The Hard Bounce

by Todd Robinson

  Relief splashed across his face like a bucket of ice water. “Oh. Oh… okay. Shoot.”

  I handed him Cassandra’s picture. “You ever seen this kid around?”

  He stared at the picture. “What mall is this?” For a second, I thought I heard Brendan Miller and not Underdog’s voice in the question.

  “I dunno, why?”

  “I need to find a Sunglass Hut. My shades are busted.”

  I snatched the photo from his hands. “Dammit, Dog, do you know the girl or not?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  Strike one. “Somebody’s lost her, and they want me to find her.”

  “Hey, Boo, I can help you with this!” He’d perked up at the thought of being useful.

  “Fantastic.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my tone, but it crept in at the edges. “Does the name Kelly Reese mean anything to you?”

  He rolled his eyes back in thought. “Kelly Reese. Kelly Reese…” He stared at the floor in concentration. “Kelly Reese, Kelly Reese…”

  It looked like he had something on the tip of his tongue.

  “Kelly Reese,” he said. “Kelly, Kelly… Oh, wait!”

  The batter swings. “What?”

  “Kelly Reese. Big Irish guy. Bartends at The Dublin Pearl. IRA refugee, right?”

  And misses.

  “That’s Kelly Reed. And he’s not IRA, he’s a douchebag. It’s a bullshit line he gives the sorority girls to make them think he’s hardcore. He grew up in Quincy. He’s about as IRA as Jackie Chan. Kelly Reese is a girl.”

  “What? No. Wait. Yeah. That’s right, Reed. Nope. Don’t know any Kelly Reese.”

  I sighed. The ache paid a return visit to the bridge of my nose. “What about a Danny Barnes?” I remembered the way he introduced himself. Like the name meant something. Maybe it would to Dog.

  His face blanched instantly. “Aw no.”

  “Aw no, what?”

  “Not Danny the Bull.”

  “Is Danny the Bull a cop? Maybe ex-cop?”

  “Unless you know another one, yeah. And I hope to God there aren’t two of them running around.”

  “What’s his deal?”

  “Bad news, Boo. Stay away from that crazy bastard.” Dog glanced around the room as though he feared Barnes might jump up from behind a table. Just speaking Barnes’s name made Dog nervous. Which was making me nervous.

  “What’s his deal?” I asked again.

  “He used to run the Organized Crime Division for years. Stuck his badge in the business of a lot of scary people.”

  “You keep using the past tense. So he’s not a cop anymore?”

  “No. Retired a few years back. But once in blue—”

  “Blue for life,” I finished for him.

  “You got it. Barnes built a rep for having an ass harder than a diamond. The guy was flat-out notorious.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything a cop can be. Probably still the title holder for brutality reports filed against the department.”

  Considering most of the cops I’d dealt with, that was one hell of a title to hold. “What’s he up to now?”

  “Damned if I know. Don’t want to know.” He shuddered.

  “You afraid of this guy, Dog?”

  “I was… would be today if he came walking in the door.”

  “Well, he walked in the door yesterday.”

  “Jesus! Why? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Whoever wants this girl found has Barnes on his payroll. You ever work with the guy?”

  Dog shook his head. Dandruff or dust floated onto the table. “Different divisions. He worked Organized Crime. Led the task force that put the screws on everybody connected with The Mick. I mean, he nailed all of them. From the right-hand guys down to the runners who picked up the football cards on Saturday afternoons.”

  “But not The Mick.”

  “Nobody ever got to The Mick. That’s not to say that Barnes didn’t try. Or that The Mick didn’t try to get back at him. They just never got each other.”

  If you yelled out “Mick” in a Boston bar, 90 percent of the room would turn around. And if you yelled it loud enough, another two dozen would come in the door. But I knew exactly who Underdog was talking about.

  Francis “Frankie The Mick” Cade. Boston’s answer to John Gotti, if John Gotti had been federally investigated on a couple of occasions for filtering money to the Irish Republican Army. The charges bounced right off him every time. The guy was rubber in a sweat suit.

  And Boston being Boston, Cade was treated like something of a local hero, a Southie Robin Hood who provided Irish grandmothers with free hams every Christmas eve.

  When The Mick’s daughter passed away a year back, the funeral procession down Dorchester Ave would have made a Kennedy jealous.

  A few years back, a rumor circulated that one of Frankie’s old buddies was set to testify that he’d seen Frankie stomp a degenerate gambler to death, back when he was doing collections in the late ’70s. Full federal protection. Ten days before trial, UPS delivered somebody’s right pinkie finger to the witness safe house. The next day, a ring finger. Complete with a custom-made Claddagh ring. The same Claddagh ring that said informer gave his niece on her sweet sixteenth. The guy’s story made a U-turn before the sun set.

  It said something about Barnes that he’d gone toe to toe with Cade and was still sleeping on the right side of the grass.

  “I dunno what he’s got to do with you or that girl or anything, Boo. But I changed my mind. I don’t think I want to help with this anymore.” Underdog stood up from the table. He picked his pint up with hands that shook so badly beer sloshed over the lip. “I may be a colossal fuckup, but I’m still smart enough to stay out of any business that has Danny the Bull attached. Whatever it is, Boo… it’s bad. Barnes doesn’t do good.”

  Fingers of unease were crawling through my stomach. “Basically, all you can tell me is to watch my ass with this guy.”

  “No, I’m telling you to walk away. You don’t want to be on any side of any situation that has Barnes involved. If I were you, I’d keep one eye on Barnes, one eye on yourself, and grow a third on the back of your head to make sure no stray bullets are heading your way.”

  Chapter Five

  We got a better-than-usual crowd for a Monday. One of our sister bars, The Smash Up, had a bug-bombing scheduled. All their regulars were forced to drink with us for the night. They knew we’d be open. The Cellar never closed for the exterminators. The place hadn’t been fumigated once in my twelve years there, and I wasn’t sure it ever had been. We’d even named some of the larger bugs.

  Junior leaned against the doorjamb. I could tell he was pissed off by his crossed arms and bulldog face. When Junior’s got a problem on his mind, he furrows up his forehead. The scar tissue between his eyebrows piles up, and his mouth arches down right under his nose. It really does make him look like a bulldog.

  “You gots a sexy mouth, boy,” I said.

  “Don’t know why I gotta sit here,” he muttered, glaring at the passing foot traffic.

  “One of us has to stay here, Junior. Don’t bust my balls on this.”

  “Then why don’t you stay here with your thumb up your ass and let me go meet with these jerkoffs.”

  “Because they called me and told me they were going to pick me up.” I might have emphasized the “me”s in the sentence a bit too much. “Why are you turning this into something it’s not?”

  Junior didn’t answer. He knew I represented the de facto brains of our little organization; he just didn’t like feeling left out.

  A college kid with boy-band hair rambled toward the door. Already drunk enough to be tagged unwelcome a block and a half away, he fumbled with his wallet and unsteadily held out his ID toward Junior.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Junior said, pointing away.

  The kid’s alcohol-dimmed brain didn’t register anything for a second
. Then, surprised indignation. “I—”

  Junior stomped his foot at him and actually growled. The kid took off at a quick stagger. As he made his hasty exit, he checked over his shoulder to make sure Junior wasn’t giving chase. Possibly to bite him.

  “Did you call any of the boys to cover?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Nobody could come in.”

  “Not even Twitch?” I was kidding. I knew he didn’t call Twitch.

  Junior barked a laugh at the very idea. “Shit, and leave him here without either me or you?”

  “If that’s the last option we’ve got…”

  “Shit.” Junior spat on the sidewalk. “No thanks.”

  Twitch wasn’t trouble per se, but trouble sure as fuck found its way to him. He was just that guy. The guy somebody would inevitably have to fuck with.

  And by the time Twitch was done with that somebody, The Cellar would be a pile of smoking rubble. I’d feel better leaving the bar in the loving care of al Qaida. At least they might not piss on the rubble.

  Twitch was another St. Gabe’s veteran, and as such, was as close to family as we had. But Twitch wasn’t so much a potential solution as our last resort.

  At about twenty past ten, a black sedan rolled up in front of the bar.

  “Here we go,” I said to Junior. “The fat man walks at midnight.”

  Junior reached into his back pocket and held out his brass knuckles, keeping it low so whoever was driving the sedan wouldn’t see. “You want my face crackers?”

  I was touched Junior would offer me one of his weapons. If I took it, he might be left with as few as three on him. “Nah,” I said, opening my arms as I backed toward the sedan. “These is respectable peoples.”

  “That’s why I’m fucking worried. At least with us scumbags, you can see us coming.”

  He had a point.

  Kelly Reese got out of the front passenger side and opened the rear door for me.

  “Ooh, full service?” I said, smiling with the old charm turned up to eleven. She didn’t acknowledge that I’d spoken. I stopped and leaned over the top of the door. “See, normally when I give the ladies my young Connery-esque grin, they smother me with thrown panties. You could at least say hello.”

  “Hello.” All business and colder than a welldigger’s arse.

  Ah Boo, you old hound dog, you.

  Fuck it. One small step for man, one giant leap into the shit pile. I climbed into the car. Kelly shut the door and put herself back in front.

  The car was upholstered in black leather softer than milk. Smelled nice too, like a new jacket. It wasn’t a limo, but a smoked Plexiglas partition divided the front and rear like in a gypsy cab, sans the money chute. If there was any conversation up front, I couldn’t hear it. I tapped “shave and a haircut.” The divider rolled down a couple inches. I could only see the tops of Kelly’s and Barnes’s haircuts.

  “What?” Barnes grumbled. Nice to know we were still buddies.

  “You’ve been working this,” I said to the crack, “am I right?”

  “What?”

  “Trying to find her yourself.”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Reese there told me the kid’s been gone a week. I’m gonna assume her family noticed before yesterday.”

  “You’re a fucking genius.”

  “So am I also correct in assuming you’ve fallen flat on your ass?”

  He rolled the Plexiglas back up. I looked out the window. The car was turning off Commonwealth and getting on Storrow Drive heading east. After a couple miles, Barnes pulled off at South Boston, driving toward the harbor.

  I won’t go into details on the rest of the drive, but in case you didn’t already know, Boston’s streets are a wheelman’s wet dream. Unlike in cities that were actually designed, Boston’s planners simply paved over the old horse trails. There’s never a simple route from point A to B. To get to B, you have to turn toward point N, bear left, head north past point square root of 173, back to N, then ask directions.

  The car came to a final stop on Atlantic Avenue. Rows of converted industrial warehouse lofts faced the skyscrapers by the harbor. The street was empty, most of the offices closed up and lights off for the night.

  We sat for a couple minutes, engine idling. I rapped on the Plexi again. The partition came down less this time. No friendly “what” either.

  “Gotta suck to be that close. I mean, she was in The Cellar. Literally just minutes—”

  Just before the crack disappeared again, I could have sworn I saw veins bulging in Barnes’s ears. I was driving him batshit, but he still wasn’t going to give anything away.

  Barnes shut the ignition and unlocked the doors. Until then, I hadn’t realized I was locked in. The lock pulls fell completely into the hole when they were engaged. That bugged me. I don’t like knowing flight isn’t an option, even if I find out after the fact.

  Fuck, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t know flight if I fell off a cliff and grew wings.

  I opened the door and got out. Another black sedan sat idling in front of us.

  Showtime.

  Barnes opened the door to one of the loft complexes. Kelly was close behind him. I lagged back a bit. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what would put those two together in a zip code, much less connect them to the girl.

  I gave the names on the door buzzer a quick look-see, in case I needed to know later. Loft one was scratched off. Two was Carbon Graphics. Three, David Pfeiffer Photography. Four through six were for Infonet Streaming. None of the names meant anything to me. Barnes walked to door number one.

  The loft with no listing.

  Perfect.

  The loft was cavernous, dimly lit, and very empty. A painter had used it at one point, but not in a while. Dried paint in varying hues was smeared along the floor. Bolts of canvas stood by the door, and paint cans covered in thick dust sat next to a mural that read Andrew Lipp—Murals and Painting Gallery. This detective shit wasn’t going to be all that hard. Not with my steel trap of a mind.

  Kelly and Barnes headed toward a lone man silhouetted in the yellow streetlamp light coming through large windows facing the street. He wore a dark suit that looked tailored for his broad shoulders. I didn’t recognize him from the suit, the salt and pepper crewcut, or his ass, which were all I could see. Then he turned and the gears clicked into place, even if the machinery wasn’t running yet.

  I suddenly knew the reason for the secrecy and hush-hush.

  And it was a fucking doozy.

  “Mr. Donnelly,” I said, extending a hand that had gone clammy.

  “You must be William Malone,” Donnelly said in a rich bass, taking my hand in his own. His grip was firm and strong. I suddenly worried about the moistness and limp weight of my own. Jack Donnelly does a lot of hand shaking. I’m more of a smack on the back or punch in the arm kind of guy.

  “You know who I am.” It was a statement.

  “I pick up a newspaper now and then.” And on the occasions that I did, Jack Donnelly would inevitably be in there, often on the front. Big Jack Donnelly they called him.

  District Attorney Jack Donnelly.

  Mayoral candidate, district attorney, Big Jack Donnelly.

  “Then you understand the sensitivity of the… issue with my daughter. The reason behind all of this ‘cloak and dagger bullshit.’”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I understand the papers would go ballistic if they knew the frontrunner for the mayor’s seat misplaced his young daughter.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek, but didn’t bite at my snark. “She didn’t come home from her theater camp a week ago.”

  “You send her to theater camp?”

  Donnelly shook his head, confused. “Yes. Why?”

  “And you’re wondering why she ran away?”

  Donnelly’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, but he took my jab right in stride. “May I continue?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ve neither seen nor heard from her since. Mr. Barnes and
Ms. Reese informed me that you actually saw my daughter yesterday afternoon.”

  “She was at the club where I work.”

  “You know that she’s underage.”

  “It was an all-ages show. No alcohol.”

  What the fadge? Just like that, he’d put me on the defensive.

  I lit a smoke, trying to head off my simmering temper. “Look, I’m not an asshole, Mr. Donnelly. You’re the DA. You’ve got as much mojo in this town as anybody if you need somebody found.”

  He nodded.

  “Your daughter’s been gone a week. That means I’m not your number-one candidate to head the search party. Now, I’m sure Barnes here dusted off the old badge and came up zero. Maybe a few of your other buddies around the force gave it a shot, too. Thing is? They all stink of cop. Cop walks into a location where cops aren’t in the highest regard—which, frankly, seems to be every place your girl is hanging—nobody would tell them shit if they stepped in it. I’m guessing you figured that much out and that’s why you sent the piece of ass to talk to me first instead of Barnes.” I waggled my finger at Kelly, but kept my attention on Donnelly. “You knew I wouldn’t have a thing to say to him either.”

  Silence.

  I waited, wondering if I’d pushed too hard.

  Donnelly rolled his neck like a prizefighter, as if his necktie was suddenly too tight. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Malone in private for a moment.”

  “Jack…” Barnes was definitely in favor of Plan B, dumping my carcass off the Tobin Bridge.

  “Please, Danny.” There wasn’t as much a request as a command in the tone.

  Barnes wasn’t happy and Kelly was redder than a baboon’s ass, but both of them turned and walked. Barnes yanked the door open with enough force to send a canvas bolt toppling to the floor. Kelly stormed out right behind him, her heels clicking an angry cadence on the concrete floor.

  “What do you want to know, Mr. Malone?”

  “I know why you need us. What I don’t know is why you need us.”

  “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

  “If you just wanted a bruiser, you could throw a stick in Kenmore Square and it’d bounce off a dozen thick necks. Why us?”

  Donnelly gave me another once over before he spoke.