The Hard Bounce - [48]

“Good. So let’s give this shit up for the night, get some sleep, and come back tomorrow. Sound good?” Junior climbed back into the driver’s seat.

I followed him into the car. As suddenly as everything had come to a boil-all of the anger, the adrenaline, Junior’s coffee-it all rushed out my system just as quickly. My body felt like a full bathtub with the drain pulled. I was exhausted in a place deeper than physical.

We drove in silence. I wanted to apologize again, but it took all the will I had left just to stay awake for the drive home. Junior pulled his car up into the driveway behind the ridiculous hippie van, and I climbed out.

Junior leaned over the seat. “What time you want to get there tomorrow?”

I rubbed at dry eyes with the back of my hand. “Around five, I’m figuring. If the fucker has a jobby-job, maybe we can catch his ass on the way home.”

“Sounds good.” Junior shifted the car into reverse, but left his foot on the brake. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You pissed at me?”

I shook my head. “Nah.”

“You sure you’re not pissed?”

I nodded.

“Still friends?”

“Yeah,” I said, tugging a strained smile onto my face.

“Good, ’cause I owe you this.” He flipped his hand across the seat and whacked me on the balls through the open door.

I groaned loudly as my lower equator cramped in pain. Crumpling from the blow, I tumbled backward into the hedges.

Junior peeled out, his spinning tires spraying me with gravel. I could hear him cackling over the engine’s roar as he pulled out toward Cambridge Street at a clip.

Luckily for me, his leverage was off and he didn’t get off as clean a shot as I had given him. With effort, I got to my feet and stumbled toward my apartment. The hippie was on the steps, looking at me open-mouthed as I approached.

“Hey, dude, you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I croaked. “Never better.”

“Did that guy just hit you in the nuts?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s my best friend.”

“Oh,” he said, as if my answer made all the sense in the world.

I got to the top of the porch, then stopped. “What’s your name?”

“Phil.”

“Nice to meet you, Phil. I’m Boo.”

He mulled it over for a moment, blinking in slo-mo. “Is that like Boo Radley or like Casper, the friendly ghost?”

“Radley.”

He smiled and nodded dreamily. “Cool. Good book.”

I nodded and went inside my dark, empty apartment. From under the bed, I pulled out my ragged blue hardcover of The Hardy Boys and the Mark on the Door. Inside the cover, I found the brittle piece of folded construction paper. My one valuable. I carefully unfolded it and looked once again at the two smiling stick figures standing on a faded field of grass that never existed in front of a house we never lived in, LovE Emily scrawled above the smiling yellow sun in a deliberate child’s hand. Gently, I folded the paper up and placed it back in its safe place. The Boy lay under my bed, hiding. From what, I didn’t know. He took the book from me and held it tightly to his grotesquely scarred little chest.

I held onto the image of the smiling sun as I lay back and closed my eyes.

Day two.

More coffee.

More sandwiches.

No Snake.

The closest we came to activity was around 9 P.M. when a bum started harassing us for change and wouldn’t leave.

He stood at the car window, swaying and reeking like sour milk. “C’mon, big guy. Help a vet’rin out. You gotta have some change you kin spare.” He redirected his focus to Junior since I refused to give him my attention, much less change. His breath filled the car with the odor of cheap wine and gingivitis.

“You know what I got for you, alkie?” Junior reached under his seat and pulled out what looked like a homemade remote control. He pressed a button on the side, and a burst of electricity crackled across two metal studs attached to the top. “Zappy-zappy. That’s what I got for you, you don’t start walking.”

The bum backed off from the window, palms up. He walked away, slurring his irritated sentiments. When he got halfway down the block, he turned around and flipped us off.

“What the hell was that?”

“I just hate bums,” Junior said.

“No, I meant what is that in your hand?”

“What? This?” He held up the thing. It still looked like a big remote, held together with black duct tape. One thin green wire protruded from the bottom of the tape and re-entered the plastic molding just under the metal studs.

“What is that? Is that a stun gun?”

Junior smiled and nodded. “Sweet, isn’t she?” He pressed the button again, sending electricity dancing between the electrodes. It made a sound like corn popping. “Twitch made it. He gave it to me on my birthday. I call her Rosie.”

Why the hell does everyone name their weaponry?

On my last birthday, Twitch gave me a set of Reservoir Dogs action figures. I didn’t feel like I’d gotten off easy at the time. At least he hadn’t gifted me with something I could electrocute myself with.

We sat until Junior’s snoring woke us both up around 11 P.M. Neither of us could figure out exactly when we’d fallen asleep. Needless to say, neither one of us had spotted our man from inside fucking slumberland.