Todd Robinson: The Hard Bounce

“What?”

“He’s not gay; he just likes fucking dead things?”

I held it in as long as I could, but one loose snort later and we both exploded into laughter. Junior doubled over, howling. My ribs ached from the force of my own guffaws. The guilt still gnawed, but I needed the laugh right then.

It was easy to cut the giggles, though, when we realized one of us had to clean up the pile of shit outside.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Junior asked, wiping away a tear.

“Of course.” If it was good enough to settle negotiations when we were eleven, it was good enough today.

“On shoot. One, two, three, SHOOT!”

Rock.

Junior made paper.

Shit.

“I’ll get you the shovel, garbage man,” Junior said. He hooted evilly as he trotted to the utility closet. I really hate it when Junior hoots.

An hour later, the show closed and I was only about two-thirds done. The crowd exiting the building my way covered their faces and made disgusted sounds as they passed. They were all smart enough not to make any comments. I had a shovel.

The cleanup left me glazed in vinegary old beer, ashes, and some viscous crap I didn’t even want to attempt identifying. It also left me deeply, deeply pissy. By the time I was down to the last shovelful, the storm had transitioned from drizzle to summer downpour.

Carefully, I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, mindful not to contaminate any part that was going into my mouth. The wet paper split and tobacco crumbled under my fingertips. I was just about to let loose with one of the longest, loudest, and most profane curses in the history of language when I heard a woman’s voice from the doorway behind me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Malone?”

I turned, wanting to see who was speaking before I answered.

“Are you William Malone?” she asked.

I gave her the once-over. Too small to be a cop. Definitely too young to be a cop in a suit. Usually only cops call me Mr. Malone. “That’s me,” I said, staying right where I was.

“Kelly Reese,” she said, extending her hand in a sharp, businesslike gesture.

I didn’t take her hand. “No offense, but I wouldn’t do that right now. Not unless you plan on getting some serious vaccinations later,” I said, trying to wring rain and muck out of my shirtfront.

She didn’t get it at first. Then the wind shifted and she caught a quick whiff of what I had been dealing with. To her credit, she managed to cover her reflexive gag with a demure cough. “Oh,” she said through watering eyes.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Reese?”

“I’d like to talk to you about possibly hiring your firm.”

My firm? “I don’t know what you’ve been told, Ms. Reese, but we’re not lawyers.”

“Maybe it would be better if we spoke inside. You’re getting wet.” The wind blew her way again, and fresh tears sprang into her eyes. She subtly made with the scratchy-scratchy motion instead of pinching her nostrils shut. Classy chick.

“I am wet. Can’t really get much wetter.”

She nodded sickly in agreement. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she finally covered her nose and mouth, unable to take the stink anymore. I guess class can only hold out for so long.

“After you,” I said. I could feel my ears burn with embarrassment as I turned and followed her up the stairs.

Everything about her screamed “out of place.” Her dark, curly hair was cut in a perfect bob. Most of our regulars looked like their hair was styled by a lunatic with a Weed Whacker. She was also in a dark blue suit that looked like it cost more than the combined wardrobe of everyone else in the bar.

Whether your collar is blue or white, in Boston, you stick with the crowd that shares your fashion sense. The city’s got a class line as sharp as a glass scalpel and wider than a sorority pledge’s legs. The old money, reaching back generations, live up on Beacon Hill and the North End. They summer in places like Newport and the Berkshires.

They see me and mine as a pack of low-class mooks. We see them as a bunch of rich bitch pansies. Kelly Reese’s collar was so white it glowed. Still, it didn’t keep me from checking out her ass as she walked up the stairs ahead of me. Ogling knows no economic boundaries.

“Want to sit down here?” I indicated a table at the end of the bar.

“Is there anyplace quieter? More private?” She asked, wincing at the volume of the Dropkick Murphys track bellowing from the jukebox.

“Don’t worry about it. Nobody else can hear us over the music.” As it was, I could barely hear her.

“This-This is fine, then.” She looked around the room like she’d found herself on the wrong side of the fence at the zoo.

I sat in the gunslinger seat, back to the wall. She rested her hands on the tabletop but quickly pulled them back onto her lap with a sick expression. The table was sticky and dirty, but there probably wasn’t a cleaner one in the place. Princess would just have to make do.

“Would you like a beer?”

She smiled nervously. “Uh, sure.”

I waved at Ginevra, the heavily tattoed Nova Scotian waitress who was built like she should have been painted on the side of a WWII bomber. Ginny gave me the one-minute finger as she downed a shot with a table full of middle-aged punk rockers, then walked over to us. “Whatcha need, hon?”

“Two Buds and a shot of Beam.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose and looked around. “Christ, what the hell is that stench?” She leaned closer, following her nose down to me. “Damn, Boo. You been washing your clothes in a toilet again? Whoo!” She dramatically waved the air away from her face with her checkbook.

“Yeah, Ginny. Thanks. Thanks for the input,” I said, my ears burning again as she walked off to get the drinks.

Ms. Reese raised an eyebrow. “Boo?” Was it a tiny smile or a smirk that touched on her face?

“Long story,” I said and quickly got up from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

I took the stairs two at a time up to the 4DC Security office. And by office, I mean the space next to liquor storage, complete with desk, separate phone line, and one dangling light bulb. All the comforts of home, if home is a Guatemalan prison.

Tommy Sheralt, the alcoholic lunatic who owned the joint, cut us a deal on the space. We got a desk, Tommy got a discount on our rate and the guarantee that we won’t tell the customers that he cuts the top-shelf liquor with rotgut.

In the desk, we kept spare sets of clothes for such emergencies, though our usual emergencies involved bloodstains.

I stripped out of my foul clothes and into a clean pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. I still reeked. Junior kept a pint of cheap cologne in his drawer, and I tried to cover up the rest with an Irish shower. I was trading in smelling like a bum for stinking like a Greek man-whore, but it was a step up. Finally, I cracked a bottle of Crème de Menthe and gargled, spitting into the wastebasket while quietly resenting Ms. Kelly Reese for making me give a shit.

When I walked back downstairs, Junior was doing his best seductive lean-in on Kelly. I hurried over and caught the tail end of one of Junior’s knee-slappers. “And the farmer says, ‘That’s the fourth faggot rooster I bought this month!’” Junior cracked up while Ms. Reese tried her best not to look completely horrified.

“Good one, Junior,” I said and clapped him on the back. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Huh? My bad. Didn’t know I was stepping on toes here.” Junior winked at Kelly with as much subtlety as a bear on a unicycle. Kelly gagged on her beer. “By the way, Boo, we need another bottle of Johnny Blue at the bar. Came in with the Bud,” he said, nodding to the bottle in Kelly’s hand.

Well, well… Ms. Reese just got a whole helluva lot more interesting.