He knocked twice, stepped back, waited. He'd parked the Mustang behind the Firebird, left the engine running, exhaust swirling up. The sun was sinking behind bare trees, dark and cold settling over everything. He knocked again.
The door cracked open, the black woman looked out at him. She was dressed in a basketball jersey, jeans. Beside her, a little girl watched him with unashamed curiosity. He could feel the warmth of the trailer, smell cooking food inside.
The woman said nothing, looked at the bandage on his ear.
“Is your husband here?” he said.
“Who?”
“Your husband ⦔ then catching himself: “Mitchell.”
“What you want with him? When you people ever going to leave him alone? He had nothing to do with those folks got killed.”
“I'm sorry. I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk to him.”
“You're a policeman, aren't you?”
He looked at the ground, shook his head, then back at her.
“No, ma'am,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Footsteps behind her, then Sweeton was standing there. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt.
“It's all right, Sharonda,” he said. Then to the little girl. “Treya, go back to your room.”
“Why?” she said.
He put his hand gently on her shoulder, still looking at Harry.
“Daddy needs to talk,” he said.
“You don't have to talk to him,” Sharonda said. “You don't have to talk to nobody.”
“It's okay,” he said.
Harry stepped back as Sweeton came out, closed the door behind him.
Harry looked to his right, saw the little girl peering out through kitchen curtains before her mother took her away.
“What is it?” Sweeton said, fear and uncertainty in his voice.
“You know who I am?”
Sweeton shook his head.
“Doesn't matter anyway,” Harry said. He held the black canvas bag out.
“What's that?” Sweeton said.
“It's yours. It's from your brother.”
“My brother?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get it?”
“He gave it to me, for you. And them.” He nodded at the door. “Don't worry. No one's going to come looking for it.”
“I don't understand.”
“You don't have to. Take it.” He raised the bag. Sweeton looked at it, took it from him, surprised at its weight.
“No one knows,” Harry said. “And at this point no one's left to care. It's all yours.”
Sweeton looked at the bag, sensing now what was in it. Harry took another step back.
“You, uh ⦠want to come in?” Sweeton said.
Harry shook his head.
“No. No need. Merry Christmas.”
He turned and started back to the Mustang. When he got to the car, he opened the door, looked back. Sweeton was still standing there, watching him.
“Merry Christmas,” Sweeton said and seemed to mean it.
Harry raised a hand, got into the car. As he pulled away, the suitcases clunked in the trunk. The cardboard box slid off the passenger seat onto the floorboard.
One more stop. And then the road.
He pulled out onto the highway, gave it gas, the heater blowing warm against his legs. He drove west, darkness in his rearview mirror, stars already sparkling coldly in the sky.
The sun was now just a violet glow on the horizon. But still a glow. A beacon, however long it lasted. And if he drove long enough it would return, as bright as ever. All he had to do was believe it. Hard as that was sometimes.
The night at his back, he drove on.
The Barbed-Wire Kiss
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“Intense and gritty,
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weaves a melancholy path through the decaying skeletons of the Jersey shore's dead resort towns, a dark, brooding landscape strobed by lightning strikes of passion and mayhem. If James Lee Burke had grown up in Asbury Park, he might have written
The Barbed-Wire Kiss
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âF. Paul Wilson, creator of Repairman Jack
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THE HEARTBREAK LOUNGE
Copyright © 2005 by Wallace Stroby.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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eISBN 9781429909280
First eBook Edition : March 2012
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ISBN: 0-312-93912-4
EAN: 9780312-93912-0
St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / February 2005
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / March 2006