Todd Robinson - The Hard Bounce

His face blanched instantly. “Aw no.”

“Aw no, what?”

“Not Danny the Bull.”

“Is Danny the Bull a cop? Maybe ex-cop?”

“Unless you know another one, yeah. And I hope to God there aren’t two of them running around.”

“What’s his deal?”

“Bad news, Boo. Stay away from that crazy bastard.” Dog glanced around the room as though he feared Barnes might jump up from behind a table. Just speaking Barnes’s name made Dog nervous. Which was making me nervous.

“What’s his deal?” I asked again.

“He used to run the Organized Crime Division for years. Stuck his badge in the business of a lot of scary people.”

“You keep using the past tense. So he’s not a cop anymore?”

“No. Retired a few years back. But once in blue-”

“Blue for life,” I finished for him.

“You got it. Barnes built a rep for having an ass harder than a diamond. The guy was flat-out notorious.”

“For what?”

“For everything a cop can be. Probably still the title holder for brutality reports filed against the department.”

Considering most of the cops I’d dealt with, that was one hell of a title to hold. “What’s he up to now?”

“Damned if I know. Don’t want to know.” He shuddered.

“You afraid of this guy, Dog?”

“I was… would be today if he came walking in the door.”

“Well, he walked in the door yesterday.”

“Jesus! Why? What does he have to do with any of this?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Whoever wants this girl found has Barnes on his payroll. You ever work with the guy?”

Dog shook his head. Dandruff or dust floated onto the table. “Different divisions. He worked Organized Crime. Led the task force that put the screws on everybody connected with The Mick. I mean, he nailed all of them. From the right-hand guys down to the runners who picked up the football cards on Saturday afternoons.”

“But not The Mick.”

“Nobody ever got to The Mick. That’s not to say that Barnes didn’t try. Or that The Mick didn’t try to get back at him. They just never got each other.”

If you yelled out “Mick” in a Boston bar, 90 percent of the room would turn around. And if you yelled it loud enough, another two dozen would come in the door. But I knew exactly who Underdog was talking about.

Francis “Frankie The Mick” Cade. Boston’s answer to John Gotti, if John Gotti had been federally investigated on a couple of occasions for filtering money to the Irish Republican Army. The charges bounced right off him every time. The guy was rubber in a sweat suit.

And Boston being Boston, Cade was treated like something of a local hero, a Southie Robin Hood who provided Irish grandmothers with free hams every Christmas eve.

When The Mick’s daughter passed away a year back, the funeral procession down Dorchester Ave would have made a Kennedy jealous.

A few years back, a rumor circulated that one of Frankie’s old buddies was set to testify that he’d seen Frankie stomp a degenerate gambler to death, back when he was doing collections in the late ’70s. Full federal protection. Ten days before trial, UPS delivered somebody’s right pinkie finger to the witness safe house. The next day, a ring finger. Complete with a custom-made Claddagh ring. The same Claddagh ring that said informer gave his niece on her sweet sixteenth. The guy’s story made a U-turn before the sun set.

It said something about Barnes that he’d gone toe to toe with Cade and was still sleeping on the right side of the grass.

“I dunno what he’s got to do with you or that girl or anything, Boo. But I changed my mind. I don’t think I want to help with this anymore.” Underdog stood up from the table. He picked his pint up with hands that shook so badly beer sloshed over the lip. “I may be a colossal fuckup, but I’m still smart enough to stay out of any business that has Danny the Bull attached. Whatever it is, Boo… it’s bad. Barnes doesn’t do good.”

Fingers of unease were crawling through my stomach. “Basically, all you can tell me is to watch my ass with this guy.”

“No, I’m telling you to walk away. You don’t want to be on any side of any situation that has Barnes involved. If I were you, I’d keep one eye on Barnes, one eye on yourself, and grow a third on the back of your head to make sure no stray bullets are heading your way.”

We got a better-than-usual crowd for a Monday. One of our sister bars, The Smash Up, had a bug-bombing scheduled. All their regulars were forced to drink with us for the night. They knew we’d be open. The Cellar never closed for the exterminators. The place hadn’t been fumigated once in my twelve years there, and I wasn’t sure it ever had been. We’d even named some of the larger bugs.

Junior leaned against the doorjamb. I could tell he was pissed off by his crossed arms and bulldog face. When Junior’s got a problem on his mind, he furrows up his forehead. The scar tissue between his eyebrows piles up, and his mouth arches down right under his nose. It really does make him look like a bulldog.

“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.”