She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be

by J. D. Barker

  He unclipped the leather case on his belt holding his handcuffs.

  I took a step back and raised both hands.

  “Out of my park.”

  A woman and her daughter both stared at me. The little girl clenched her mom’s hand so tightly both their fingers were white.

  I sniffled and ran my sleeve over my nose, then started down the sidewalk away from all of them. The New York Public Library loomed ahead of me.

  Aside from learning about her stay at the hostel in Philly, I had zero luck tracking down anything on Cammie Brotherton and shelved her for now. I couldn’t find anything on Jaquelyn Breece either, so about a week ago I decided to focus on the next name on my list, Jeffery Dalton. I decided to start that search in New York for two reasons—the crowds and the libraries. I could easily disappear among the millions in the city, and the New York public libraries contained the largest collections of national newspapers in the country. I first found Lester Woolford here, Penelope Maudlin, too.

  There was a public bathroom on the corner of the library facing West 40th Street. I ducked inside and slid the metal garbage can against the back of the door to get a little privacy, then I stripped out of the flannel shirt and jeans I’d worn for the better part of a week and went to the sink to wash up and brush my teeth. I didn’t look at my reflection because I knew it would remind me of the Phillips 66 gas station at exit 63 off I-79 I stopped at after digging up my father’s grave, after watching Ms. Leech die, and that image of her spent far too much time in my head as is. Ms. Leech, Andy Olin Flack, and Raymond Visconti jockeyed for the chance to sing me to sleep every night. Lately, a few of the people circled in my father’s yearbook vied for that opportunity, too.

  None of the clothes in my backpack were clean, but I did find a sweatshirt I’d only worn a couple of times since my last laundromat visit, along with a pair of jeans that didn’t smell. I found fresh underwear and one last pair of clean socks. I was grateful for that.

  When I deemed myself presentable, I shoved the rest of my belongings back into my backpack and counted the cash in my pocket—two dollars and sixty-four cents. That would not do.

  Back outside, I crossed the street to the Wells Fargo Bank, fished out my ATM card, and shoved it into the machine. After selecting English, the display prompted me to enter my four-digit security code. I keyed that in and waited for the withdrawal button to come up. Instead, I received a message I had not seen before:

  Please see a customer service representative inside.

  A moment later, the screen went back to:

  Welcome to Wells Fargo. Please make a selection.

  The machine did not return my ATM card. I pressed the Cancel button a few times and nothing happened. I slammed my fist down on the Cancel button and got nothing.

  “Fuck.”

  Someone coughed behind me. I turned and realized there were three other people in line. “I think it’s broken,” I said, walking past them and through the revolving door into the bank. At the counter, I was told my account had been frozen.

  “Frozen how?”

  The teller studied her computer screen, hit a couple of keys, and frowned. “You didn’t report fraudulent activity?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “According to the notes on the account, the account holder reported fraudulent activity the day before yesterday and requested a replacement debit card. That wasn’t you?”

  Matteo.

  The teller at the next window gave her a sideways glance, then looked over at the security guard sitting on a stool near the door.

  “I think my attorney might have done it. He’s always overstepping his authority over my assets.”

  The teller’s eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down—my greasy hair and filthy clothes. I hadn’t shaved in nearly a week. Your attorney, right. “I’ll need to see your identification,” she said.

  I opened my mouth to explain, thought better of it, and left the bank.

  I found a payphone about a half a block down the sidewalk and picked up the receiver. It took me a minute to recall Matteo’s number. I dialed, and a computerized voice asked me to deposit seventy-five cents. I fished the change from my pocket, making a mental note of the few remaining coins.

  “Law offices of Matteo, Santillan, Veney, and Carmichael. How may I direct your call?”

  Who the hell was Carmichael?

  “Tess?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Jack Thatch.”

  She went quiet for a moment, and I pictured her lost among the clutter of her desk, clutter that no doubt grew in the past four years. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, nearly a whisper. “My God, Jack. Where have you been?”

  I cleared my throat and spat on the sidewalk. I had brushed my teeth for nearly ten minutes, and the mint only masked the stale alcohol coating my throat and mouth, like putting a fresh layer of paint over rust. “Is he there?”

  I didn’t have to say his name. She knew who I meant.

  “He’s finishing up a call. Hang on a second.”

  Music filled the line as she put me on hold, but she came back a moment later to add: “It’s good to hear your voice, Jack.”

  “You too,” I said, but Bob Seger was already back singing about night moves.

  It took nearly six more minutes for Matteo to pick up, and I had to deposit another thirty-five cents. I had sixty-three left in my pocket, maybe a little more in the bottom of my backpack somewhere.

  “Jack? Where the fuck have you been?”

  I hadn’t spoken to Matteo in over four years, not since leaving Penn State. Willy neither. I frankly had no desire to speak to either one. I didn’t know what color coat hung in each of their respective closets. I was better off on my own.

  “What happened with the bank, Dewitt? I just tried to withdraw my allowance, and the machine ate my card.” I had never called him by his first name before, and it felt weird to say it, like calling one of your parents by their first name, I suppose. He needed to know who was in charge, though. I wasn’t a kid anymore. He was screwing with my money.

  “You need to come in, Jack.”

  “Why?”

  “We thought you were dead.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Then where are you?”

  “Traveling. Seeing the world. Finding myself. Why do you give a shit?”

  Matteo cleared his throat. “Four years, Jack. Willy said you went out drinking, scared the crap out of some girl, then vanished. Do you have any idea how many people I’ve had out looking for you?”

  What color coats were they wearing?

  “I’m very much alive, and I want what’s mine.”

  “The trust clearly details your obligations to collect. You dropped the ball when you skipped out on college.”

  I had a copy of the trust and read it numerous times. “The trust requires you to provide me with a monthly allowance of two thousand dollars, plus the cost of my rents and utilities. There is no expiration date on the allowance, and I’m not required to graduate from Penn State within an allocated time. You are able to withhold the balance until I do graduate, but you are not allowed to withhold the allowance stipulated in the trust. In fact, by doing so, I have every right to file a compliant with the Pennsylvania Bar.”

  A recording broke in, then, “If you wish to continue, please deposit an additional thirty-five cents.”

  I dug the change from my pocket and dropped it into the slot.

  “Where are you, Jack?” Matteo said as the coins clicked through.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You need to come in.”

  “Release my funds.”

  Matteo sighed. “Article 5923.216 of the Pennsylvania Trust statute allows me to suspend payments on the trust if I have reason to believe you are deceased, and I’m invoking that right.”

  “You’re talking to me. I may not be at my best, but I can guarantee I’m not deceased.”

  “I nee
d to see you in person before I can reinstate your monthly payments.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “You’re not giving me a choice, Jack.”

  “Who are the people in white coats, Dewitt?”

  “Who?”

  Even as I spoke, I watched patrons coming and going from the library, the people in the park. Nobody seemed to notice me, though, and that was good. Just another homeless guy on the phone.

  “I’ll be there in three days.”

  I hung up before he could respond.

  Because of the cost of parking in New York City, I had left my Jeep in the lot of a Walmart Superstore in Trenton, New Jersey. It took me the better part of a day and a half to thumb my way back, but there wasn’t much choice in the matter. The Jeep started right up, and with three-quarters of a tank, I’d have just enough gas to get me back to Pittsburgh.

  Although the drive from New York City to Pittsburgh was only about six hours, I didn’t want Matteo to know where I had been, because I planned to return by the end of the week to continue my hunt for the next name on my list, Jeffery Dalton. Three days was enough time to travel from just about anywhere in the country, and I figured it was best he was kept guessing.

  I spent that night in a shelter in Allentown—a cot and a warm meal in exchange for privacy. I took a cot in the corner, where I could watch the others.

  I killed the next day at the movies. I saw a lot of movies in those days—one entrance, one exit, and white coats stuck out in the dim light. I snuck in through the employee entrance with a bottle of Jack under my coat and found a seat in the back of the theater. The movie was called The Truman Show, starring Jim Carrey. It was about a guy whose every move was filmed and televised, watched by everyone. I didn’t much like the movie and fell asleep about halfway through. Back at the shelter that night, they knew I’d been drinking and wouldn’t let me in, so I slept in the back of the Jeep behind a Discount Auto.

  I arrived at Matteo’s office at a little after nine on Monday morning. I parked in the small lot next to his building on Brownsville. I had a fifth of Jack in the glove box. I took a quick sip, enough to take the edge off, then hid the bottle away under my bogus registration and insurance papers. I sat in the Jeep for nearly twenty more minutes before I found the courage to go inside.

  Tess looked up as I pushed through the door, the lines of her face drawing tight at the sight of me. “Jack?”

  “Hi, Tess.”

  She stood, took me all in, and I wanted to run back out the door. I had hoped to shower and shave at the shelter, but I had been unable to do either of those things.

  Tess hugged me anyway, although I felt her pull away when her nose pressed into my sweatshirt. “You have no idea how worried we’ve been.”

  The coat on the back of her chair was black leather.

  “Tess, when he arrives, send him to the conference—” Matteo’s voice dropped off as he came out of the hallway and caught sight of me. “Holy hell, Jack.”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  Tess stepped back and smoothed the front of my sweatshirt with her palms. “Do you want something to drink?”

  Oh, did I.

  “I won’t be staying long, thank you, though.”

  I looked up at Matteo. “Conference room?”

  He nodded.

  I stepped past him, followed the hall, and took my usual seat. I folded my hands on the table in front of me, lowered them to my lap, then back to the table again, this time palms down. They left sweaty wet marks on the polished wood. I put them back in my lap.

  Matteo stepped inside and closed the door behind him before taking his usual seat at the head of the table. He lowered himself into the chair with a grunt. “You’ve lost a lot of weight, Jack. You look thin.”

  He didn’t. He looked like he put on another forty pounds or so.

  “I’m alive. You’ve seen me. What do I need to sign in order to turn my allowance back on?”

  “I really thought you were dead, Jack. The way you disappeared. Poor Will didn’t know what to do. He said you snapped, blamed himself.”

  Poor Will. Poor little Willy.

  I leaned forward. “Will was spying on me.”

  “He was watching you for me.”

  “And who are you watching me for?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You collect a nice salary from my trust, as administrator, right? Nowhere in there does it give you the right to police my life…watch me…guide me. None of that. You’re supposed to pay a few of my bills and make sure I receive my monthly stipend, that’s it. I didn’t need a babysitter back then, and I sure as shit don’t need one now. All I need is for you to do your job, pay out my money, and leave me the fuck alone.”

  Matteo didn’t flinch. His eyes remained fixed on me. “I made certain promises to your aunt, as a friend, and I plan to follow through on those promises. You’re clearly going through a rough patch, and I blame myself for that. I gave you more freedom than I probably should have. I thought you could handle it, but I was clearly wrong.”

  “Who are the people in the white coats?”

  “You said that on the phone. I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Do they pay you, too? They do, don’t they? They pay you to keep an eye on me. To keep me on a leash.”

  “Move back into your apartment, Jack. Stay here in Pittsburgh. Let me find you some help, someone to talk to…in confidence. A professional. You’ve seen so much death, more than anyone should ever deal with in a lifetime, in a hundred lifetimes. It’s eating at you. If you’d rather, we can enroll you in a program somewhere. Someplace quiet. Someplace where you can work through all of this and put your life back on track.”

  “You need to give me my money.”

  “I can’t watch you die.”

  “Then don’t.”

  I hadn’t realized how loud our voices had gotten until we both stopped speaking. The two of us stared at each other for a good long while, then Matteo finally reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an ATM card, and slid it across the table to me. “If I thought forcing you into a program would help, I would do that. I would find a way to do that. But you need to want to get better, and it’s obvious you don’t. I really hope someday you do. When you’re ready, call Tess. You don’t need to talk to me if you don’t want to, but call Tess. Even if it’s just to let her know you’re okay every once in a while. You should call Will, too. He graduated last month, twelfth in his class. I think he’s going to work with his father. He’d like to hear from you.”

  I scooped up the ATM card and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans. I left Matteo sitting there at his conference table, his eyes burning into my back.

  There was an SUV double parked behind my Jeep.

  It wasn’t white.

  The SUV blocking my Jeep was black, a Cadillac Escalade with windows tinted to the point of being opaque sitting high up on sparkling chrome rims. As I approached, three men stepped out. I recognized the driver—Reid Migliore. I hadn’t seen him since our freshman year of high school, but it was him for sure. I didn’t know if he graduated, but I knew who he worked for.

  Reid kicked at a small rut in the blacktop with the toe of his boot and looked up at me. “He wants to see you.”

  “I don’t give a shit what he wants.”

  “He says you will. Says it’s about the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “He said you’d probably say that. He told me to tell you, the girl. Your girl.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  Reid nodded at a boy in a Steelers sweatshirt and cap riding a bike in circles where Brownsville met Kirkland. “We’ve got eyes.”

  “Is he dealing?”

  He didn’t look much older than twelve or thirteen.

  Reid didn’t answer. Instead, he climbed back into the Escalade. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride. You’ve got shotgun.”

  “What about my Jeep?�
�

  “Our boy will watch it for you. It’s safe here.”

  The other two got into the back.

  I stood there for a moment, swore under my breath, and got in behind them.

  Tess watched us from the small window in Matteo’s reception area.

  I half expected them to put a hood over my head like the first time I went to see Stella at her house, but they didn’t. A Pirates game played softly on the radio—four to one, Pittsburgh—nobody spoke. We took Brownsville to Beck’s Run, then made a right on Carson, following the river with the city shrinking behind us. We passed Homestead, Ravine Street, and crossed the Monongahela River right before Whitaker. We came over a hill, and a giant monstrosity of metal loomed over us. There are several abandoned steel mills in and around Pittsburgh. The one in front of us was known as Carrie Furnace, shuttered in 1978. At the entrance, another black Escalade blocked half the road with two men leaning against the hood. Reid nodded at them as we turned and drove past toward the towering, rust-covered complex.

  “Is this where he works now?”

  “This is where he meets you,” Reid said.

  We came to a stop at a crumbling brick building with several round metal stacks rising from behind, surrounded by catwalks and smaller structures. A maze of metal. The waist-high grass and weeds climbed over everything, slowly reclaiming the land. A small, crooked sign hung above the brick building’s door, reading Blast Furnace #7.

  Reid shifted into park and killed the engine. “Come on.”

  I followed him into the building, with the other two trailing about ten feet behind us.

  There was no door. As we stepped inside, the temperature dropped at least ten degrees, and the light waited outside—a patch at the door and nothing else. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I sneezed. The air was heavy with dust, smelling of damp corrosion.

  Someone set up a card table in the center of the room. Three men stood behind it, four others further back in the shadows. None of them made any attempt to conceal the guns tucked into their waistbands.