The Hard Bounce

by Todd Robinson

  “I need you to call Mr. Donnelly and tell him I’d like to take a peek around his daughter’s room.” Crap, that sounded creepy in my ears. “See if there’s anything there. Sooner is better than later.”

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I speak to him.”

  “Great. Smell you later.”

  “In your dreams.” Click.

  Great. Now they knew my dreams, too.

  Kelly called me back and gave me an address and time. Me and Junior headed over to 3 Harrold Towers, Suite 1605. It was the nicest building I’ve ever been in, glowering doorman and all.

  Junior farted in the elevator.

  I knocked on 1605. The door pulled in, but wasn’t opened. Barnes was stepping away when I pushed the door wide enough to enter.

  The massive apartment was furnished in deep browns and burgundies. A lot of expensive wood and glass. Very tasteful. Ethan Allen or Mary Potterybarn would have approved. I hoped I didn’t smell of Junior’s fart.

  There was even a fireplace. I never knew apartments could have fireplaces. On the mantle sat the family picture that had been cropped. Cassandra had her mother’s hair and eyes, her father’s strong facial structure. My mind briefly flicked back to all the guys at The Home who never got to see who they inherited their features from.

  “Cassandra’s room is upstairs. Hers is the door on the left.”

  Donnelly walked in from another room, adjusting his cuffs. “Gentlemen.” The district attorney was dressed in full black and whites. In a large mirror, he made the final adjustments on his tuxedo.

  “Mr. Donnelly.” I almost called him sir. Junior would have righteously kicked my ass later, so I was glad I caught myself. I didn’t like the unease that crept over my skin while I was around these guys. It felt like I was on permanent detention in the principal’s office.

  “I have a benefit dinner in a few minutes,” Donnelly said. “Danny will help you with anything you need. If you must take something, let Mr. Barnes know.”

  Junior frowned. Under his breath, he said, “Is he going to count the silverware after we go, too?”

  I shot him a look. He shrugged. Then he elbowed me a reminder in the ribs. “That’s fine,” I said. “We’ll be careful with your daughter’s possessions.”

  Donnelly turned to go.

  “Mr. Donnelly?”

  He stopped and turned, glancing at his shiny, shiny watch. “What is it?”

  “Before you go… We haven’t discussed money yet.”

  “Oh, of course. Any expenses you incur, itemize them and give them to Ms. Reese. Five hundred a day, plus said expenses, for two weeks. If you don’t have any luck in those two weeks or if Cassandra seems to be in any danger, I’m afraid that, election or no election, I’ll have to go the police.”

  “I understand.” I just hoped Junior hadn’t lost control of his salivary glands and drooled all over the pretty Oriental rug.

  Donnelly glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I really must be going.” He stopped short of closing the door and turned back. “Oh, and one more thing. Should you find her and return her to me quietly and safely, there is an additional twenty-five thousand.”

  I managed not to piss myself, so I guess it wasn’t all bad.

  “Twenty-five fucking grand!” Junior was fit to bust as he rifled through Cassandra’s bureaus looking for anything other than clothes.

  I was in the desk, pulling out drawers and looking along the bottoms. No luck. I made a mental leap and looked inside the drawers as well. Zip. “Anything?”

  “Just the creeps,” Junior said. I knew what he meant. Cassandra’s room was a masterpiece of pink. Pink walls. Pink bedspread. A generous number of stuffed animals. Even the desk was a light shade of pink. I think it’s called Conch Shell or something ridiculous by people who give a shit. The air was scented subtly with flowers and vanilla.

  We were spies in the House of Girl and uncomfortable with it.

  “Feels like if we hang out in this room long enough, we might go gay or something,” he muttered.

  Same planet, different worlds. “You might.”

  “And you’d love me.” Junior licked his thumb and ran it between his man-cleavage.

  I almost threw up in my mouth.

  4DC Security. Professional investigating at its best.

  We divided up the room lengthwise. I took the left side, Junior took the right. Fifteen minutes later, my head was stuck under the bed when I heard something hit the carpet, followed by the sound of something delicate breaking.

  “Shit,” said Junior.

  “What? What did you do?” Knowing Junior, he’d managed to find a Faberge egg and tried to eat it.

  “Goddamn unicorn,” he said, pointing at the floor. “Bounced right off the carpet.” A small glass unicorn lay on the hardwood seam between the carpet and the wall, its dainty head off from the delicate neck.

  “It shouldn’t have hit the carpet at all, ass.”

  “Maybe…” Junior attempted to fix the unicorn by clinking the two pieces together. Lo and behold, the glass didn’t fuse itself back together with force. Instead, a leg broke off with a snap. “Dammit.”

  “Just leave it alone.”

  Junior looked out the door and slipped the pieces into his pocket.

  “All right,” I said, sitting on the soft, light pink bedspread. “Think back. When you wanted to hide something at The Home, where would you hide it?”

  He wrinkled his brow in thought. “Shoes.”

  “Checked them when I did the closet. Books?”

  “Did ’em. Checked for pages glued together, too.”

  I’d forgotten about that one. “Where else? Think.”

  “My ass.”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes I hid a couple of things in my ass when I had to.” He caught my horrified expression. “Small things.”

  I cradled my face in my hands. “Well, why don’t you check and see if Cassandra hid her diary or an address book in your ass?”

  “I’m just going train of thought here.”

  “Is that train up your ass, or is the room already getting to you?”

  “Up your ass. There’s nothing here.”

  “I know.” I lay my head back on the bed and felt something crinkle in a stuffed animal. It had been a while since I’d owned one, but I didn’t remember stuffed animals crinkling.

  “So, you geniuses find anything I didn’t?” Barnes leaned in the doorway with a smug expression smeared across his face. I didn’t want to manhandle the stuffed animals with him watching. He looked to me. “If you’re going to take a nap, take it at home.”

  Junior sneezed hard into his hand. It sounded quite a lot like “dickmuncher,” but I could have been wrong.

  “Excuse me?” Barnes said. His tone indicated he didn’t really want us to excuse him.

  Junior sniffled and smiled wide. “Allergies.”

  “We’ll be done in about ten minutes,” I interjected. “Say, you didn’t happen to find anything worthwhile when you gave the room a once-over, did you? Diary? Address book of any kind?”

  “Nope. Not a damned thing.”

  “Because it would really make you a jerkoff if you knew something that might help us and you were just being a bitch about us sniffing around.”

  Junior sneezed again. This time, it sounded like “asswipe.” That Junior and his allergies.

  That big vein bulged out on Barnes’s head. “You two swinging dicks just have no idea what’s going on here, do you? I’ve got just as much as you do—more—riding on finding her. I’m in charge of Donnelly’s security, and my own stock goes up when he gets elected mayor. I want the kid found before she blows the whole thing to hell for her father and me.” He turned to walk back out.

  “Your concern for Cassandra is really touching. Truly, it is.” I didn’t bother masking my sarcasm.

  “You know what?” He came back halfway into the room. “She’s a spoiled little rich bitch who has no idea
how much she’s fucking things up for a lot of people here.”

  I had to admit, the kid’s room did smack of more than a little privilege.

  “Be out in five minutes.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “He’s just a big old shmoogie-bear, isn’t he?” I said.

  “I’m gonna look under the carpets.”

  I turned my attention back to the stuffed animals. One of them had that mystery crinkle going on. Pink elephant. I squeezed it. Nope. I checked the seams. Nope. Raggedy-Ann. No sound, but a shoulder seam was split a half-inch. I stuck my pinkie finger in and rooted around. Nothing. Then I saw the kangaroo. Built-in pouch. Nature’s hidey-hole. I poked the belly.

  Crinkle.

  The pouch was held together by Velcro. I opened it and felt inside the stuffed velveteen. My fingers closed around something, and I pulled out a single Polaroid. The photo was of a man’s torso. Long and stringy black hair covered his face. He was looking down in the picture. What he was looking at made me freeze—and made me blink a couple times to make sure I was seeing it right.

  “Yo, Boo! You done with your tea party over there?” Junior tossed the edge of the carpet back onto the floor with a thump. “Shit. There’s not even dust under here.”

  “Junior? I need you to see this.”

  “Whatcha got there?”

  He walked over to the bed, and I handed him the photograph. He did the same double blink. “Whoathefucka?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, good God, man… Whoa!”

  “I know.”

  Junior looked again and pointed at the suspect region. “Is that fake?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s gotta be fake.” He shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, that guy must have a helluva slouch.”

  A snake tattoo coiled around the man’s forearm. The diamond-shaped head lay across the top of his hand. We had our man. Or at the very least, we had a picture of Paul’s “creepy dude.”

  Kinda.

  “Let’s get out of here. Now,” I said, my creeps turned up to eleven. I stuck the picture in my back pocket and speed-walked out the door, Junior right behind.

  “See ya,” I said to Barnes, who seemed a bit startled by our hasty exit.

  “Hey!” We were gone before he got out of his chair.

  The elevator still smelled like Junior’s fart.

  Chapter Seven

  “Lord. That is one big dick,” said Underdog. He bent over the desk, squinting at the Polaroid. He didn’t touch the picture, and I understood why. Shit, I washed my hands after taking the photo out of my jeans. Might burn the jeans, too.

  “The tattoo look familiar?”

  Yeah, I could have shown Barnes the picture before we bolted. Fuck Barnes. Instead, I got Dog on the horn and told him to meet us at The Cellar. When he got there, I dragged him up to the office, since the issue was definitely not for any of the regulars’ eavesdropping ears to listen in on.

  Besides, we were going to be discussing a massive schvonce.

  You get my fucking point.

  Dog continued to squint. The tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth while he wracked his drug-abscessed memory banks. “I’ve seen some like this before, but not this one.”

  “Is it some kind of gang symbol?” asked Junior. “Looks like it could be a biker tat. Not any gangbanger shit I’ve ever seen.”

  Underdog shook his head. “Nah. Doesn’t look like any biker gang stuff I’ve come across. I mean the style at least. Might mean something anyway.”

  “Beyond the obvious reference to the snake hanging between his knees?” I asked. I lit a pair of smokes and handed one to Junior. My stress was making me smoke like a foundry. My pack of gum was in the trash.

  “Maybe it’s a secret society tag,” Junior chuckled. “The Big Dick Association of America.”

  “All right, Junior. Enough with the dick jokes,” I said.

  “You weren’t invited to join, were ya?”

  “For a man who likes his cars bigger than most Pacific whales, you think you might be compensating?”

  “That’s enough!” Underdog’s tone was razor sharp. “Doesn’t it bother you two that you found this in the room of a fourteen-year-old girl? Doesn’t it bother you at all?” Brendan Miller was in the room. The grungy little junkie had turned back into the cop.

  We were both silent, shamed. “It does bother us, Dog” I said. “We’re being jackasses because this whole deal has got us on edge.”

  Underdog sighed. “I’m sorry too. This just… I don’t like it when shit like this, you know, involves kids. Look, I can have a buddy run a crosscheck on the station computers. See if we get a match on the tattoo.”

  “Any suggestions on what we can do next?” I asked.

  “You could show this picture around. I know you can’t show the pictures of the girl too much, but who gives a shit about this guy? Sounds like if you find him, the girl will be there, too.”

  “Maybe we could start at some tattoo shops. See if anybody local did the work.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Junior stood up. “I’m not going to canvas Boston’s tattoo shops with a picture of John Holmes Junior there and ask if anybody knows where I can find the guy.”

  “Junior…”

  “Just cover the dick up with your thumb,” Underdog said.

  “No good,” I said. “You’d be hiding too much of the tattoo.” I showed him.

  “Oh, man. Just seeing you do that is freaking me out. I’m not putting my thumb over any man’s dick.”

  “Come on, Junior. It’s just a little picture.” I waggled the photo in his face.

  He swatted my hand away. “Get that thing outta my face. No man, seriously. My rep.”

  “Is your rep worth more or less than twenty-five grand?”

  He stopped dead, rolling his cigarette between his teeth. “Hmm. Good point. Twelve thousand, five-hundred on the nose, actually.”

  I paused. “You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Three days passed. Nothing. Not a word or a trace.

  Junior and me hit the ink shops with the picture of Snake and came up with zilch. A couple smartasses claimed the picture was of them. One guy got himself throttled by Junior when he made the mistake of cracking wise about our sexual predilections. The guy sobered up real fast when Junior grabbed his collar and shook the dude’s head like a maraca.

  One place had two girls working the needles. They just snickered. I hoped I didn’t turn as red as Junior did.

  The price tag on our reps was starting to feel pretty damn cheap.

  “This is such bullshit!” Junior protested, slugging down another wine. We celebrated our humiliation the only way we knew how. We sat in The Cellar’s darkest corner and got loaded.

  “It was worth a shot.” I was on my sixth round of beer and bourbon. My buzz took hold around the fourth round. The last two were insurance.

  “Well, it was a bullshit shot. I can never get another tattoo in this town again. Christ! Probably not even in the whole goddamn state!”

  “What’s left to tattoo, your taint?”

  “What do you know about my taint?”

  “As it is, you’re a walking Louvre.” Across the room, I could see Underdog stumbling through. Scanning the bar. I held my hand up and he saw me, returning the salute. He plopped himself in the chair across from me. “Drink?” I offered.

  He waved his hand. “Nah. Prob’ly shouldn’t have any more.” Drunk as I was, I could tell he was on a whole other level of intoxication. I hoped it was just booze. “So!” He smacked his hands on the table, making the glasses rattle. “My buddy ran the picture for you. Got eleven matches on the snake tattoo. Factored in the probable age and hair type. Boiled it down to two.”

  Junior and I looked at each other and sat up straight. “And?”

  “Okay. First one. Marshall Conigliario-io-io.�
�� Either Dog was having a hard time wrapping his tongue around the name or he was breaking out into a verse of Old MacDonald. “From Brockton.”

  “So, what’s the deal? Is he our guy or what?” Junior asked.

  “Nope,” said Underdog.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “He’s up in Bridgewater doing eight to ten on armed robbery. Been there for two already.” He burped loudly. I smelled grapefruit juice. He held up his finger. “Second guy: Richie Dean in Allston.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass if the girl had been in my own neighborhood the whole time?

  “You got an address on the guy?” Junior asked. “Let’s go over there right now and tear him a new one.”

  That would have been just dandy. A rescue at one in the morning by two drunks and a junkie.

  “S’not him either. He’s dead. Motorcycle accident back in April.”

  I was going to need another round to continue the conversation. I waved at Ginny and circled my finger over the table. She nodded.

  “So what th’ fuck you telling us, Dog? You got nothin’ either?” My own words were starting to slip and slur.

  “Not exactly. I was getting my copy of the picture back in the Vice office when one of the guys…” Dog blew out another acidic burp. “Yama. Japanese guy. You know him?”

  “No.”

  “Nice guy. Anyway, Yama sees the picture and recognizes it. Yama!” Underdog banged the table, like we would know him better the second time around. “Japanese guy?”

  “Well, who the fuck is it, then?” Junior had had just about enough.

  “No name. Just recognized the picture. Dick, too.”

  “Yama’s a dick?”

  “Noooooo. He recognized the dick.”

  “Is it his own?”

  “Nope.”

  Junior grimaced. “Man, the day I recognize another man’s dick…”

  “See,” Underdog continued, unfazed by Junior’s homophobia, “this is where it starts to get really messed up. Apparently, our boy Snake is a filmmaker.”

  I didn’t like where this was heading. Ginny brought our drinks over just in time.