The Hard Bounce - [15]

“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-”