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CHAPTER 1
When Harry walked in the door, Bobby was sitting at the end of the bar, watching a redhead take off her clothes.
Barely dark outside, but in here the night was in full swing. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like cotton, and the music was loud enough that Harry could feel the bass through the soles of his boots. Years since he'd been in here, but the clientele hadn't changed much. Fishermen mostly, drinking their dinners, hard faces chiseled by sun and wind. He had grown up around men like these.
Bobby's eyes were on the dancer. Harry came up behind him unseen.
"Hey, slick," he said. "Put your tongue back in your mouth."
Bobby froze, a cigarette halfway to his lips. He swiveled slowly, the hard look on his face twisting into a smile. "Son of a bitch. You made it."
He put out his hand and Harry took it, felt the calloused palm, the strength there. Bobby wore his work clothes: a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, tan work boots. The black snake tattoo that circled his left forearm was faded from years in the sun.
Harry slid onto the stool beside him. Bobby stubbed out his cigarette in a tin ashtray, signaled to the barmaid. She was a hard-eyed blonde in a halter top, with a blue butterfly tattoo above her left breast. He pointed at his empty shot glass, and she took a bottle of tequila from the speed rack, poured, looked at Harry.
"Whatever's on tap," he said.
"Just bottles now."
"Corona."
She came back with the open beer, the sides slick with condensation, a slice of lime wedged into the top. Bobby slid a wet twenty toward her, and she took it away without a word.
"There used to be a girl tended bar here," Harry said. "A tall blonde ..."
"Lisa."
"Whatever happened to her?"
"Moved on, I guess. Just like everybody."
He pushed the lime through, clamped his thumb over the mouth of the bottle and upturned it. The slice rose toward the bottom in a thin stream of bubbles.
Bobby lifted his shot glass. "You know what this shit always reminds me of?"
"What's that?"
"When we snuck that bottle of Cuervo into the dance, junior year? And got busted by Sister Francis? My old man beat my ass over that. Not that he ever needed a reason."
He righted the beer, let the carbonation hiss out under his thumb. He scanned the faces on the other side of the bar. Some looked back, held his gaze, eyes shining with alcohol.
"You still driving that old Ford?" Bobby said.
"Got it outside."
"Still pouring money into it?"
"Put in a new clutch plate last week." He raised his right hand to show the pink spots on his knuckles.
"I do that shit because I have to," Bobby said. "What's your excuse? Hire a mechanic, for Christ's sake."
"Keeps me busy."
He held his bottle out. Bobby touched it with his shot glass.
"It's good to see you," Bobby said. "We shouldn't have let it go this long."
They drank. Harry's beer was sharp and cold.
The redhead was down to just a thong and bra. She finished her routine, stepped gingerly from the stage.
"Nice view," Harry said. "But not a great place to talk."
"Better than the house. I had to get out of there for a while. And here at least, if you didn't show up, the night wouldn't be a total loss."
"Got a point there. How's Janine?"
"Fine, I guess. But there's some shit going on, isn't exactly making life easy. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
A Prince song began to blast from hidden speakers and another dancer took the stage. She had short blonde hair and wore a sheer white teddy over bikini panties, her nipples and pubic area dark patches beneath the material. He watched her move, wondered if she was married, if she had small children whose clothes and food she bought with the money she made here.
"Tell the truth, I can't remember the last time we actually sat down, had a drink together," Bobby said. He thumbed open a box of Marlboros, took out a cigarette, slid the box toward Harry. He shook his head.
"Quit."
"Forgot. How long now?"
"Almost two years. I stopped in the hospital. Just never picked it up again."
"Good man."
Bobby lit the cigarette with a plastic lighter.
"Sometimes I think about what you went through," he said. "First Melissa, then that other thing. I don't know if I could have handled it."
"Sometimes you don't have a choice."
Harry sipped beer, watched the dancer. She was on all fours now, tiger-crawling across the mirrored floor, her movements jerky in the strobe lights. She reached the edge of the stage and swung down.
Bobby separated a five-dollar bill from his change, folded it lengthwise, held it out. She noticed it from the corner of her eye, moved toward them. Harry saw she was younger than she looked on stage, twenty-five tops, her skin taut and firm, filmed with perspiration.
She smiled at them, leaned over the bar and shrugged the straps of the teddy halfway down her shoulders, pushed her small, pale breasts together. Bobby folded the five again, tucked it into her cleavage.
She kissed him quickly on the mouth, smiled at Harry, and drew away. When she got back on stage, she tugged the teddy into place, dropped the five into an open gym bag, and fell instantly back into her routine.
"Pretty good," Harry said. "What do you get for a twenty?" "She gives you a handjob in the back room and then a bouncer beats the shit out of you and throws you out."
"Not a bad deal." He swiveled on his stool. "They still have that deck out back?"
"Yeah."
"Let's go. We can talk better there."
Bobby emptied the shot glass, gathered his cigarettes and change. Harry picked up his beer, and they walked down a short corridor, past bathrooms and pay phones, and out onto a small wooden deck overlooking the inlet.
The night was warm, the smell of the tide thick in the air. Bobby leaned on the railing, flicked away his cigarette. They looked down at the red and green lights of charter boats heading out to sea.
"Bluefish," Bobby said. "They're running now. Night's best time for it. Guys pay fifty dollars a head, go out there and drink beer, catch fish all night long."
Harry stood beside him, waited. In the distance, he could see a long line of brake lights on the Route 35 drawbridge heading into Belmar. Across the inlet, a car nosed into the weeds near the water's edge. The headlights went out and, after a few minutes, they heard teenage laughter, the sound of a bottle breaking.
"It was Janine's idea I talk to you," Bobby said. "At first I told her, nah, you don't need to hear this shit. But the more I thought about it ..."
"What's the problem?" He set the bottle on the railing.
Bobby opened the pack of Marlboros, shook one loose.
"Business deal," he said. "I should know better, right?"
He lit the cigarette, tucked the pack and lighter in his shirt pocket.
"There's this guy I know from the boatyard. He had a shot at something, but he needed a partner. It was a sweet deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"What do you think?"
Harry said nothing. The boats were moving under the open drawbridge now. The lead vessel saluted the bridge tender with a bleat of its horn.
"I used to sell a little weed years back," Bobby said. "You knew that. It was no big deal. Everybody was doing it. Except you, of course. You remember Jimmy Cortez?"
"Should I?"
"You'd know him if you saw him. He used to tend bar at a couple places around here. Lives in Bradley Beach. Skinny guy, dark skin, looked like that actor ... what's his name? Andy Garcia?"
Harry shook his head, shrugged.
"I used to go out with his older sister, Andrea. You might have known her, she was a couple years behind us at Red Bank Catholic. We hooked up for a little while after I quit school. She lives in Denver now. Got the fuck out of New Jersey while she could. Can't blame her."
"Tell me about Jimmy."
"He used to deal a little on the side when he was bartending. Nothing big. Six, seven years ago, he cut me in on a couple small things. He made it worth my while."
"How small?"
"I probably got five hundred back each time. Not much. We were a little strapped for cash, so it made a difference. I never handled the product, just helped him with the front money. About six months ago he came to work at the boatyard. I hadn't seen him for a while. He sounded me out a couple times, asked if I wanted to pick up where we left off. I told him no, I didn't think so. It wasn't worth the trouble anymore. He understood."
"And then?"
"Two months ago he came to me again, told me he was putting something together, something good, bigger than before. But he needed a partner to make it fly, someone he could trust."
"And this time you said yes."
"Some things had changed. I decided to reconsider."
"You sure you want to tell me all this?"
"Who else can I tell? I'm not pissing and moaning. I knew what I was getting into. It was my decision."
"What happened?"
"It was a little scary at first. It was like playing in a different league, you know? I had to scrape a little to come up with my end. For a while, I didn't know if I could. Would have been better if I hadn't, I guess."
"How much money?"
"Up front? Twenty grand."
"You had that much lying around?"
"We were equal partners, so we only had to come up with ten each. Even then it wasn't easy. But we got it together. Jimmy gave it to this guy and he fronted us a package. I went along for the ride."
"Why?"
"He knew Jimmy couldn't come up with that kind of money himself. He wanted to meet me, check me out, I guess. What we gave him wasn't a third of what it was worth, so he had a lot coming back. It was a big investment on his part."
"How much did you owe on the balance?"
"Enough."
"How much?"
"Fifty grand."
"That's a long way from selling loose joints."
"Tell me about it."
"That's felony weight."
"That what they called it when you were with the state police?" "That's what they call it in the courtroom when they're sending people to Rahway for fifty years."
Bobby nodded, blew out smoke. "Thing of it is, Jimmy already knew guys who were willing to take the whole package, couldn't wait to get their hands on it. All we had to do was buy it and pass it on to them, more than double our money. We were looking to clear about forty-five grand apiece. It would have been a nice nest egg."
"So what happened?"
"He's gone."
"Jimmy?"
Bobby nodded, dropped the cigarette on the deck, and ground it out with a boot heel.
"He took off on you?"
"Maybe. Hard to believe it if he did. But put enough money in front of someone, there's no telling what he'll do. I'm living proof of that, right?"
"How long has it been since you've seen him?"
"Three weeks yesterday."
"He have the whole package?"
"Every ounce. He was keeping it until he could close the deal on the other end. That was fine with me. I didn't want it around."
"Do you know who his buyers were?"
"Some bikers in South Jersey. He'd dealt with them before."
"Where does this leave you?"
"In the shit. And feeling like an idiot. This was going to be it, you know? A one-time thing. I'd finally found the balls to put the chips down and let it ride."
"Your supplier, he know about this, about Jimmy?"
"I had to tell him."
"How soon did he expect the rest of his money?"
"A month, maybe a little longer. He wasn't sweating it."
"Now the month is up."
"You got it."
"What was his reaction when you told him?"
"I gave him the whole thing, straight up. But the way he looks at it, he fronted us something for a down payment, with an agreed-on balance due. And all I've given him so far is a story about my partner dropping out of sight and my not being able to find him. Sure, he's pissed, who wouldn't be? He doesn't want to hear about my problems. He wants his money or his stuff back."
"And?"
"And I haven't got either."
"He putting heat on you?"
"It's coming. He sent somebody around to the house looking for me the other night, guy that works for him."
"What happened?"
"I wasn't there. Janine wouldn't let him in. She said she told him to leave or she'd call the police. It scared her, though. That's what pisses me off. I mean, business is business. But coming to the house, that's not right."
"Did he make any threats?"
Bobby shook his head, took out the cigarettes again.
"He was there and that's enough. I guess they felt it was time to make some sort of gesture."
"Your friend Jimmy. You must have trusted him a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"Why did he need you?"
Bobby got a cigarette going.
"Like I said, the front money. He couldn't come up with the whole twenty himself. And he knew he could trust me."
"Maybe he thought he deserved more because he was taking more of the risk. Maybe he thought he deserved it all."
"You mean make the exchange, keep the money, say, 'Adios, motherfucker'?"
"Why not? What would have stopped him?"
"I've thought about that. I guess I just didn't want to believe it."
"Janine know about all this?"
"Most of it. She thinks it's pot. I didn't tell her otherwise. Like I said, it was her idea I talk to you."
Harry watched the drawbridge slowly close, the cars start to move. Beyond he could see the boats leaving the inlet, heading out into the darkness.
There were footsteps behind them, and they turned to see a gray-haired, unshaven man come unsteadily out onto the deck. He looked from Harry to Bobby, his eyes unfocused, then went over to the far corner, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate loudly through the railing into the weeds below.
Bobby looked at Harry. "Do you believe this shit?"
He turned to the old man. "Hey, pal."
The man looked back over his shoulder, urine drops spattering the planks of the deck.
"Why don't you go do that somewhere else?"
He looked blankly at Bobby, then at Harry. "Fuck you," he said finally, his voice slurred.
Bobby took a step toward him, and Harry caught his arm. The old man turned his back on them, carefully shook off and zipped up, then went back into the bar without a word.
Bobby shook his head, turned back to the water. Harry picked up his beer bottle, swished it, drank some. He put it back down, rested his elbows on the railing.
"You never told me," he said. "Who was the supplier?"
"A guy named Eddie Fallon."
Harry pushed away from the railing, looked at him.
Bobby felt the silence, turned.
"What?"
"Eddie Fallon?"
"You know him?"
"I know who he is — and what he is. I know his reputation."
"Hard to blame him in this case. He gave us an opportunity. He and I both got fucked."
"If you feel that way, you're not thinking straight. People like Eddie Fallon don't get fucked. They spend their whole lives making sure someone else's ass is on the line when it comes down to it."
"Maybe, but isn't that what all businessmen do?"
"Most businessmen don't sell cocaine."
Bobby turned away, blew smoke out.
"Cocaine's passé," he said.
Harry watched the side of his face.
"Let's go back inside," Bobby said. "I think I need another drink."
"Hold on. What happened when you told him?"
"Not much. I called him when I realized Jimmy was gone. He had me come by this restaurant he owns in Manasquan, the Sand Castle."
"I know it."
"He didn't even show up. He sent this guy Wiley, the same one that came by the house. Big, bald-headed bastard, used to bounce at one of his clubs. I told him everything, but he didn't react at all. Just told me he'd pass on the message, generally treated me like a piece of shit. I wanted to hit him. I need that drink."
They went back inside. There was another dancer on stage now, a brunette in a mesh top and zippered leather pants. Their stools were still empty.
The barmaid came over, lifted the tequila bottle. Bobby shook his head, pointed at Harry's half-empty beer.
"So," Harry said when she was gone. "You try and look for this Jimmy?"
"As much as I could. He's got two paychecks waiting for him at work. No one's picked them up, and no one I've talked to has seen him. He hasn't been at his apartment in a while, either. I went by a couple of times. His car's gone. Whether his clothes and things are still there, I don't know. I didn't go inside."
"You talk to the sister?"
"And say what? 'Hey, it's Bobby Fox, remember me? Your brother and I were doing a dope deal together and he ran out on me. Have you seen him recently?' No, I didn't talk to her. Maybe I should have, but I didn't."
The barmaid brought two Coronas, no limes this time. Bobby gave her a ten.
"He have any other family around here?" Harry said.
"Not anymore. At least none that I know of."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Barbed-Wire Kiss"
by .
Copyright © 2003 Wallace Stroby.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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