Hard Wired (Jon Reznick, #3)

by J.B. Turner

The call came as night fell. Jon Reznick was standing on the Rockland breakwater as the lighthouse beam swept over the dark waters of Penobscot Bay. The waves crashed off the granite slabs, sending cold spray into the air. He wondered who could be calling at this time of the evening. His cell number was known to only a handful of people.

Deep breathing down the line. Reznick

“I’m checking out, Jon.” Reznick could make out sirens in the background. “Checking out? What the hell’s happened?” “I’m trapped.”

“Shit . . . Where?” “Goddamn car . . . Miami.” “Christ.” “Bleedin’ out everywhere, man.” Reznick closed his eyes. “I’ll call nine one one.” “Paramedics

Reznick pressed the cell tight to his ear. “Goddamn, Charles, do you hear me?” “Jon . . . not gonna make it. I’m goin’ down.” “Charles,” Reznick said, raising his voice, “you’re not checking out on me yet.” The sirens grew louder over Tiny’s gasps. “Goin’ cold. Real fucking cold, man.”

“Charles, is there anyone in Miami I should call?” “Too late, man . . .” “What d’you mean?” “She’s gone. Wife and my boy aren’t moving . . . Blood everywhere, man.” He began to sob.

“Listen, Jon . . . you need to know.” “Don’t talk.” “I have to, man. You need to know . . .” Reznick closed his eyes. “Need to know what?” A beat. “They got me.” “What?” “Yeah . . . Be careful, man. They’re gonna kill us all . . .”

The last moments of Charles Burns’s life were played out in a mangled wreck on I-95, amid the skyscrapers and residential towers of downtown Miami. According to eyewitnesses, his car flipped over after he lost control. Paramedics arrived on the scene after two minutes, but there was nothing they could do. Major trauma to the heart, lungs, and liver, as well as a broken spine

Within the hour, the story had made the Metro section of the Miami Herald website, which described the crash in graphic detail. They quoted anonymous police sources, saying the driver might have fallen asleep at the wheel.

The following day, the Herald reported that officers close to the investigation cited the driver’s “mental health issues,” which may have contributed to the terrible crash.

channels built up a picture of a veteran who was having difficulties integrating back into society. They interviewed his neighbors in the low-rent Overtown area, just north of downtown Miami. And they pieced together, in gruesome detail, the final moments of Tiny’s life. They seemed to have the whole story. Everything, that is, apart from the call he made to Jon Reznick.

The minister dabbed his brow with a white handkerchief and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as the coffins were lowered into the three plots. Then he read some passages from the Bible and talked of the man who had fought for his country. He didn’t mention the time Tiny had spent living in a shitty trailer in Delray after a temporary split from his wife. And no one there heard about him working the doors of dangerous nightclubs and bars across Miami. The relentless grind of making ends meet.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the minister said. Reznick stepped forward and stared into the grave, as close family threw handfuls of earth onto the coffins. After the minister brought the funeral service to an end, everyone hung around, exchanging commiserations and hugs. Then, as they drifted out of the cemetery, Reznick caught the eye of Dorfman, who smiled.

The Deuce was a windowless dive. Inside was a horseshoe-shaped bar with a pink neon sign flashing on and off. A Ramones song was playing full blast as Reznick and some of the others filed in. It was hardly a typical after-funeral venue.

few disheveled barflies looked up from their drinks. Some family friends and relatives, along with members of Tiny’s church, were looking a bit bewildered to be in such a place. Reznick was introduced to a few. He offered his condolences, and took a Scotch from Tiny’s brother-in-law, an ex-Marine. He knocked it back, the warm liquid burning his insides. It felt good.

“Good to see you, man,” Dorfman said, taking the beer gratefully. Reznick sat down and looked at Dorfman, who had tears in his eyes. He clinked his bottle of Heineken against Dorfman’s and took a long sip. “You all right?” Dorfman nodded. “Nothing some liquor won’t cure.” Reznick smiled.

Reznick finished his beer. “Yeah, must be. What you been doing?” Dorfman leaned in. “Close protection, mostly. Consultancy.” Reznick nodded. “VIPs, that kind of stuff. At the moment it’s some rapper asshole. Even had to go on tour with the fucker for three straight months.” “Lucky you.”

“Yeah, pretty much what I was thinking about seven every morning when I got to my bed.” “How did you hear about Tiny?” “His cousin from New York called me.”

Reznick didn’t feel much like mentioning Tiny’s last phone call. He looked over at the other mourners, who were mixing with the hipsters, boozehounds, tourists, and workmen filling up the bar. “Good turnout.”

Dorfman glanced around. “Yeah—popular guy.” “Thought there might’ve been some more of the cadre.” “We all went our separate ways, Jon. People lose touch....

The sky had turned blood red by the time Reznick and Dorfman left the bar. They headed back to Reznick’s nearby hotel—the Winter Haven—went up to the roof terrace, and kicked back with two more beers.

Reznick noticed a tremor in Dorfman’s hand as he gripped the bottle. As the night wore on, Dorfman revealed he had served time in jail for a bar brawl. Reznick wasn’t surprised. There was anger boiling under the surface.

Reznick listened as Dorfman talked. His wife, Arlene, had left him because of his drinking, and he now lived with his eighty-year-old father in Fort Lauderdale. Dorfman got that distant look in his eyes again. He mentioned flashbacks of their Delta comrade Thomas Brading being mown down in Baghdad.

Reznick had seen countless guys going the same way. The descent into darkness, struggling to contain the demons that had been unleashed by warfare. Withdrawing into themselves. Shutting themselves away from the outside world. Closing

“What do you do?” “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Dorfman took a long, hard look at him. “Man, you never change.” Darkness fell over the beach, and a gentle breeze blew in. Dorfman was getting drunk fast as the sound of bass-heavy music pumped out of cars headed along Ocean Drive.

Reznick snatched a few hours’ sleep, and was up just after four. He showered, got dressed, and took a taxi to the airport. He sat in the departure lounge ahead of the early-morning flight to New York, gulping down his second black coffee of the day. His mouth felt dry after the booze, but he was neither up nor down after the drinks with Dorfman. He always knew when to call it a night—but it was clear his old friend had been hitting the liquor hard for years. The tremor in his hand, the way he finished his beers in three or four gulps. He’d seen it all before. Dorfman was an alcoholic.