of jeans, some spare shirts and socks and the books from his cell--paperbacks of Nietzsche and Sun-Tzu, the Hagakure. He'd given everything else away before being processed out.

He sat on the duffel, elbows on his knees. He knew there was little chance of getting a ride for the next few miles, especially the way he looked, and he was light-headed from the sun and lack of food. He hadn't eaten since the night before, eggs and coffee at an all-night diner in Melbourne. He'd slept in a park, taken his chances with the police, not wanting to spend any more of the little kick-out money he had left on a motel.

There was a single Camel in the bent pack in his shirt pocket. He shook it out, straightened it, lit it with the silver Marine Corps lighter he'd stolen off a bar in Boynton Beach. He sucked in the smoke, held it for a good long time before letting it out, then crumpled the empty pack, tossed it. He sat there smoking, his legs sore, his back stiff, feet blistered in the heavy work boots. He would hurt tonight. Hurt twice as much if he had to sleep outside again.

He heard an engine, turned to look back the way he'd come. A flatbed truck rumbled toward him in the heat haze. Without getting up, he held out his thumb. The truck blew by him, raising dust and grit from the road, leaving it suspended in the air.

Passenger cars were few on this stretch of Route 1, and heknew his best chance was a truck. Yesterday he'd gotten a ride all the way from Fort Pierce to the outskirts of Melbourne in the bed of a pickup driven by two Mexican day laborers. He sat on stacked concrete blocks and when they let him off, the dust was all over his clothes, his skin. He'd walked into town from there.

He took off the Marlins cap he'd bought in a convenience store, rubbed at his stubble. In Glades he'd kept his head shaved, had only let his hair grow out in the month before his release. It was thickening now, itching as it came in, but it offered little protection. The cap helped keep the sun off his scalp and forehead, but he could feel the stiffness and burning on the back of his neck.

He finished the cigarette, watched a hawk glide in the thermal currents above the tree line. There was swamp on both sides of the highway, the air thick with the sulfur smell of it. Spanish moss hung from the cypress trees and it looked cool and dark among them, but the one time he had wandered in to get out of the sun, he had ended up knee-deep in water. So he kept to the road.

Out here, between towns, he knew he was running the biggest risk. He watched for the tan and black Florida State Police cruisers: if a trooper thought he was hitchhiking, he would be stopped, questioned, have to show ID. He was legal, free and clear, but that wouldn't matter. Cops were cops, and here it would be even worse. If he looked down-and-out--if he looked like what he was--they would fuck with him, make him spend a night in their drunk tank, cite, fine and release him. All by way of warning: Don't come back.

He wasn't coming back, he knew that. If he ever got out of this state, he was never coming back.

He brushed ash from his pants, stood up, his knees aching. He picked up the duffel, slung it over his right shoulder.

He heard the car before he saw it. Didn't bother to turn at first, until he heard the pitch of the engine change, slow. It was a dark green Buick Electra, sun flashing off chrome. He put his thumb out, saw a glimpse of blonde hair as the carwent by. It was halfway up the rise when its brake lights glowed.

He watched the car slow, steer onto the shoulder, pause there as if the driver were having second thoughts. Then it began to slowly reverse, veering slightly from side to side. He could see the woman behind the wheel now, right arm thrown over the seat as she backed up, no one else in the car.

It stopped a few yards ahead of him, the woman looking back, sizing him up, her foot probably still on the gas pedal, ready to pull away in an instant. He knew how he must look, covered with dust and grime, his blue work shirt sweat dark. He walked slow, expecting the car to peal away, leave him breathing road dust. It stayed where it was.

As he got closer, there was a click from the trunk and the lid rose. He looked at her through the back window, saw her smile.

The trunk was big, empty except for a blanket and a white metal first-aid kit. He dropped the duffel in, shut the lid, heard the thunk as she unlocked the passenger-side door automatically.

He opened the door, said, "Thanks," and got in.

She was in her late forties, early fifties: frosted blonde hair, blue flowered blouse, designer jeans. She was toned and fit, her skin tan and slightly leathery. He saw all this in the moment it took him to slide onto the seat, pull the door closed.

The car was chill with air-conditioning and smelled of perfume, powder. The leather seats were cold through his jeans. She looked at him for a moment, put her blinker on and pulled back onto the road.

"Not many rides along here, I wouldn't think," she said. "And that sun ..."

"You're right about that."

He shifted in the seat, shivered slightly as his sweat began to cool. "I appreciate your stopping."

"Is this too much AC for you? I can open the windows."

"No, it feels good."

He pulled at his shirt, tugged loose the wet patches where it clung to his skin.

"I don't usually do this," she said. "I haven't in years."

He took off his cap, ran a hand through his stubble.

"Well, I'm glad you did."

"Your neck is burned. It must be painful."

"I'll be fine. When I get where I'm going, I'll buy something, put on it."

"And where are you going?"

"St. Augustine. I'm meeting some friends there."

"That's not too far. An hour and a half at most."

"Then that's fine with me."

He looked out the window at the cypress trees rushing by. It was good to be in a car again, riding.

After a while, she said, "You're being rude."

He looked at her, saw she was smiling.

"Sorry," he said. "I think the heat's got me zoning a little."

"I can understand that."

"My name's John. John Harrow."

"Mine's Teresa. You from Florida, John? You don't sound like it."

"New Jersey."

"That's what I thought. New Jersey or New York. You get down into South Florida and everybody you meet is from one or the other. It's like the South just stops and the North starts up again. Where are you coming from?"

"West Palm," he said. "Had some work down there, but it ran out. And I wanted to get home for the holidays anyway."

"You planning on hitchhiking all the way to New Jersey?"

He shook his head. There was a silver cigarette case on the seat between them.

"Mind if I take one of those?" he said.

"Go ahead."

He opened the case. They were women's cigarettes, long, with a good inch of filter.

"One for you?" he said.

"No, I'm trying to cut back. Add a few years to my life."

He took a cigarette out and she punched in the dashboard lighter. He put the case back on the seat, broke the filter off.

"Sorry," he said. "Not used to them."

"That's all right."

He powered the window down, hot air rushing in, threw the filter out. When the lighter popped, she handed it to him. He got the cigarette going, dragged the smoke deep into his...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Minotaur Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2005
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0312300956
• ISBN 13: 9780312300951
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar