“You're not listening to me, are you?” she said.
“Just making an observation.”
“Ms. Ellis was telling me earlier,” Ray said. “She feels he might have the resources to track the boy down.”
“After seven years?” Harry said. “I'm no expert on adoption law, but that sounds like it might be difficult.”
“You say that,” she said, “because you don't know him.”
“Let's back up a little,” Ray said. “You gave the child up immediately after delivery, right?”
“Yes.”
“So the father's never seen him? Has no legal claim on him?”
“No.”
“Where was he incarcerated?” Harry said.
“Florida,” Ray said. “A place called Belle Glade.”
“And he just got out?”
“Last week,” she said.
“How do you know that?” Harry said.
“Thank the Florida Department of Corrections,” Ray said. “They have a system you can access online. I had a look. It's unbelievable. Everything's right there. Arrest records, sentencing, date of incarceration, date of release. All public record. You can type in a name, get it all in a few seconds.”
“I was registered with them,” she said. “As someone to be notified when he was released. I got a letter two weeks ago.”
“So you knew this was coming?” Harry said.
“No. Not this soon.”
“It looks like he swung some sort of early release,” Ray said. “Not sure why. He was sentenced to nine years, did a little short of seven when they released him.”
“Parole?” Harry said.
Ray shook his head. “Not in Florida. They eliminated parole per se, War on Crime and all that. They've got a similar systemâa tougher oneâcalled Gaintime, but that's not the case here either. Whatever the reason was, it's not part of the public record.”
“And how do we know he's back up here?”
“If he's not yet,” she said, “he will be.”
“You had any communication with him in the interim? Threatening letters, phone calls?”
She shook her head.
“No. Not since that last letter. I never wrote back.”
Harry picked up his mug, sipped cooling coffee, looked at Ray.
“What I need to know,” she said to Ray, “is whether you're going to help or not. And if not, tell me that right now.”
“Let's slow down a minute ⦠.”
“From what I know of the adoption process,” Harry said, “there are already a lot of safeguards in place, for mothers who change their minds, that sort of thing.”
She looked at him.
“What makes you think they won't work?” he said.
“Do you have a problem with me?” she said. “Because if so, why don't you just say it?”
“No problem,” he said, shaking his head.
“Whoa,” Ray said. They both looked at him.
“Chances are,” he said, “Harry's probably right. I mean, the system's in place for just this kind of thing. There's likely no chance at all of him being able to track the boy down to his adopted family.”
“I need to be sure,” she said.
“I understand that. And it's not like you're exactly helpless here. We can look into it, at least make some sort of notification to the agency about a possible threat. Give them a heads-up. That's a start.”
“And you could do that in a letter,” Harry said to her, feeling Ray's eyes on him. “You don't need us for that.”
“But the bigger question,” Ray said quickly, “is, do you feel like you may be in danger yourself?”
“Maybe. I don't know.”
“Because that's an issue we
can
do something about. And that's pretty straightforward. We can look into it, find out where he is, if he's in the area or not. Do what we call a threat assessment. And we can keep you safe.”
“How much would that cost me?”
“It would depend,” Ray said. “We'll draw up a regular contract, but it's negotiable. It all depends on what's involved.”
She gave that a moment, looked out the window, then back at Ray.
“You could find him?”
“We could try. Then the issue would be keeping him away from you. And there are ways to do that.”
“The reason I came to you,” she said, “was that I heard
you did work that some agencies wouldn't, for people who didn't have much money.”
“That's true,” Ray said. “Sometimes.”
“I have some money saved, but not a lot.”
“Or,” Harry said, “you could just do what most people in your situation would do. Go to your local judge, get a restraining order. And that wouldn't cost a cent.”
She rounded on him.
“What is your fucking problem?”
He raised his hands, palms out.
“Who are you to judge me? What do you know about me, my situation?”
Harry felt his face growing red.
“Listenâ” he said.
“No, you listen.” She stood up. “Don't you patronize me, you asshole.” She looked at Ray. “I guess I did make a mistake.”
“Hold on,” Ray said, getting up. “Just hold on.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Just wait a second,” he said, coming around the desk. “Let's just everyone calm down and we can finish talking here. Becauseâ”
“I don't think so,” she said. She snatched the coat off the chair, walked quickly out of the office.
Harry sipped cold coffee.
“She'll be back,” he said.
Ray stood there, hands on his hips, looking out the door. Then he crossed to the window.
“Explain that,” he said, without looking at Harry. “And do it slow, so I understand.”
“I appreciate the gesture, Ray. But it's not necessary.”
Ray turned to look at him.
“What?”
“Hard to consider that a coincidence. I get bounced from your street team and then a day later you're trying to find busy work for me, with a client you wouldn't take on in a hundred years. You give me something to do, charge her
practically nothing. It's a good arrangement, I guess, butâ”
“What did you just say?”
Harry saw the anger in his eyes.
“Ray, if you're pissed, I'll run after her right now, apologize, bring her back, if that's what you want. But if this whole thing was for my benefit, you needn't have bothered.”
“I don't believe you,” Ray said. “I really don't. You think
everything
that
anybody
does is some sort of a reflection on you?”
“I know the way you are. The way you handle things. You wouldn't even have had her in here if it weren't for me. How long ago did she first call you? Two weeks? Three?”
Ray turned away, looked out the window again.
“Well?” Harry said.
“Last week. I told her we couldn't help her, told her to write a letter to the agency, talk to the local cops about a restraining order. I called her back this morning, asked her to come in.”
“That's what I thought.”
“There's a blue Blazer pulling up outside. She's getting in it.”
“You do too much,” Harry said to his back. “You're looking out for me, I know. But I'll get by.”
“There she goes.”
“Sorry.”
Ray turned to him.
“It's not like you to be that rude,” he said. “Under any circumstances. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.”
“Something about her. It just rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn't explain it.”
“Let
me
explain something about clients: You don't have to like them. In most cases you don't. And you know something? It shouldn't make any difference.”
Harry raised his hands, let them fall.
“I've put up with a lot of moods from you, partner,” Ray said. “You know that? And most of them I've let slide by, haven't even acknowledgedâ”
“I know.”
“âbecause you've been through a lot. So I guess you have the right to be a disagreeable son of a bitch every now and then. But lately, I think you're taking on the role for life.”
Harry put his elbows on his thighs, rubbed his temples, still feeling the pressure there.
“I'm sorry,” he said again.
“All the years I've known you ⦠You're like family to me, you know that? So, yeah, every once in a while I try to help you a little, drag you out of that hole you dig for yourself when you want to feel bad. And you fight me on it every step. And that, I don't understand.”
“Where's her number?” Harry said, getting up. “I'll call.”
“And say what?”
“I don't know. I'll tell her I'm sorry. I'll tell her we can work something out.”
“And you think that'll fly, after what happened in here?”
“No, I don't think it will. But I'll do it for you.”
Ray sat back down at the desk, sighed.
“Fifteen years,” he said. “And sometimes I feel like I don't know you at all.”
He tore off a sheet of notepad paper, dropped it near the phone. Harry went to the desk, sat on the edge, picked up the paper. Written on it was the name Nicole Ellis and a ten-digit phone number.
“I think that's a cell,” Ray said.
Harry pushed the speakerphone button. The dial tone was loud.
“Nine first,” Ray said.
Harry looked at the paper, punched in the numbers. It buzzed twice, three times. There was a click as the line was opened.
“Yes?” A man's voice.
They looked at each other. Ray shrugged.
Harry said, “I'm looking for Ms. Ellis.”
“She's right here. Hold on a minute.”
A pause as the phone was handed over.
“Yes?” Her voice.
“Ms. Ellis, this is Harry Rane. I just want to sayâ”
“I'm glad you called.”
He looked at Ray, raised an eyebrow.
“Good,” he said. “Why's that?”
“Because I didn't get a chance to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
The line went dead.
The speaker hissed, clicked. The dial tone returned. They listened to it without speaking.
“Well,” Harry said finally. “There you go.”
The Heartbreak Lounge was decorated for Christmas. There were cardboard cutouts of smiling reindeer on the walls, fake snow sprayed on the mirrors that lined the room. On the stage behind the circular bar, two women in thong bikinis moved slowly to an old Motown song. Inlaid on the stage floor was the green neon outline of a heart, an illuminated crack running through it. A rear-projection TV on the far wall was showing a hockey game.
Johnny sipped his Heineken, looked around, the place less than a quarter full, the game getting more attention than the girls. A pack of college kids to his right, baseball caps reversed, doing shots and high-fiving one another afterward. To his left, a handful of young Mexicans, restaurant workers maybe, keeping to themselves. On the other side of the bar, two men in suits and loosened ties, money in front of them, eyes on the dancers.
He'd been here almost two hours, but it was only his second beer. The barmaid had come by several times and he'd shaken his head. She was ignoring him now.
One of the girls made eye contact with him, smiled, almost sadly. She was barely into her twenties, with short dark hair, breasts so small she hardly needed the bikini top to cover them. She did a slow turn around the silver pole, eyes half closed. Stoned, he guessed. Couldn't climb up onto the stage without something to give her distance, soften the edges of the world.
He lit his fourth cigarette, separated a twenty from the wet bills in front of him. The barmaid, a bleached blonde in her late thirties, saw it and moved toward him.
“Heineken?” she said.
He shook his head.
“Got a question.”
“A what?”
“A question. If you can help me out, this is yours.”
“Give me a break.”
He folded the twenty.
“If you don't want it, give it to one of the girls.”
“What's the question?”
“Used to be a girl danced here. She called herself Jasmine sometimes. You remember her? Her real name was Nikki.”
“Jasmine? Do you know how many Jasmines have been through here? Or Nikkis, for that matter? And Britneys and Brandys and Willows?”
“You remember that Jasmine? Long brown hair? A tattoo of a butterfly”âhe reached around, touched his lower backâ“right here?”
“You're kidding, right?”
He looked at her for a moment, sat back.
“Never mind,” he said. “Keep the twenty. And bring me another beer when you get a chance.”
“Anything you say, sport,” she said and took the bill.
The music had changedâfast and loud now, thumping bass and distorted guitars. Two new dancers took the stage. One was tall and black, with a full natural, tight leather pants, a white halter top and hoop earrings. The other was older, red hair in a ponytail, wearing a T-shirt cut raggedly just below her breasts, a dark bikini bottom lined with sequins.
The barmaid brought the Heineken, opened it and set it in front of him, moved away. The first two dancers were working the bar now, talking with the drinkers, pushing their breasts together for money, then moving on.
The sad-eyed girl came over to him, walking gingerly on high heels, and he took another twenty from his pile. She leaned over the bar and hunched her shoulders to create cleavage. He shook his head, took her hand, put the bill inside and closed her fingers over it. She gave him a stoned smile, slid her other hand into her bikini top and pulled the
material away slightly to give him a flash of nipple. She blew him a kiss and moved away. With her back to him, she looked at the bill, saw it was a twenty. She looked over her shoulder, gave him another smile.
Of the two women onstage, the black one was clearly the favorite. The hockey game was forgotten now, hands holding out singles and fives. She ground her hips slowly as if in defiance of the faster pace of the music, intently watching her own reflection in the mirrored wall. She was someplace else, away from the catcalls and offered bills.
The red-haired woman worked the pole at her end of the stage, worked it hard, knowing she was being ignored, putting effort into it anyway. At first he didn't recognize her. She was thinner than he'd known her, almost gaunt, her muscles toned from exercise, the baby fat gone. Struggling to hold on to her looks, he thought, her ability to make money, while an endless supply of girls barely out of high school came through the door every day.
He fixed his gaze on her and after a while she became aware of it. She looked over at him, no recognition in her eyes, then swung into another routine, using the pole as an axis point. When she slowed, she looked over again and he gave her a lift of his chin. It threw her. She missed a step, almost lost her balance, then recovered, fell back into the practiced movement.
The song ended and she slowed and stopped, looked at him. She stepped down from the stage carefully, ignored the men gesturing to her, made her way behind the bar to where he sat.
“Hey, Sherry,” he said. “Looking good.”
“Johnny Boy.”
“Long time.”
“You almost gave me a heart attack, seeing you there.”
The black dancer had left the stage as well, was talking to the suits, leaning close.
“All the years since I've been in here,” he said, “not much has changed.”
“I don't know where she is, John. I haven't seen her in years.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Who?”
“There's only one reason you'd come back here. I know that.”
“Maybe I'm just here to see you.”
“Not much chance of that, is there?”
The barmaid came by, took a bottle from the speed rack. Sherry stepped aside to give her room.
“Come on, Sherry,” the barmaid said without looking at her. “Spread the wealth around. You know Sahid gets pissed about this. He'll be on my ass again.” She moved away.
“I'm not supposed to talk to the same customer for too long. Bad manners.”
“Who's Sahid?”
“Manager. He and his brother bought the place when Joey sold it. About three years ago now. A couple of pigs. Lebanese.”
“Maybe it's time to look for another career.”
“Doing what?”
He shrugged.
“What time you wrap up here? Maybe we can take a few minutes, catch up on old times.”
She looked toward a bouncer standing near the door, shaved head, massive arms folded, wearing a yellow polo shirt that said STAFF on the back. But he was watching the game, oblivious to her.
“Just a few minutes, Sherry. To talk.”
She looked back at him.
“I'm not going to be any help to you, Johnny. Really.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Two.”
“I'll meet you here. You have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'll wait for you outside. We can sit, talk.”
He gathered his cigarettes and lighter from the bar, picked up the rest of his money. She watched him.
“Just talk, Sherry, that's all,” he said. “See you at two.”
Â
Â
He held her head down, his hand on the back of her neck, feeling the heat rising inside him. Sensing he was close, she tried to raise up, get her hand on him to finish him off, but he tightened his grip, his fingertips buried in the muscles of her neck.
He tried to hold off as long as he could, but then his breath was hitching, his hips arching off the seat, and it was all over. He held her there until he was done, then sat back, breathing slowly, took his hand away.
She sat up in the passenger seat, pulled away from him. There was a small pack of tissues on the console near the gearshift. She pulled one out, wiped at her mouth.
He tucked his limpness in, zipped up and resnapped his jeans. They were in the front seat of her Honda in the parking lot of the Heartbreak, the engine running, heater on. The club was dark, the parking lot empty except for them. The wind off the ocean rocked the car slightly.
She'd changed back into her street clothes: a T-shirt, jeans and high-heeled boots. Her work outfits and the money she'd made that night were in a gym bag in the back, next to a child's car seat.
“Been a while since I felt that,” he said. “You're as good as you always were.”
She was looking out the window, not letting him see her face.
“I'm going to get married,” she said after a moment. “He's a good man. He runs his own business.”
“Congratulations.”
“He's buying a house. For Janey and me.”
He took a pack of her cigarettes from the dashboard, shook one out.
“Why did you come back?” she said.
He left the filter on, got the cigarette going with his lighter, drew in smoke. He felt relaxed, loose, for the first time since he'd walked out of Glades.
“What else was I going to do?” he said. “Seven years is a long time. I had business to settle up here.”
“What kind of business?”
He didn't answer, blew smoke out.
“She hasn't worked here in a long time,” she said. “Maybe six years. She just sort of dropped out of the scene. I don't know where she went.”
“She didn't tell you?”
She shook her head.
“I don't believe that,” he said.
“It's true.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“About what?”
He turned to her.
“What do you think?”
“She had nothing to do with what happened to you down in Florida, John, nothing at all. She loved you.”
“Every day of the trial, I sat at that table, looked out at the people there. Every day I looked for her.”
“She didn't have the money to go down there, John. She wanted to, but she couldn't. Not then.”
He shook his head slowly, rolled the window down. Cold air filled the car, fought with the heat from the vents.
“When was the last time you saw her?” he said.
“Like I said, five years at least, maybe six.”
“Which is it?”
“At least six since she worked here, Johnny. Maybe I saw her once or twice after that.”
“And all this time, she hasn't called you? Written?”
“She wanted to get away from all this. Hard to blame her. All I would have done is remind her.”
“It's not good to forget about your friends like that.”
“I wanted her to go, Johnny. She had a chance. She had to take it.”
“Was she with somebody? A guy?”
“I don't know, Johnny. Why are you asking me these things?”
He felt the anger then, reached over, caught her ponytail, pulled. She made a small noise, stiffened, raised her chin as he wound the hair tighter.
“Why am I asking you? Why the fuck do you think I'm asking you? Was there a guy?”
He twisted, felt the hair grow taut, saw the tears bloom in the corners of her eyes.
“Johnny, please ⦔
He pushed her away lightly, let go, turned to look out the window again.
“Seven years,” he said. He flicked the cigarette out the window, watched it spark and glow on the blacktop.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“There's no stopping you, is there?” she said. “No matter how things really are, no matter what the truth is, you only believe what you want to believe. You get something in your head and that's it.”
“I want to see my son. I have that right. And I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
She turned away from him.
“Maybe you haven't heard from her in six years,” he said.
“And maybe you have, but you're trying to protect her. I understand that, respect it even. So I want you to understand this: I don't want to hurt her. She wants me out of her life now, that's fine. But she can't keep my son away from me.”
“Johnny, I haven'tâ”
“Let me finish. There's something in it for you too, if you help me out. More than you'd make in a month here shaking your tits at strangers. You tell me where she is, or how I can find her, and I drop the money on you and walk away. You never have to deal with me again.”
There was a pack of matches on the console, black with a green broken heart on the front flap, no words. He reached across her, opened the glove box, rooted through the clutter thereâanother package of Kleenex, makeup, a small stuffed animalâuntil he found a ballpoint pen. He shut the glove box, opened the matchbook, wrote Mitch's phone number inside it.