The Hard Bounce - [23]

“It was worth a shot.” I was on my sixth round of beer and bourbon. My buzz took hold around the fourth round. The last two were insurance.

“Well, it was a bullshit shot. I can never get another tattoo in this town again. Christ! Probably not even in the whole goddamn state!”

“What’s left to tattoo, your taint?”

“What do you know about my taint?”

“As it is, you’re a walking Louvre.” Across the room, I could see Underdog stumbling through. Scanning the bar. I held my hand up and he saw me, returning the salute. He plopped himself in the chair across from me. “Drink?” I offered.

He waved his hand. “Nah. Prob’ly shouldn’t have any more.” Drunk as I was, I could tell he was on a whole other level of intoxication. I hoped it was just booze. “So!” He smacked his hands on the table, making the glasses rattle. “My buddy ran the picture for you. Got eleven matches on the snake tattoo. Factored in the probable age and hair type. Boiled it down to two.”

Junior and I looked at each other and sat up straight. “And?”

“Okay. First one. Marshall Conigliario-io-io.” Either Dog was having a hard time wrapping his tongue around the name or he was breaking out into a verse of Old MacDonald. “From Brockton.”

“So, what’s the deal? Is he our guy or what?” Junior asked.

“Nope,” said Underdog.

“Why not?” I asked.

“He’s up in Bridgewater doing eight to ten on armed robbery. Been there for two already.” He burped loudly. I smelled grapefruit juice. He held up his finger. “Second guy: Richie Dean in Allston.”

“You’re kidding me.” Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass if the girl had been in my own neighborhood the whole time?

“You got an address on the guy?” Junior asked. “Let’s go over there right now and tear him a new one.”

That would have been just dandy. A rescue at one in the morning by two drunks and a junkie.

“S’not him either. He’s dead. Motorcycle accident back in April.”

I was going to need another round to continue the conversation. I waved at Ginny and circled my finger over the table. She nodded.

“So what th’ fuck you telling us, Dog? You got nothin’ either?” My own words were starting to slip and slur.

“Not exactly. I was getting my copy of the picture back in the Vice office when one of the guys…” Dog blew out another acidic burp. “Yama. Japanese guy. You know him?”

“No.”

“Nice guy. Anyway, Yama sees the picture and recognizes it. Yama!” Underdog banged the table, like we would know him better the second time around. “Japanese guy?”

“Well, who the fuck is it, then?” Junior had had just about enough.

“No name. Just recognized the picture. Dick, too.”

“Yama’s a dick?”

“Noooooo. He recognized the dick.”

“Is it his own?”

“Nope.”

Junior grimaced. “Man, the day I recognize another man’s dick…”

“See,” Underdog continued, unfazed by Junior’s homophobia, “this is where it starts to get really messed up. Apparently, our boy Snake is a filmmaker.”

I didn’t like where this was heading. Ginny brought our drinks over just in time.

“Please tell me he videos Bar Mitzvahs,” I said.

Underdog shook his lead slowly. “Porn.” Underdog held up his glass. “Our boy is Boston’s answer to Roman Polanski, both as a filmmaker and baby fucker.” He lowered his glass and twisted his face. “Shit, that was a terrible toast.”

I didn’t lift my glass.

I wanted to puke.

Some of it was the alcohol.

Most of it wasn’t.

Chapter Eight

After Dog’s revelation, the three of us ripped into a bender that would have made Keith Moon blush. The rest of the night is piecemeal. I don’t remember getting a cab, but I remember the driver pulling over so I could puke. I don’t remember getting out of the cab, but I recall vomiting hugely into the bushes in front of my apartment. The hippie was on the steps smoking a joint the size of a burrito. I started vomiting off the porch and he was gone. Then his hand was on my shoulder, his other offering me a bottle of water. The unexpected kindness brought drunken tears to my eyes. I remember hugging him.

My last memory is of opening the book under my bed and unfolding the piece of paper. Tracing the outline of my one and only valuable. A flake of dry crayon fell off the picture onto the floor, crumbling into dust. The color remained on the old manila, the ghost of the crayon’s touch seeped deep into the rough paper.

The Boy sat on the bed next to me, shirtless, a monstrous scar curled down his sternum to his navel. I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was there, knew what the scar looked like.

The Boy sniffled, his breaths becoming hitched. I knew he was crying, tears streaming down his wide face.

He wanted me to hold his hand and cry with him, but I didn’t.

I can’t.

I won’t.

I lay down and closed my eyes tight, waiting for his crying to stop.

Next thing, it was afternoon.

Junior and I didn’t do much detective work that day. It was hard enough to keep my apartment from dancing a tango around me. A whole day slipped away. Later that night, I remembered to check my answering machine. No beeps. No business. No messages from Kelly or Barnes. No lunch date offers from Paul. Not even a telemarketer. I ripped the machine off my table and threw it into the wall. It detonated in an explosion of black plastic and circuits like I’d stuffed a cherry bomb into it. A whole fucking day wasted.