The Hard Bounce - [22]

“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.