The Hard Bounce

by Todd Robinson

  I let the crackhead go and he scrabbled into the corner by the door, turtling himself up, whimpering like a child waiting for the next blow. “I just want my Louisa,” he blubbered. “I just wanted to find my Louisa.” He rocked back and forth, clutching his knees close to his chest.

  Dutch stared at me, horrified. There was only one crazy nutcase covered in shit in that room right then. Nobody needed to point fingers to figure out who it was.

  Dutch led me out back, where a spigot and hose still gave water despite clanking a protest. I washed off the mess best as I could, but there was no amount of cleaning that would save my clothes. I was going to be walking around in a potato sack if I lost any more of my wardrobe.

  “I’m sorry, Dutch,” I said, sick with myself.

  “S’okay, Boo. You feeling a lot of hurt right now. I can see that. Jest don’t think poor George deserved to suffer from it.”

  Knowing the crackhead’s name made me feel worse. “I just lost it, Dutch. I thought… I don’t know what I thought,” I said, turning the faucet off with a squeak.

  “Like I said, it’s okay. At least you got George to hit the bricks. Probably don’t have to worry about him coming back, neither.”

  Dutch led me back to the wide stairwell at the south end of the house. I remembered going up those stairs to the room I’d kept my sleeping bag in. The stairs supported me just fine back then. But ten years was a long time in a house that should have been demolished in the early 1990s. Stringy wisps of carpet remained tacked onto the edges of the stairs, fibers black from the flames that burned through the house. A wide hole opened like a gaping mouth three steps from the top.

  Carefully, I walked up the first four steps. Cassandra couldn’t have weighed more than an even buck with all her clothes on and wearing wrist weights. The stairs creaked, but gave only a little under my two-thirty.

  “Be careful, Boo,” Dutch said nervously. “No offense to you or that little girl, but the last thing I need is another dead whitey in my house. The damn police already put me through their suspicious-nigger line of questioning.”

  “I’m all right,” I said as I made my way higher. One step below the hole and the stairs still held me. I was only eight feet off the ground floor, but I knew falls from lesser heights could kill, especially if you weren’t expecting the drop. I ran my fingers along the edges of the broken planks. The wood grains were swollen with moisture, but didn’t appear to be suffering any excessive rot.

  That wasn’t what I was looking for. I was there to see if someone had marked his territory. Made it look like a collapse when it wasn’t anything. Maybe he’d dropped his wallet or carved “I killed Cassandra Donnelly” on the wall and signed it.

  As one last test, I gave the wood on the side of the broken stairs a good stomp. The impact boomed an echo through the lonely hallways.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Dutch complained. “Please don’t do that. No more dead whiteys, Boo! Please?”

  I stared down into the hole. The cavity that swallowed Cassie’s short life. How long did she lie down there? Was she knocked out? Killed instantly? Or was she down there dying, alone, for hours? I couldn’t see through the darkness to determine what lay at the bottom. Basement? Closet? Was there blood? The hole just stared back at me, unconcerned with my opinion of it.

  The wood held. I stomped three more times.

  Bang bang bang.

  Nothing. If it held me and withstood by best stompings, then—

  Creak.

  “Oh, Boo. Get offa there, please.”

  With an earsplitting screech, the banister tore away from the wall, the entire stairwell collapsing under me. I was lucky enough to land on my good leg and roll when I hit. I bounced off the floor once, and Dutch screamed. I got the wind knocked out of me, but I was okay.

  The same drop had been much worse for Cassie.

  “Boo!” Plaster and ash floated thickly in the air, making Dutch wheeze.

  “I’m over here, Dutch.” I called back, coughing in the chalky dust coating the inside of my mouth and lungs. I pulled the front of my shirt over my nose again as I ran for the door. Dutch was right behind me, gasping.

  So the stairs weren’t up to code. So what? They stood long enough with my fat ass on them. They should have been able to take Cassandra’s weight without a squeak.

  But they did collapse, what was left of my rational mind said.

  But they should have held her, the irrational majority said.

  But they didn’t.

  But.

  Ifs and buts.

  I put on my one suit. My funeral blacks. It seemed death was the only occasion I had to put on decent clothes. It took me a long time to get the necktie knotted, since it had been about seven years since I’d last had to tie one. That, and I couldn’t use a mirror. When I caught my own eyes in the reflection, I saw the surfacing ghosts. A grief I hadn’t seen in many years. A grief I still couldn’t afford.

  Junior and I waited at the New Cavalry Cemetery gates for the procession to arrive from the church. For reasons neither of us could touch upon, we didn’t feel it would be appropriate for us to attend the funeral mass, but we both wanted to be there for the graveside service.

  I sat on Miss Kitty’s hood, leafing through the Sunday Globe. The story of Cassandra’s death had made the front page for a couple days, then been bumped to page three by the end of the week. Today’s article was about the funeral and Big Jack’s sudden spike in the polls. Sympathy made for a lot of votes, apparently. I doubted Mr. Donnelly felt the value of those votes versus what they had cost him.

  “Here they come,” Junior said, spitting an empty sunflower seed into the street.

  A long progression of black cars crept up the street, headlights on.

  Cassandra’s casket was laid into the ground under a large willow tree, next to her mother. A good number of people were in attendance. Cassandra’s friends huddled together on one side, their pubescent emotions unchecked and on display. Two girls wailed their way through the entire service, the cries of kids who just got a sucker-punch of a reminder that they weren’t immortal. Their grief was a palpable presence, like currents of ozone before a thunderstorm.

  Our sadness was for a recent loss. We’d barely known the kid. Our contact with her could be broken down into a matter of hours. So why was I hurting so bad?

  Junior and I kept to the back. We didn’t belong, standing there in our cheap suits, barely knowing anyone there. I could feel the class line right there and then. Death may level all playing fields, but only for the dead. At one point, Kelly spotted us and lifted her fingers. I could see streaks of wetness underneath her sunglasses. I just nodded at her.

  Jack Donnelly wasn’t so big that day. In fact, he was the smallest man I’ve ever seen, as though a sinkhole had opened in his chest and was pulling him inside out as the service progressed. His eyes never strayed from the copper-colored casket and the open grave underneath. At his side stood Barnes, looking like he was ready to take control if any control needed taking.

  From our isolated spot, we couldn’t hear the priest’s words, but as he finished and the casket was lowered, the cries reached a crescendo and I saw Jack sway. In a heartbeat, Barnes curled his arm around his old friend for support. As the crowd parted, people cried on each other’s shoulders, held one another, shook hands, and went their ways.

  I wanted to make my way over to Mr. Donnelly. I wanted to look him straight and say…

  I don’t know.

  That I was sorry.

  A small procession of people before me were doing just that as Barnes led Donnelly back to his limousine. By the time Barnes got him there, I was a step away and found no words to say. I started to extend my hand when the levee of Donnelly’s grief broke. He bayed softly, crumpling onto the side of his car.

  “Jack… Jack…” Barnes said in a calm voice to his friend.

  “I killed her,” Donnelly wept. “I killed my little girl. I pushed her away from me, Danny. I pushed he
r, and she’s dead. She’s gone. Oh, God—”

  “Jack, get in the car, please.” I heard Barnes’ voice crack as he opened the car door and placed Donnelly inside.

  The mass of mourners looked away uncomfortably or cried harder for their friend’s daughter.

  I just felt sick. I was physically ill at my own selfishness. I’d made Cassie’s death about me, my world. I’d placed my own bullshit existence into Cassandra’s death when I had no reason. No right. I realized that as I watched the collapse of Jack Donnelly, and I felt sick to my core about it. For him.

  We went back to The Cellar after the funeral to drink death away.

  “That sucked,” Junior said as he swallowed another mouthful of wine.

  That pretty much summed it up.

  Ginny was waitressing and came over to us. “What’s with the monkey suits boys? Somebody die?”

  I gave her my eyes, and she realized her question wasn’t as rhetorical as she’d thought.

  “Oh shit,” she said and put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “S’okay,” I mumbled. I patted her hand.

  “Let me get you guys another round,” she said, and she quickly sauntered off.

  “It’s done, Junior,” I said.

  “Thank God.” Junior sighed with relief.

  I gulped the rest of my bourbon. “You were right. I don’t know what I was thinking. She was the goddamn district attorney’s daughter—”

  “You wanted to be sure, brother. I understand that much.”

  “I know you do. Seeing Donnelly like that, I dunno, made me rethink where we stand in all this. For crissakes, the guy is the top cop in town. I don’t know what made me think I could do any better than he could.”

  Junior shrugged. “What can I say? You’re an egotistical narcissistical motherfucker.”

  I glared at him, and he laughed. Then I started. We laughed in the only way friends can when they’re at their worst. Ginny was all the more confused when she brought our drinks over.

  When we stopped laughing, I said, “There is one more thing I’d like to do.” I cleared my throat. “For Cassie.”

  Junior raised his wine. “For Cassie.”

  “I wasn’t toasting, you fucktard.”

  He lowered the glass. “Oh. What’s that, then?”

  “What do you say we finish the job, get all those DVDs back? We find out who bought the videos from Sid, and we burn the DVDs in a big-ass bonfire?”

  “Only if I can hurt the pervs. Lots.”

  “Oh, lots and lots.”

  “Joy.”

  Junior went home, and I continued my search for God. I closed the bar and extended my search for The Almighty all the way into the bottom of a Beam bottle. I might have seen Moses in the peanut bowl, but I might just as easily have been fucked up. A jingle of keys at the front door stirred me from my religious questings.

  “Mr. Boo,” Luke said with his usual reserved cheer. “You look nice tonight. What you get all dressed up for? You have yourself a date?”

  “Had a funeral, Luke. Friend of mine died.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Boo. It wasn’t that young girl, was it? The daughter of Mr. Donnelly?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was. How did you know?”

  “Saw a picture on your desk a while back. Saw her picture in the newspaper. Just made a guess.” Luke clucked his tongue and shook his head sadly, leaning on the ratty mop he’d pulled out of the utility closet. “Shame a young girl like that goes when there’s so many people who’ve lived their lives and wait, sick, for their turn to meet Jesus.” He said it like he was waiting on that day himself.

  I nodded. “I just can’t figure out the whys of it anymore, Luke. I mean, I don’t know. I just can’t figure out the why.”

  Luke sighed and looked off into a distance beyond the peeling lead paint on the walls. “Sometimes life goes wrong, Mr. Boo. Pure and simple. God has a plan. It don’t always feel right to us. Most of the time it downright hurts so bad you just wants to scream and curse His name, but that ain’t right neither. Sometimes, life just goes wrong.” He strolled off to the kitchen and turned on his radio, the same fire-and-brimstone preacher shouting out salvation into the night.

  I didn’t find God that night, but I felt Luke’s words were as close as I was going to get. I said goodnight and went home.

  The next day, Junior and I were ready to start back at the beginning. Junior would find Paul, I would go to Seven’s to smack any and all remaining information out of him.

  When I got to Seven’s, I found an unlocked door and the apartment stripped to the walls. Seven had skipped.

  I was back at The Cellar when Junior called my cell phone.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m in Harvard Square. I haven’t found Paul yet, but some of the kids told me he was around. I’m gonna wait another hour to see if he turns up. And Boo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A couple kids asked me if I was you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They said Paul has been looking for you the last couple days and told the other kids to look out for you.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. I’ll catch you in an hour.”

  I sat in the office and finished my pack of smokes, waiting for the phone to ring. When it didn’t and the nic fits started, I decided to check in downstairs with Audrey.

  Audrey smiled when I walked in, but her eyes never left her solitaire game laid out on the bar. “What’s up, Willie?”

  “Have there been any kids coming in?”

  Audrey’s attention lifted from the cards, her smile turned to indignation. “You know me better than that, Boo. I card everyone who walks in that door.”

  “No, no. Have there been any kids coming in and asking for me? Skinny white kid? About fourteen? Dredlocks? Maybe smelled of weed?”

  “Oh, yeah. Kid came in yesterday looking for you.”

  “Did he say where I could reach him?”

  “No, I told him to beat it.” Audrey winced. “I thought he was some kid dropping your name so I wouldn’t ID him. I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”

  “It’s okay, but listen—if he comes back, hold him here and call me right away.” I scribbled the cell number on a bar napkin.

  Junior came walking in as I was heading out.

  “You find Paul?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Some new scrubs hit the Square and said he was gone for the night. I’ll run by tomorrow.”

  “He was looking for me here, too.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  Then it hit both of us.

  “You don’t think he was at—”

  “Maybe he was at—” Junior said simultaneously.

  Neither of us finished our sentence. We both knew the last words were going to be “Dutch House.”

  Junior shook his head. “Are we getting paranoid, Boo?”

  “Even paranoid people have real enemies.”

  “Where to now?”

  “I was going to head over to Derek’s. See if he’s got a list of buyers.”

  Junior was hurt. “You wouldn’t have gone back there without me, would ya?”

  “Wouldn’t consider it.”

  Derek’s apartment had a new door and new molding. I knocked hard, figuring it would make a nice change of pace from kicking in the door on his face. “Derek. Open up!” Considering our last visit, we still flanked the door. Just in case Derek had armed himself and would choose to shoot first, ask later.

  “We’re not gonna kick your ass this time. Scout’s honor,” Junior yelled. Since Junior wasn’t ever a scout, the promise wasn’t worth shit.

  I leaned over and pressed my ear against the unfinished wood. Nothing. “It’s quiet in there. Maybe he’s not home,” I whispered.

  “Too quiet,” Junior responded, wiggling his fingers at me like a vaudevillian hypnotist.

  I tried the kno
b anyway. It was locked, but the new door didn’t have a deadbolt installed yet. Junior took out his laminated Blockbuster card and slipped it in the poorly fit space between the door and molding. With a flick of the wrist, Junior popped the lock.

  “That was easy,” I said.

  “Too easy,” Junior said, wiggling his fingers in my face. I smacked his hands away.

  The room was silent, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and dirty laundry. The plasma television sat shattered in one corner of the room, a number of smashed Wild Turkey bottles on the floor. The sink was full of dirty dishes, a cluster of flies buzzing over them.

  “Jeez,” Junior said, pinching his nostrils. “Looks like he and Sid been trading housekeeping tips.”

  I lifted my chin toward a closed door. Quietly as we could, we stepped over the glass and debris to the bedroom. I turned the knob and slowly pushed open the door. The hinges creaked like in an old Hammer film, sending chills down my back.

  Derek sat on the edge of his mattress in a pair of dirty boxer shorts. Another half-full bottle of Wild Turkey was in his hand. He looked up woozily as we stood there.

  “Wazzup?” he asked, like we were expected company. “You guys here to finish the job? You guys gonna kill me now?” He burped a wet one and scratched his privates. His face was swollen, splotched with purple bruises, his chest still sporting an angry red burn mark from Junior’s stun gun.

  “We’re not here to kill you, Derek,” I said softly. “We just want some information.”

  He swiveled his head back at us. “You can kill me—you know? I wouldn’t mind. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care no more.” He trailed off as he put the bottle back to his lips. Most of the slug dribbled down his concave chest, into his boxers.

  I pulled the bottle out of his hand. “Hey!”

  “Hey!” he protested back.

  “Who buys the movies you make, Derek?”

  He blinked his glazed eyes at me and shrugged. “I dunno. Buncha people.” He reached for the bourbon. I pulled it back. He was off by a foot but snapped his fingers like he’d just missed.

  “I want names. We’re going to get the DVDs you sold. We’re going to get rid of them.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him our agenda, but I felt he might care.