The Heimlich maneuver was the treatment of choice primarily in cases of stage IV steak- or pork-sphyxia. But it was handy in other situations.

Rizzo contracted his biceps, that reinforced fist of his driving in and up under Dannyboy’s rib cage, expelling all breath, shocking the heart into a brief arrhythmia. The surprise of it made the lock on that throat ease up, and Rizzo step-two’d his evacuation plan with a backward yank that pissed off his bad shoulder.

Danny came off yacht boy and the table like a barnacle pried from the hull of a trawler. Momentum being what it was, they both pinwheeled. Balance-to-booze ratio being what it was, Rizzo recovered his footing. Danny not so much. The 499’s firebrand landed on his ass.

But sure as alchies rallied during a bender, he didn’t stay there. He was up like out of a toaster and he made as though he was just going to hop right back on his victim.

Rizzo stepped in the way. “No.”

“Get out of my—”

“Time for an Uber, Maguire.”

“Fuck you, Rizzo.”

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was when the next fight started.

Chapter 14

It was after ten p.m. when Anne’s cell phone rang. The old-fashioned ding-a-ling pulled her head up out of her laptop, but what she had been studying stayed with her both in her mind and on the screen as she answered.

“Hello?”

“Anne?”

She frowned. “Yes? Wait, Moose?”

“Yeah. It’s me. Long time, no talk, right?”

“It’s been a while.” She cleared her throat. “Ah, how are you? How’s Deandra?”

“Oh, she’s great, we’re great, I’m great. We moved into the house, you know. I got a new Charger, and I’m working on the engine already. You know, getting more horses under that hood. Guess I haven’t changed, huh?”

“Guess not.” She swung her eyes around the enclosed porch and wondered how she could end things without being rude. “So, um . . . what else is new?”

“So, yeah, so Deandra’s really great. She got a job at Avento Salon? It’s that fancy place in the center of town. Did you know that Reese Witherspoon showed up there for highlights last week? She was a good tipper. I think she’s working on a movie somewhere around here. Deandra’s just manning the front desk, but she’s going to be a stylist soon. Did you know that she’s gotten her cosmetology degree?”

Anne’s looked back at the laptop screen. The map that she’d been studying was of the old part of downtown New Brunswick, far from the center, or Centre, where Moose’s wife worked. The latter was Disneyland clean with almost Rodeo Drive kinds of high-end shops and restaurants. The former was where she had been earlier in the day on Harbor Street. Where the dead buildings were.

Where people started fires sometimes for reasons. Like they wanted to, oh, say, get rid of some office equipment that maybe they didn’t want anyone else to see or find?

“That’s great. Hey, Moose?” She hit print and her wireless Brother started chattering on the corner of her desk. “I’m actually working right now. Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re a fire inspector. How’s that going?”

“Today was my first day.” And it was rocky, thanks, Moose. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey, is Don Marshall your boss?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Did you know that he used to play college ball for Syracuse—”

“Why was it that you called, Moose?” As the connection went quiet, her heart beat a little faster. “Moose?”

“Yeah.” The long, slow exhale did not inspire confidence. “Listen . . . it’s about Danny.”

Her heart outright pounded. “Is he dead?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” There was another pause. “I mean, not right now. At least as far as I know and I left him about fifteen minutes ago. But, yeah, he . . . he’s not doing real good. He needs someone who can really talk to him. Make him see what he’s doing to himself.”

She wanted to ask what exactly that was, but she knew. Or at least could guess.

“Hello? Anne?”

She focused at her prosthesis. And thought of Don Marshall so appropriately handing her her ass.

Danny was a complication. Big time. And she had a new job, more recovery to work on, and . . .

She wanted to see him too much for comfort.

“Don’t take this the wrong way.” She cleared her throat. “But I can’t get involved, Moose. I’m out of that life with you all now. I actually don’t know why you called me.”

“No one else has a shot at reaching him, Anne. And you owe him. You know exactly why I called you.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Anne got in her car. Then she hopped back out, jogged up to her front door, and checked to make sure she had locked things. She had, but she tried the door again, feeling the resistance of the dead bolt. It was nearly impossible not to do it a third time.

Forcing herself to walk back to the Subaru, she told herself she knew what this was. Knew exactly why she was obsessing and what to do to counteract the black hole of not-rational she was falling into. The only solution was to keep going, no matter how panicky she felt. Ever since the fire, her brain had had these triggered-by-stress glitches, almost as if the anxiety she’d felt while trapped had been so great that it had destroyed the normal neuropathways in her brain. Now, if something made her feel uneasy? She tripped and fell into repetitive action as opposed to introspection and processing, the external expression of the disquiet getting twisted into an illusion that if she could just be absolutely certain she had done something correctly, everything would be all right.

It made sense, but it was also bullshit, and she was getting tired of pulling herself out of the tailspin.

The good news was that she had all of this to mull over on her way across town. Which was better than wondering what the hell Danny Maguire was going to do when she knocked on his door.

As it turned out, he didn’t do anything.

He and his three roommates had lived on the bottom floor of the same powder blue forties-era duplex in Pleasant Heights since they’d graduated from UMass New Brunie. From what she’d heard, the landlady lived upstairs and was Jack’s mother’s first cousin or something.

Anne had only been to the place twice before. Once for a Halloween party and then for Moose and Deandra’s engagement shitshow, as it had been called: Generally speaking, if you couldn’t civilly make it through the announcement of your intention to get married, it probably was a good indication you shouldn’t be aisling it. But whatever.

Walking up to the shallow front porch with its side-by-side pair of storm doors and matched set of mailboxes, Anne tugged the sleeve of her fleece down over her prosthesis and knocked with her right set of knuckles. When there was no answer, she gave it another shot, the little chain up top rustling against the cheap metal frame.

There was no doorbell and no reason for a peep hole. Two firefighters, a cop, and a SWAT guy didn’t need to worry who might be trying to get into their place.

Taking out her phone, she dialed Danny’s number. She wasn’t sure exactly when she had memorized the digits, but they were in her head like the address of her childhood home, the date of her father’s death, all the New Brunswick fire station numbers.

No answer.

Propping that storm door open with her hip, she tried the doorknob and found it locked. After banging some more, this time on solid wood, she stepped back and looked up. Like that was going to do anything.

With a curse, she descended the five steps and crossed the shallow lawn, hooking up with the asphalt drive that led down to the detached garage. There were no lights on in his place, but five windows down, the blue flicker of a TV was a subtle strobe in the darkness.

As she went along, her footfalls seemed extra loud, the shuffle and crunch of the first of the fallen leaves the kind of thing that should surely wake up the entire neighborhood. Around back, Danny’s rear door was sheltered by the set of stairs that led up to the second floor, and she was glad the cheap fixture overhead was out. She didn’t want to shine a bright light on any of this.