Heaven's a Lie

by Wallace Stroby

  The gun comes up in a two-handed grip. “Down on the floor. On your knees. Now. Do it.”

  Travis taps the counter lightly with his knuckles. “Shoot me in the back if you want. But I’m gonna get us those beers.” He turns, opens the refrigerator.

  “Get on the floor!”

  Travis takes out a bottle of Heineken, sets it on the counter. “That’s yours.” Then he reaches back, grips the Ruger, shakes off the towel and turns, bringing up the gun, squeezing the trigger.

  The shot hits the cop high in the chest. The impact spins him, knocks him down.

  Travis comes fast around the counter. The cop is on his back, the shock still in his eyes. He tries to raise his gun. Travis steps on his wrist, takes the gun away and tosses it onto the couch. “Little slow there, hoss. Smart to wear that vest.”

  The cop rolls onto his side, gasping. Travis puts a boot on his back, pins him facedown. He kneels to straddle him, touches the Ruger to the back of his head. “She send you? That why you’re here?”

  The cop is struggling to breathe. “Get off me.”

  Travis almost fires then, feels the trigger tension under his finger. Cross this line, kill a cop, and there’s no going back, he thinks. They’ll never stop looking.

  He takes away the gun, stands. “What you should have done is shot me soon as I turned around. Now look where you are.”

  He kicks the cop hard in the thigh, then drags a kitchen chair closer, sits. “She tell you what it was all about? What she did?”

  The cop tries to push off from the floor. Travis steps on his ankle, pins it. “Stay there.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Sorry you came here now, aren’t you? Answer my question. Did she tell you? Or were you in on it too?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I got nothing to say to you.”

  Travis stands, putting weight on the cop’s ankle. “People like you have been fucking with me my whole life. You’re just one in a long line. Hands behind.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Travis drops down on him with both knees, drives out his breath again. The cop tries to buck him off. Travis puts the muzzle behind his right ear. “Stop resisting.”

  He takes the cop’s handcuffs from his belt, snaps one closed around his right wrist. “Other arm.”

  The cop doesn’t move. Travis shifts the muzzle to the back of his neck. “Your call.”

  “You know how many felonies you just committed?”

  “I admire the confidence,” Travis says. “Other hand, or lights out. Fine by me either way.”

  He doesn’t resist when Travis pulls in his left arm, cuffs his wrist. “That’s better.”

  He grabs the handcuff chain, hauls the cop to his feet. He’s wobbly, red-faced. Travis pushes him toward the counter.

  “That her plan, send you after me? What am I supposed to do with you now, position you put me in?”

  “Let me go.”

  Travis kicks his feet apart, forcing him to lean against the counter to keep his balance. He pats the cop’s pockets, finds a cell phone and a key fob, tosses them onto the counter. “You banging her? That what this is about? You think you’re going to protect her? You can’t.”

  He looks out the window. Still no backup, but someone may have heard the shot. Either way, the apartment’s no good now, he can’t stay here. He feels a wave of anger at this stupid cop, the damage he’s done.

  He puts the gun to the cop’s head again. “Your first mistake was coming here. Your second was coming alone.”

  The cop closes his eyes.

  Travis holds the Ruger there, then takes it away, sticks it in his belt. He picks up another dish towel. Standing behind the cop, he wraps it around his right hand, makes a fist.

  “I believe you, that you’re looking for her,” he says. “What happened, she promised you a share and then took off? I’ll find her for both of us, how’s that?”

  The towel’s tight across his knuckles. “Turn around. Go ahead. You can do it.”

  The cop pushes awkwardly away from the counter, turns to face him. Travis steps in, drives his fist into his face. The cop rebounds off the counter, falls loose and hard to the floor. He’s out.

  He unbuckles the cop’s belt, pulls it free, uses it to tie his ankles. He’ll be able to work them loose sooner or later, break a window, shout for help. Won’t die here.

  Everything he wants to take fits in his duffel bag. His shoulder hurts now, a deep pain, as if something’s broken loose inside.

  The Silverado is a problem. The cop will have run the plate, what brought him here. He’ll have to hide the truck somewhere, get it off the street. Another complication. He liked the Silverado, the power of it. And now he’ll have to give it up, along with everything else in his life. Because of the woman.

  He locks the door behind him, drops the cop’s phone and keys into a storm drain. He gets into the Silverado, starts the engine, the duffel on the seat beside him.

  On the run, he thinks. Again.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It’s snowing when she gets off the train in Boston, takes a taxi to the hotel in Somerville. She locks the money in the room safe that’s bolted low on the inner wall of the closet, black metal with a white keypad.

  The room phone rings. When she answers, a man says, “Joanne Harper?”

  “Joette.”

  “I’m calling for a friend. He got your message. He wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll come to your hotel tomorrow at noon. Then, if everything’s good, we’ll take a ride.”

  “To where?”

  “Tomorrow,” he says, and the line disconnects.

  * * *

  Ten to noon and he’s waiting for her downstairs, looking out of place standing there in the lobby. Late thirties, dark hair cut close, wearing an olive-drab flight jacket, hands in his pockets.

  “Joette? Let’s go. I’m out front.”

  It’s a dark blue Lincoln with a tan roof, maybe ten years old but in good shape. When he pulls away from the curb, she says, “Where are we going?”

  “Taking you to the man you came to see.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Sean.”

  “Last name?”

  “Sean’s enough.”

  The streets are slushy with melted snow, the sky clear and bright. He glances at the rearview with each turn.

  The diner is at the corner of a five-way intersection in the middle of a residential area. Weathered three-story houses, a few storefront businesses—what passed for a downtown in the days before zoning. The diner’s a silver railroad car design. Neon above the door reads CLANCY’S.

  The lot’s almost full. He finds a spot, backs in, kills the engine.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he says. “Or what you want. But if I hear anything in there I don’t like, I’m gonna walk you out, and then you’re getting on the next train back to Jersey, you understand that?”

  “Is he in there?”

  “Remember what I said.”

  She follows him inside. Red leather booths, a mini-jukebox at each table. Behind the counter are desserts under glass. A handwritten sign taped to the register reads CASH ONLY. He nods to a booth in a far corner, where a white-haired man sits alone, reading a newspaper.

  He looks up as she nears the booth, takes off his glasses. He’s wearing a pale green work shirt, Carhartt pants, a tan zippered jacket. His shoulders are broad, his neck thick. His right ear is lumpy and deformed.

  He folds the paper, puts it aside. In front of him is a half-eaten slice of key lime pie, black coffee in a ceramic mug. He gestures to the seat opposite.

  “Joette,” he says. “I get that right?”

  “You did.”

  The waitress brings a coffeepot. “Pie not doing it for you today, Danny?”

  “It’s good, Alma. Just taking my time.” To Joette, he says, “Something to eat?”

  “Just coffee.” Alma points to the
upside-down mug on the table. Joette turns it over.

  “Be careful, hon,” Alma says as she pours. “He may look old and harmless, but watch out.” She winks at Danny, tops off his mug and goes away.

  “You look like your mother,” he says.

  “Do I?” She warms her hands around the mug.

  “You do. Your eyes, your cheekbones. But now I’m afraid to ask.”

  “She had a stroke two years ago. She’s been in a nursing home since.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Your father?”

  “He died when I was a kid.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “That’s tough. His name was Joseph, right?”

  “It was.”

  “And you’re Joette. They were expecting a boy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Harper’s your married name?”

  “It is.”

  “But you’re not wearing a ring.”

  “My husband passed.”

  He picks up his mug. His fingers are blunt and thick, the knuckles scarred. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “Wasn’t sure I’d be able to find you. I got a number from Information, a listing in Somerville, but the woman who answered said there was no one there named O’Dwyer. She gave me another number, turned out to be a liquor store.”

  “Sorry for the runaround. It’s the neighborhood. They can be a little protective.”

  “I talked to someone there said he was the owner. Claimed he didn’t know you either. I decided to take the leap, told him I was coming up here, when I’d arrive, where I’d be staying. Hoped the message would get to you.”

  “That was brave, come all this way, not knowing what you were going to find.”

  “I needed to get out of New Jersey for a while too. That was part of it. And I brought these.”

  She takes the packet of letters—bound with the faded red ribbon—from an inside pocket, sets them on the table. “I found them when I was emptying out her house.”

  He puts the glasses back on, picks up the envelopes, looks at the faint handwritten address on the top one. “Did you read them?”

  “Some.”

  “They’re from before she met your father.”

  “I know.”

  “Hard to believe she held on to them all these years.”

  “They must have been important to her,” she says. “There may have been more, but these seven were all I found. There are two there that she wrote that came back undelivered and unopened.”

  “I moved around a lot in those days. I wasn’t always easy to reach.” He sets the packet down, takes off his glasses.

  “She would talk about you sometimes. We saw something about you on TV once. Danny Boy O’Dwyer. I knew who you were. She said you’d grown up together.”

  “We did, a few blocks from here. That neighborhood’s a lot different now. Nicer. I can hardly recognize it. Back then, it wasn’t much to look at. But tight-knit, you know?”

  “That’s what she always said.”

  “The Conlons practically ruled the Hill. Your grandfather, Jimmy, was a serious man. Everybody was scared of him. Me too. I was taking a chance, going around with her.”

  “I never knew him. But I heard stories.”

  “I’m lucky that he liked me. Still, he told me if I ever did anything to hurt her, he’d put me at the bottom of the Charles. I believed him.”

  “She always wondered how things would have worked out if she’d stayed here. Whether it would have made any difference. If things might have gone a different way for you.”

  He shakes his head. “She was right to leave. And I was a hardhead back then. You couldn’t tell me anything.”

  “You’re not wearing a ring either. Are you married?”

  “I was, forty-five years. My Grace is gone ten years ago this month.”

  “You have children?”

  “She couldn’t. We talked about adopting, back when we were first married. But I wasn’t the best parental material as far as the agencies were concerned. Can’t blame them.”

  “No other family?”

  “I had a younger brother, Denny.”

  “Danny and Denny.”

  “A good kid. He made some of the same mistakes I did. I got away with most of them. I was lucky. He wasn’t.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “He is. But you didn’t come all the way up here to listen to an old man ramble.”

  “You weren’t rambling. I asked.”

  “What about you? Kids?”

  “No.”

  “Brothers, sisters?”

  She shakes her head.

  “So you’re alone.”

  She looks back at the counter. Sean is on the last stool, drinking coffee, half turned to watch them.

  “Speaking of protective,” she says.

  “My sister Nora’s boy. He looks after me now. My age, I appreciate the company.”

  He sips coffee, sets the mug down. “Tell me about your father.”

  “What about him?”

  “Was he a good man?”

  “As far as it goes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He had his issues. Like we all do.”

  “Many times I wondered how Irene was doing. If she was happy. If she had kids. Years I wondered that. And here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  “With some fifty-year-old letters, and a problem you still haven’t told me about.”

  “I need advice. And maybe more than that.”

  He sits back, watching her.

  “My doctor says I’m supposed to get some exercise every day,” he says. “Take a walk with me.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The river is calm. No breeze at all. Ducks float along, undisturbed by the traffic on the bridge above. Boston in the distance, buildings gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  Beside her, Danny rests his elbows on the railing, looking out at the water. She told him most of it on the walk here, Sean following them in the car. Now he watches them from the parking lot, leaning on the Lincoln’s fender, hands in his pockets again.

  “How much money are we talking about?” Danny says.

  “A lot.”

  “And you took a shot at him too. He couldn’t have been happy about that. Not that he didn’t deserve it, from what you told me.”

  “I don’t think I hurt him much.”

  “What was your plan if you’d killed him? Come up here, hide out?”

  “I’m not sure. Part of me didn’t think I’d be able to go ahead with it anyway.”

  “Good that you didn’t. Killing a man, for whatever reason, that’s a burden you carry a long time. It changes everything.”

  He rubs his chest.

  “Are you all right?” she says.

  “Bypass surgery last spring, second time. Takes it out of me to walk sometimes, but it’s worse not to.”

  A seagull splashes into the water, then flies off. The ducks fan out, pedaling away from the ripples.

  “If this guy was connected, I might be able to reach out,” he says. “Somebody always knows somebody knows somebody else. At least that’s the way it used to be. But from what you’re saying, he sounds like a lone wolf.”

  “I’m worried what he might do to people around me. People he can get to.”

  “Like who?”

  “He knows about the nursing home.”

  He looks at her. “How?”

  “I’m not sure. But it’s my fault. I’ve put others in danger as well.”

  “Any beef he has is between you and him. He shouldn’t be threatening others. That’s not a reasonable man. So maybe you can’t reason with him after all.”

  “I could give him back the money.”

  “After all that? He’ll kill you anyway, just to make his point. Maybe hurt somebody else near you beforehand, same reason.”

  “What should I do?”

  He leans back against the railing, scratches an el
bow. “Not a lot of choices I see. One is, you go to the police, tell them everything.”

  “I’m not an innocent in all this. I could go to prison.”

  “Probably not. But you never know. You can’t trust prosecutors, even if you cut a deal. I learned that the hard way. The other option you might be thinking of, though, the one you already tried, that’s not something I can help you with.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything.”

  A church bell rings the hour.

  “You bring the money with you?”

  “Some of it.”

  “That was risky, carrying it all the way up here.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do with it.”

  She looks at Sean. He takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, lights one, blows out smoke.

  “He doesn’t trust me,” she says.

  “He worries too much. I told him nobody cares about me anymore. I’m just a memory of the bad old days on the Hill. Soon everything I knew here will be gone, me with it. You ever been up here before? To the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  “Selective memory can get people confused, especially people my age. They talk about the old days, forget what it was really like. My old man was a longshoreman, took a fall from a container at the Commonwealth Pier. Broke his back. No disability back then. Out of work, out of luck. So I did what I had to do to put food on our table.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  “What I’m saying is, where you’re from, it shapes you. Mass, New Jersey, wherever. Your life is what you see around you. Your values, choices, people you look up to. They all come out of that place. Your mother got away from all that. More importantly, she got away from me.”

  “It was still her home. She used to talk about it. About you.”

  “I did what I did. But when you’re nineteen, twenty, you don’t think about the future, who you might be hurting. You only think about yourself.”

  “She loved you. I know that.”

  “She used to write me when I was inside, that first time. After a while, I stopped reading the letters. Sent them back. Didn’t even open them.”

  “Why?”

  “You go inside, you can’t dwell on what you lost. You have to keep your head straight, day to day. Think too much about what you don’t have anymore, you drive yourself crazy.”