Todd Robinson - The Hard Bounce

I turned on the cop. “You. Who are you?”

He pointed a sausage finger at Kelly. “I’m with her.” Kelly just stood at the table, tense and unsure.

“I didn’t ask you who you were with, pal. I asked you who you were.”

Veins bulged on his forehead. “Danny Barnes.” He said his name like it should mean something. It didn’t. “And you’d better watch your mouth, boy.” He meant it. I suddenly remembered the man was a cop. And according to his bulgy jacket, an armed one.

“Good. Thank you. Now that we’re all introduced, why don’t one of you fill me in on what the fuck this is all about.” Relative calm restored itself, and the three of us sat back down at the table. “Question number one,” I said. “Who is this girl?”

Barnes answered. “Her name’s Cassandra.”

“Cassandra what? Just Cassandra? Does Cassandra have a last name or is she like Cher?”

I thought I could hear Barnes’s teeth grinding. “As I’m sure Ms. Reese has explained to you, last names are out of the question at the moment. We need to respect her father’s request for privacy.”

“Lemme tell you something, I don’t need to respect a goddamn thing. Ms. Reese hasn’t told me a whole hell of a lot as of yet, so why don’t you, Danny?”

Kelly shifted uncomfortably in her seat but stayed silent. Barnes had taken control of their end of the meeting. She seemed more than content to let him have it.

“Look, Malone, you’ll know everything you need to know when you need to know it. Until then, you’ll just have to make do.”

I laughed. “With what? A first name and a picture? Are you shitting me?”

Junior returned from the basement towing a protesting kid with dreadlocks and bad acne by the back of his Mudvayne shirt. “This little jackass was smoking a joint in the downstairs bathroom. He knows the girl.” Junior pulled another chair over and dropped him in it hard. The kid tried to shake it off with a defiant shoulder roll. “What’s your problem, man?” he said to Junior, feeling safer in the company of witnesses.

“Look at me,” I said to him. “Listen carefully. You’re going to answer my questions and that’s it. Now take a look at this guy.” I thumbed at Barnes. Barnes straightened up, confused at where this was going.

The kid looked him up and down. “Who, the cop?”

Barnes frowned and went red. I did my best not to chuckle. “Yeah, the cop. If you don’t answer me, he’s going to drop your ass in juvie.” I turned to Barnes. “What will possession get a kid his age? Three years?”

Barnes finally caught on. “Uh… five. Minimum.”

The kid’s fearless facade shattered. “It was just one joint, man! Please! I don’t know anything about Cassie.”

Hell, just knowing her name, he had as much info as I’d been given. “Relax. What’s your name?”

“Paul.”

“All right, Paul. How do you know Cassie?”

“I see her around the Square and stuff. She was just here for the show. What did she do?” He meant Harvard Square, a traditional hangout for the young punk kids and skate rats.

“No questions, Paul. Answers.” I thumbed at Barnes again. Paul nodded quickly. “Who was she here with?”

“I dunno. I think she was alone. She wasn’t with that creepy dude she’s always going off with.” If Barnes was a German shepherd, his ears would have shot straight up.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t know the dude. He just gives me the creeps.” Paul shuddered to emphasize those creeps. “Y’know. Slimy fucker. Got that big snake tattoo around his arm.”

“What else?”

Paul thought about it. “Real skinny. Got greasy black hair, goes halfway down to his butt. Looks like a rocker. Nobody knows why Cassie hangs with that guy.”

“Is he her boyfriend?”

“Jeez, I hope not. He’s like in his twenties.” Paul leaned back in his chair, teenage cockiness back to full. He’d realized he had something we wanted and that information gave him an edge. “Cassie’s a cool chick and all, but she’s a little flaky. That guy’s just… I dunno. Like I said, he creeps everybody out.”

“Junior, take him up to the office.”

“Move your ass, Weedy McTokesalot,” Junior snarled.

“Get his number and address.”

Paul panicked. “But you said-”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Relax. It’s just in case we need to ask you some more questions. Junior’s going to give you my beeper number.”

“A beeper?” Paul looked at me, aghast. “Who are you, Fred Flintstone?”

“We can still toss you in juvie, smartass.”

He mimed a key between his lips and turned it.

“If you see Cassie anywhere, and I mean at any time, you beep me. Got it?”

Paul snapped me a brisk salute. “Got it.”

“C’mon.” Junior walked off with Paul.

I looked over at Barnes. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much are we going to be paid if we find the girl?”

“There’s twenty-five hundred in the envelope to get you started.” My heart did a somersault. Twenty-five might not impress Bill Gates, but in my world, we were starting out on the right foot. And that right foot was in a Gucci loafer. “I’ll need to talk with my employer on a final amount.”

“One more thing,” I said. “I meet your employer.”

“That’s not happening. You deal with me,” Barnes said.

“Ooh! I’ve got an idea! How about no? I meet him before I do another goddamned thing.” Barnes started to protest. I cut him off. “You tell him what you just saw. You tell him we meet or he can go fuck a duck. You know where I am.” I got up from the table. “I’m done.”

Barnes and Kelly stood up. Barnes didn’t offer me a goodbye handshake as he walked out. I wasn’t hurt.

Kelly said softly, “Thanks for the beer.”

She followed Barnes out without a second glance back at me. I did the opposite and didn’t take my eyes off her butt as she exited. Then the low-watt bulb flickered over my dome.

Sonofabitch.

As I stared at her exiting skirt muffins, I realized I’d just been had.

Kinda.

Junior sat at the desk writing down Paul’s info on an index card. We planned on getting a computer one day. On the other hand, we also planned on winning a million bucks on scratch tickets and retiring to Hawaii to build custom thongs for Natalie Portman. We were about as close to execution on either plan.

Paul stood, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, looking like he was aching to get the hell out. The kid looked at me. “Am I done?”

“Couple more questions,” I said. “What’s Cassie’s last name?”

He hummed the “I dunno” notes.

Swing and a miss.

“What about the Dutch House?” I asked. Junior looked at me.

“What about it?” It was no secret why kids went to the Dutch House. A big squat in Cambridge, just off the Square, it was a safe place for kids to get high, drink beer, and do anything else they didn’t want their parents catching them doing.

“Has Cassie been there?”

“Once or twice. I don’t think she dug it. She’s not into the scene that much.”

“What scene is that?” Junior said, sneering. “Future Junkies of America?

Paul smirked but his eyes reflected hurt. I shot Junior a “leave him alone” look. Junior scratched his chin at me. He forgot to use all his fingers.

“I don’t think she’s been staying there or nothing.” Paul looked at our business card. “What does 4DC stand for?”

“Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”

He smiled. “Hunh, cool.”

“We’re done,” Junior said, dismissing him with a wave.

Paul started to go, but I grabbed his arm and slid a hundred from the envelope into his hand. He gaped at it. “Holy shit!”