Free The Heartbreak Lounge by Wallace Stroby Page A

the back door, went into the yard and tossed the seed in a series of splashes on top of the hard ground. Birds swooped down—starlings, blackbirds, the occasional crow. He went back inside, closed the seed up, watched through the kitchen window as more birds arrived, the yard full of them now.
    An hour later he was out by the barn, quartering split logs into firewood, when he heard the phone ring inside. He set the ax against the barn wall, went back in.
    â€œYeah?” he said, still breathing heavy.
    â€œAfter I hung up I went down to the security desk,” Ray said. “They pulled that tape, fast-forwarded it. It’s all time-coded, so it was easier than it sounds.”
    â€œThe Blazer?”
    â€œGot it. It was on-camera long enough to get a pretty good shot of it.”

    â€œHang on,” Harry said. He opened a drawer by the sink, found a pen. There was a newspaper on the table and he tore off a corner of it.
    â€œGo,” he said.
    â€œJersey plates. KMC-13K.”
    He wrote it down.
    â€œGood,” he said. “Now all we have to do is run it with DMV.”
    â€œDid that. What, do you think I sit around here all day, waiting for your guidance?”
    â€œSorry. What did you get?”
    â€œThis address, it’s in Ocean Grove.” He read it off and Harry scribbled it onto the paper.
    â€œAnd the name?” he said.
    â€œWilliam Clancy Matthews. DOB eleven-fourteen-seventy. It’s a new registration, less than a year.”
    â€œPhone number?”
    â€œNone listed. I called Directory Assistance too. No one with that name and that address. What are you going to do?”
    â€œTry the cell again. If no luck, stop by, try and talk to her. Apologize.”
    â€œAnd if all she has to say is ‘Go fuck yourself’ again?”
    â€œI’ll take the chance. I figure I owe it to you, to take it that far at least.”
    â€œYou’re right, you do. If you talk to her, see if you can get her back here for another sit-down. Maybe we can start all over again.”
    â€œIt’s probably too late for that.”
    â€œYeah, I know,” Ray said. “It almost always is.”
    Â 
    Ocean Grove was only one square mile, the streets lined with Victorian houses on narrow lots. It had been founded as a Methodist camp meeting center in the 1860s, and the Methodists still controlled it, owned the land. When a house was bought here, the homeowner had to take out a renewable ninety-nine-year lease on the lot itself. Houses could be sold, or new ones built, but the land belonged to God.
    He drove down Ocean Avenue, the beach to his right. The
waves rolled in thick and heavy, spray leaping up through the boards of the fishing pier. At the far end of the pier, an American flag snapped atop a pole.
    He remembered the last time he’d been here. He and Cristina had come to this beach often during that first summer, because there was less chance of running into anyone they knew. They’d been as careful as possible and it had still gone bad.
    One-way streets here. He turned left, went up three blocks and came back down Bath Avenue, which ran west to east, ended at the ocean. He slowed, watching house numbers. Some of the houses had been converted into bed-and-breakfasts, most of them closed for the season.
    He almost missed it. It was a classic Victorian, crisp green and white, freshly painted. A blue Blazer was parked directly in front. He braked when he saw it, rolled by slowly. The plate number matched. A rainbow-flag bumper sticker on the back read, Hate is not a family value.
    He went down to the ocean, swung around onto a parallel street, came back to make another pass. He pulled to the curb a half block from the house, left the engine running. Lights were going on behind windows up and down the street. The day was growing grayer, the night coming fast.
    He took the container of take-out coffee from the console, folded the plastic lid back.