The Hard Bounce - [13]

I didn’t finish with my threat. I didn’t have to. He was still thanking me when I told him to get the fuck out of my office.

Underdog had made himself scarce the last couple months. I think he was avoiding me. I’d hear about him being in the bar, but he’d be gone by the time I showed up for my shifts.

He hadn’t been caught again.

That’s not to say he wasn’t still using.

He just wasn’t caught.

Iggy and the Stooges blaring out of The Cellar’s open door could only mean Audrey was working. She’d been bartending at the place almost as long as Luke had been cleaning it. Big, loud, and with more brass than your average marching band, Audrey was something of a local legend. Legendary for her heavy hand when pouring the Jack Daniels for customers-and herself. Legendary for laying out said customers who dared to give her an ounce of shit. I’d lay good money that she could punch harder than me. That long a tenure at The Cellar, and she’d have had plenty of practice.

It was still early enough for the scent of Luke’s pine cleanser to have the advantage over the stink that would soon fill the air. Audrey’s ample behind wagged a greeting at me when I entered. She leaned over the bar, smothering somebody with her maternal bartending. She had two grown daughters of her own, but never had an empty nest. She stuck all of us in there instead, whether we liked it or not.

“Hey, baby, can I get some fries with that shake?”

She wheeled around, a wide grin breaking across her cherubic face. “Willie!” she said in her sandpaper voice, thirty years of Winstons and whiskey sitting on her larynx. Audrey was the only one who could call me Willie without making my skin crawl.

Coming around the bar, she bear-hugged me, nearly lifting me off the floor. My ribs shifted under the power of her hug.

“Look, Brendan!” she said. “Willie came out to play today.”

“Dog,” I said.

“Boo.” He nervously bobbed his chin in greeting.

Audrey smiled like she’d just reintroduced two old playground buddies. “Me and Brendan were just gonna play some gin rummy. You want the winner, Willie?”

“Maybe later, Audrey. I need to talk to Underdog.”

Dog’s head shot up, and I waved him toward a table in the back. He picked up his pint and shambled over. He looked even skinnier than I remembered from the last time I’d seen him. His clothes hung off him like socks on a chicken.

Audrey freshened up her Jack and water. She would freshen it at least a dozen times a shift and never show it. Thirty years ago she could have been my dream girl.

“I just remembered why I drink,” Audrey called out to us. It was the closest thing she had to a toast, and the reply was mandatory.

“Why is that, Audrey?”

She swallowed half the glass. “Because I fucking like it.”

Before I could say word one to him, Underdog was already scrambling.

“I didn’t do anything, Boo. I swear.” He kept his voice hushed so Audrey wouldn’t hear. A loud ka-chunk sounded through the old speaker system as Audrey changed the tape. Jimmy, the legendary skinflint who owned the club, was still too cheap to spend the thirty bucks it would have cost to buy a CD player, much less an iPod. The Muffs started screaming about a lucky guy, and Audrey bobbed her head vigorously to the beat, oblivious to our conversation.

Underdog stared at me with an earnestness intense enough to pop greasy beads of sweat on his brow. “You’ve got to believe me. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to say I’m totally clean, but I swear, I never do anything here. Not anymore.”

“Dog-”

“Boo, I swear…” He held a sweaty palm up to show his honesty.

“Dog-”

“To God!”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “Jesus!”

“Huh?”

“Shut up. I just want to ask you about some people.” Underdog still possessed enough unscrambled brain cells to hide his addiction and keep his job. He wouldn’t be joining Mensa anytime soon, but if he were stupid, he’d already be dead or behind bars himself.

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.”