The Hard Bounce - [9]

“A little slow. Day was busy after the game.”

“Those Sox. God bless ’em,” he said with a warm chuckle. “I’m just glad I got to see ’em win a big one. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Heck Luke, I never thought I’d see the day.”

He laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard in a while and clapped me on the back. “Aw, you gots a long ways to go, youngblood. You might see a couple more.”

“You’re gonna outlive all of us Luke, you know that,” I said.

“Lord willing, Mr. Boo. Lord willing.” Luke slowly shuffled back into the kitchen to get his mop and broom. The sound of his little radio came through the swinging doors. Same station every night-a preacher giving his late-night sermon to the airwaves, presumably in the hopes of converting the sinners who were still up and listening at that hour. I gave him no mind, of course.

I swallowed my bourbon and poured another. I made two hash marks on our monthly tab under the register. “What are you drinking?”

“White,” said Junior. There were only three kinds of wine in the bar anyway. White, red, and pink. I grabbed him another bottle from the ice bin, made another hash mark.

Luke came out from the kitchen, mop in hand.

“Hey, Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“If you were looking for a girl, where would you start?”

“C’mon, Mr. Boo. You trying to tell me that you having a hard time finding girls?” He laughed at the very idea. Junior laughed too, but not in the same way. I was strangely flattered that an elderly black man would think me irresistible to the opposite sex.

“Never mind.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Boo. They always come along.” The whole left side of Luke’s face winked at me as he worked his way down the back stairs.

Junior was still laughing. “He don’t know you too well, do he?” Junior handed me the stick. It was the last intact stick in the house, so we had to share.

“What if it isn’t her father who’s looking?” I said. I dropped the cue ball again, but actually managed to knock in one of my own.

“Who else would be?”

“C’mon, Junior, don’t be a dumbass. What if…” I thought for a second. “What if she’s a runaway from New Bedford or something and some assho-someone took her in and was using her to turn tricks? She leaves him, he loses revenue. He wants her back.”

“Where does the cop fit in?” Junior knocked in another one of mine. “Shoot.” He was getting better at not cursing around Luke, whose presence forced us to edit out 90 percent of our pool banter.

I gave him a look as I handed him his wine.

“Okay, okay, so not every Boston cop is on the up and up.” He poured the wine in his cup, then straightened, excited with a new idea. “The girl. The skinny chick.” He snapped his fingers. “Kelly! Where does she fit into your little runaway hooker theory? She a coworker?”

Good point. She didn’t fit in. We both knew some girls who worked that biz. She wasn’t… well, she just wasn’t. “Fine, I’m just saying, before we hand a kid to anybody, I want to make sure that we’re handing her to the right people.”

Junior took a sip of his wine and smacked his lips. “So riddle me this, Batman. There’s gotta be two hundred PIs in Boston. Why us? This whole Little Girl Lost in the Big City shit? Been there, done that in at least a dozen books that I read.”

“And you’ve only read seventeen books.”

“Hey, three didn’t have no pictures. Two of those didn’t even have pictures of titties.”

“What was your point?”

Junior stopped. “I forgot. Started thinking about titties. Oh yeah. PIs. Seems like their standard gig, if books have taught me anything.”

“And they haven’t.”

Junior bowed. “Ahthangyooverramuch.”

“Most of those guys are retired cops. We’ve already established that they don’t want the cops in this.”

“But why us?”

“A different perspective?”

Junior snorted. “That’s for fucking sure. But seriously. Why us?”

“Because we’re so pretty?”

“I am, but you could scare flies off a shit wagon.” Junior winced at his own word choice, hoping Luke didn’t hear. “Maybe ’cause we’re underappreciated geniuses?”

I lined up my shot. “I am, but you’re so dumb, you can’t spell PI.”

“But I might be able to sound it out.”

Junior had a lot of points. All valid. Why us?

Why the fuck us?

I scratched the eight.

Chapter Four

Whenever anyone asks, I say Junior and me go way back. If anyone asks how long is way back, I say none of your goddamned business. Nobody asks a third time.

Truth is, we go back to The Home. As ironic a name for a place as any.

It was always The Home.

Never home.

The real name was Saint Gabriel’s Home for Boys. Or Saint Gabe’s. Or Saint Gabe’s Home. It sure as shit wasn’t ours. What it was was half juvenile detention, half state-funded residence.

Most of the kids there were orphans from birth. Me and Junior lived in the minority. We’d had families, once. I got shipped in when I was eight. That’s how old I was when I lost everything.

Think about it. Try to remember back to when you were eight. Try to remember everything that was important to that kid. Now imagine losing it all.

Your home?

Poof.

Your family?

Gone.

Everyone who loves you?

Bye-bye.

Even the kids whose bodies were pockmarked by little round burns the same size as a cigarette cherry. Even those whose backs and legs were crosshatched by vicious belt buckle scars. More than those whose wounds rested deeper than any place on their bodies, we were all united by that little piece we’d lost.