The Hard Bounce

by Todd Robinson

  THE HARD

  BOUNCE

  The Debut Novel

  from the Creator

  of Thuglit

  Todd Robinson

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Praise for The Hard Bounce

  Twenty-Three Years Ago

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Coda

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Praise for The Hard Bounce

  “Schooled by retro pulp and a workingman’s gritty self-preservation, Todd Robinson’s prose cuts with a rusty blade and we can’t tear our eyes away. No glib talkers here, no high-handed lessons, just the kind of noir you’ll recognize if you ever had to pick between frying pan and fire.”

  —Sophie Littlefield, author of A Bad Day for Pretty

  “Todd Robinson’s debut is tough and gritty, but what makes The Hard Bounce such a standout is its sly humor and surprising poignancy. The razor-sharp dialogue will have Elmore Leonard watching his back.”

  —Hilary Davidson, author of The Damage Done and The Next One to Fall

  “Todd Robinson is an immense talent, writing modern crime fiction with a toughness, realism, humor, and smooth prose that few match.”

  —Dave Zeltserman, author of Outsourced

  “A brilliant novel—smart, funny, and deeply moving.”

  —Ken Bruen, Barry and Shamus Award–winning author of The Devil

  “Staccato-like dialogue and action start to finish; this author has writing chops and reminds us of it throughout this hardboiled yet poignant story of a dark past, the loss of humanity, and the difficult road to finding it again in places most dare not look.”

  —Charlie Stella, author of Johnny Porno

  “The Hard Bounce is a big, proud, bruiser of a novel—packed with humor, guts, and heavyweight grace. Robinson’s the best hardboiled crime writer I’ve come across in years.”

  —Benjamin Whitmer, author of Pike

  “The team of Boo and Junior are two of the best, most entertaining characters to invade hardboiled fiction in a long time. Todd Robinson’s The Hard Bounce follows this dynamic duo through the underbelly of Boston as they get bruised, beaten, battered, shocked, and shot. Being a bouncer is an even tougher gig than you thought. A kick in the nutsack with a surprising amount of heart.”

  —Victor Gischler, Edgar- and Anthony-nominated author of Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

  “The Hard Bounce is one of those rare debuts that roars its intentions from the first page and that keeps you reading with the power and force of its darkly witty voice. Robinson’s bringing crime back to the mean, working streets where it’s always belonged with this deeply affecting, startlingly affecting novel. Boo Malone is one of the most intriguing, compelling, and empathetic protagonists I’ve encountered in a while, and you’ll be thinking about the secrets of his past for a long time after you’ve finished that last page.”

  —Russel D. McLean, author of The Lost Sister

  Twenty-Three Years Ago

  The Boy was eight years old when he learned how to hate.

  It’s still difficult, even today, for him to remember the events in their right order. He knows where they should go, but hard as he tries, they drift through his mind like glitterflakes in a snow globe.

  The screaming and the blood followed the first explosion. That much he’s sure of. So much blood.

  The second explosion. Running at him. Throwing himself at a grown man like a rabid animal unaware that it doesn’t stand a chance. He was big for his age. He still didn’t stand a chance.

  Bang. He was gone. Just like that. Tumbling in and out of consciousness with no idea where he was. What time it was. Who or where he is.

  Bang. He was back. A priest. He can’t understand him. The inside of an ambulance, feeling it hurtle through the Boston traffic, the doctor unable to control his tears as he tries to stem the tide of blood that won’t stop pouring out of him. The Boy didn’t know there was that much blood inside of him. He knew he would run out soon. He was terrified.

  Bang. On a gurney. Lots of people yelling. He bites somebody’s hand. A sharp pinprick in his arm. Where is she?

  Bang. Another priest. He’s saying the same unintelligible words as the first.

  Months in a hospital. Pain like an eight-year-old should never know exists in this world. Parades of doctors—first for his ruined body, the second for his damaged mind.

  He has an anger management problem, they say.

  Anger management. It’s a nice term for people who can afford it.

  Psychologists in two-hundred-dollar sweaters and condescending smiles, telling him:

  You need to let it go.

  Think about the rest of your life.

  Think about how lucky you are.

  The world is a beautiful place.

  The world is not a beautiful place. Not to The Boy, who’s going to need two more operations before he can piss without a tube and spigot.

  They ask him why he’s such an angry person, what he’s so angry at.

  Think about how lucky you are.

  Chapter One

  I can’t tolerate a bully, even when my job is to be the biggest swinging dick on the block.

  Somebody in the booking office for The Cellar thought that all-ages punk shows on the weekends was a bright idea. Maybe it was. Nobody owned up to having the idea though.

  The place was crowded, high school kids with rainbow-tinted hairdos making up most of the audience. The rest were uncomfortable parents watching their babies perform in bands with names like Mazeltov Cocktail and No Fat Chicks. As far as crowds go, they were a nice break from the normal regiment of scumbags, skinheads, punks, frat boys, musicians, and wannabes that we had to deal with. Odds were pretty good we wouldn’t be involved in any brawls or dragging overdoses out of the bathroom. All things considered, it should have been a cakewalk day.

  Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

  Me and Junior handled the shift ourselves: me watching the door while Junior patrolled the three floors of the club. Between the two of us, we could easily police a few dozen skinny tweens. We were less bouncers than babysitters with a combined weight of 470 pounds (mostly mine) and about ten grand in tattoos (mostly Junior’s). Every parent’s dream.

  We’d only been open an hour and we’d already confiscated seventeen bottles of beer, two bottles of vodka, one of rum, three joints, and seven airplane bottles of tequila. The way it was going, Junior and I would be able to stock our own bars by nightfall.

  A collective groan floated out from inside the bar as the ninth inning closed at Fenway. I poked my head in to check the score. 9–3 Yankees.

  And it just had to be the fucking Yankees, didn’t it?

  As I poked my head back out, the first fat droplets of rain spattered on my shoes, as if the angels themselves wept for the poor Sox. I backed under The Cellar’s fluorescent sign, but the wind zigzagged the drizzle all over me.

  At least I was in a better place than J
unior. The basement didn’t have any ventilation and crowds produced furnace-level temperatures. A hot wind would gust up the stairs when the club got crowded, feeling (and smelling) like Satan farting on your back. If I was hot outside, Junior must have been miserable.

  The first wave of baseball fans wandered into Kenmore Square. I could hear chants of “Yankees suck” approaching from the Fenway area.

  Two guys broke off from the herd, stumbling in the bar’s direction. The bigger guy wore an old Yaztremski jersey and a mullet that would have embarrassed Billy Ray Cyrus in 1994. His buddy wore a backwards old school Patriots hat and a Muffdiving Instructor T-shirt.

  Really . . . ? Really?

  Asshats.

  I recognized their tribe immediately, the type of townies who will go to their graves believing they could do a better job than the pros did—if only they hadn’t knocked up Mary Lou Dropdrawers senior year.

  Those guys.

  Mullet looked over, his eyes wide as he saw the crew of punk kids in front of The Cellar. His smile was filled with a bully’s joy. He grabbed Buddy’s collar and pointed his attention toward the kids.

  “Nice hairdo,” the townie called out to the kids milling outside. “What are you, some kinda faggot?”

  I closed my eyes and sighed.

  Away we go…

  Buddy laughed with a mocking hilarity, pointing a finger and looking to the rest of the crowd for an approval he wasn’t getting.

  A skinny kid, head shaved close and dyed in a leopard skin pattern, turned. “Why? You looking for some ass, sailor?” the kid yelled back, smacking his bony behind for emphasis. He got some approving chuckles from the passersby and hoots of laughter from the other kids.

  Buddy looked pissed off that the kid got the laughs from the crowd that he hadn’t.

  “What did you say to me, bitch?” said Mullet, quickstepping toward the bar.

  The kid flipped the guy off with both hands and ran back into the club.

  When Mullet got a couple of feet from the entrance, I stepped halfway across the doorway. He stopped short and we stood there, shoulder to shoulder.

  “What’s your problem?” Mullet asked, puffing out his chest.

  “No problem,” I said, blowing cigarette smoke out my nose, moving my face closer to his. “It’s just not happening for you here. Not today.”

  “I wanna get a beer.” His breath reeked of soft pretzels and a few too many overpriced Fenway Miller Lites.

  “Not here you’re not. Get one down the street if you’re thirsty.”

  Buddy suddenly found his shoes real fascinating. Mullet and I kept giving each other the hairy eyeball. “It’s a free country, asshole.”

  “And a wonderful free country it is. This bar isn’t, though. Not for you. Not today.” I took another long pull from my cigarette and fought the urge to blow the smoke into his face.

  “Who’s gonna stop me, you?”

  “Yup.” There it was. The frog was dropped. Let’s see if it jumped. I balled my fist around the medium-point Sharpie in my pocket. Bouncer’s best friend. Won’t kill anybody, but hurts like a bitch when jammed between a couple of ribs.

  I stood at the long end of his best intimidating stare, which frankly, wasn’t. Mullet decided to give it one last shot.

  “What are you? Some kind of tough guy?”

  “Well, gee golly Hoss, I haven’t started any fights with twelve-year-olds lately, so I’m not sure.” I moved my face right into his. One more inch and my cigarette was going up his nose. I removed my hand from my pocket and held it low at my side.

  Buddy grabbed Mullet’s arm, and Mullet twitched like he’d been shocked.

  “C’mon, man. Let’s go.” Buddy’s voice cracked like he’d just been kicked in the nuts. Now I know why he’d minded his own. Hard to talk a tough line when you sound like Minnie Mouse.

  “Yeah. Fine. This bar’s full of faggots anyway,” Mullet muttered as he walked off.

  “Fuck you very much, gentlemen. Have a good one.” I clipped a sharp one-fingered salute at them as they retreated.

  The kids applauded and cheered as the two walked off. I shut them up quick with a glower. I made a hundred bucks a shift, plus a tip-out from the bar. Not enough money to be anybody’s pal.

  More noise pollution began thumping from the basement. The group quickly ground out their smokes on the wet cement as they filtered back inside.

  A girl with brightly dyed red hair lingered outside longer than the rest. I could feel her stare on the side of my neck like a sun lamp. I glanced over and she gave me a little smile. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but behind the smile was something older. Something that made me uncomfortable.

  As she passed me going into the club, she brushed her tiny body against me, tiptoed up, and kissed me on the cheek. “My hero,” she whispered softly into my ear and went inside.

  I shuddered with Nabokovian creeps and shifted my attention back to the crowd. (And yes, fuck you, I know who Nabokov is. I’m a bouncer, not a retard.)

  I kept my thousand-yard stare front and center on the passing crowd, keeping my peripheral sharp for any run-up sucker punches. It happens. I was alert to every degree of my environment except what was directly behind me; which is why I nearly had a heart attack when a booming crash sounded from the back of the bar. Instinctively, I ducked, made sure my head was still intact. Inside the bar, every patron jerked his head toward the hallway leading to the parking lot out back. I bull-rushed through the thick crowd, almost knocking down a couple customers. Somebody’s beer spilled down the seat of my pants as I hit the hallway.

  Junior was halfway up the back stairs when I hit the huge steel exit door at full clip. The door opened only a couple inches before slamming into something solid, my shoulder making a wet popping sound. The door clanged like a giant cymbal and I ricocheted back, landing on top of Junior. We both toppled hard onto the concrete stairwell. Pretty pink birdies chirped in my head as I lay sprawled on top of him.

  “Christ! Get offa me!” Junior yelped.

  I rolled onto my wounded arm, and that same something popped back into place inside my shoulder. I roared like a gut-shot bull.

  Junior pulled himself up and pressed against the door with all his weight. The door barely budged. Whatever was jammed against the door squealed metallically against the concrete.

  I pinwheeled my arm a couple times to make sure there was no permanent damage. Apart from a dull throb and some numbness in my fingers, I’d survive.

  “You okay?” Junior asked.

  “Seems like it.”

  “Then do you wanna help me move this fucking thing or should I kiss your boo-boo first?”

  “Would you?”

  I pressed my good shoulder against the door beside Junior and pushed. Whatever was on the other side, it was heavy as hell. With a painful scraping of metal, the door slowly slid open. We had about an eighth of a second to wish it hadn’t.

  A flood of garbage and scumwater came pouring through the crack. Plastic cups, beer cans, crusty napkins, and a few good gallons of dumpster juice slopped over our shoes. Somebody had toppled the entire Dumpster across the entryway. The stink was epic.

  “Motherfucker!” Junior dry-heaved mightily, but didn’t puke. “I just bought these goddamn shoes!”

  A horn honked in the parking lot. Mullet and Buddy sat in the cab of a black Ford Tundra. They were laughing their asses off and wagging middle fingers as they peeled out and shot the pickup toward the lot gate.

  The truck got halfway across the lot before jamming up in the long line of exiting Sox Faithful. Other cars moved in from both sides and the rear, neatly boxing them in. They had nowhere to go.

  Junior stomped across the parking lot, his temper giving him an Irish sunburn. “I’m going to kill you, then fuck you, you cocksucker!”

  I’m not sure that was what Junior meant to convey, but I went with the sentiment. “That’s right,” I called out. “He’s not gay; he just likes to fuck dead t
hings.”

  In the large rearview mirrors, I could see the fear on Mullet’s face. Suddenly, I saw him lean over and grab for something. I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be a kitten.

  “He’s reaching!” I yelled to Junior. We took the last twenty feet at a sprint, and I swung a haymaker into the open driver’s side window. My fist cracked Mullet right in the back of his hairdo as he turned back.

  “Gahh!” he replied. His hands were empty.

  “Hey!” was all Buddy had time for before Junior reached into the passenger side, grabbed his head, and whacked his face hard onto the dashboard.

  A pair of high voices cried out from the cab as two small faces in Red Sox caps smushed against the tinted glass. “Daddy!” one of the little boys cried in terror.

  Bang.

  The world exploded red and I had Mullet’s windpipe in the middle of my squeezing fingers.

  “Are you fucking nuts? Were you going to drive drunk with your fucking kids in the back?” Spittle flew from my lips onto Mullet’s reddening face. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “Please don’t hurt my daddy!” Tiny fingers clasped at mine, trying to pry them open. Something deep inside was telling me to let go, but the rest of me wasn’t hearing it.

  “Let him go, Boo.” Junior’s voice sounded miles away. I saw his hands on my arms, pulling me, but I couldn’t feel him there.

  Mullet’s lips went blue, and his eyes started to roll up white.

  Buddy was also trying frantically to loosen my grip. “Jesus Christ, you’re killing him! Let him go.” Buddy’s blood-slicked fingers kept slipping off mine.

  Suddenly, an explosion shocked my hands off Mullet’s throat. I stepped back, my hands reflexively going to the place I thought I’d been shot. The truck listed down and to the left. Another explosion and the truck sank further. I wheeled my head to see Junior standing by the limp oversized tire, box-cutter in his hand. “Let’s go, Boo. They’re not going anywhere.”

  I blinked a few times, regaining myself. One of the boys was halfway though the partition into the front seat. He was crying, snot running over his upper lip, screaming at me, the monster who was hurting his daddy. “Go away!” he shrieked. “Go away!” He threw an empty Red Sox souvenir cup at me. It bounced off my chest, clattered to the ground.