Todd Robinson - The Hard Bounce

Another bolt came down sideways and popped me in the face. My nose burst and I dropped onto my back, stunned. My ears rang, and the room flickered as I lay there. I could taste the blood from my nose running through my sinuses and down the back of my throat. Panic fueled me to scramble up off the floor. For what purpose, I didn’t know. On my maimed leg I wouldn’t have gotten far before Donnelly dropped me.

Donnelly was on his knees. His gun hand was pointed at the floor, and the other clutched at his neck. Bright arterial blood gushed from between his fingers. He looked around the room, as though wondering how he’d gotten there.

Then he noticed me and blinked some more. “Nice shot,” he gurgled. His head lolled as he looked at the gun in his hand. “Got one left.” With all he had remaining, he put the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Bang.

But for my own ragged breathing, the room was silent with death.

Then Underdog groaned miserably.

I scrambled on the floor over to him.

“Aw God,” he moaned. “This sucks so much.” A trickle of blood seeped from a hole in his collarbone. From his chest-from the shot that would have killed him, should have killed him-there was nothing. Dry.

“Dog!” I yelled with hysterical happiness. “You wore a vest?”

Dog smiled crookedly at me. “You… think… I’m a fucking idiot?” He grimaced in pain. “One got through. The other one knocked me down. Ow. I think I might have a broken collarbone. Hand me your phone so I can call myself an ambulance, would you?”

I gave him the phone. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it. Give me that stupid fucking gun in your hand and get the hell gone. You were never here, got it?”

I got it, and I was gone.

I exited the building as casually as I could and walked away fast. I was only three blocks away when I heard the platoon of sirens.

I waited for the hammer to fall. It never did. The news shows were reporting an undercover police officer had seen Danny Barnes the night of Cassandra’s death and went to inform the district attorney when the shit hit the fan. The officer was in stable condition. Underdog would get himself a medal out of the ordeal. Shit, he deserved it.

I added to my battery of injuries a nose that looked like a ripe plum about to burst and a quarter-sized piece of ear that was missing. I’m still not sure how that happened.

Depression started to blanket me. I’d gotten Barnes killed. I’d possibly gotten Paul killed. My actions, my self-inflated obsessions, put Junior in a coma. If justice was served, it sure hadn’t been my responsibility to serve it. I’d fucked up, and the people around me paid the price.

But I still wasn’t done.

First, I returned to Sid’s. Nobody had reported her AWOL yet. I kept an eye out for any yellow tape or unmarked cars. I didn’t see any.

Carefully, I made my way into her apartment. The smell must have been more horrific than usual, but my broken nose kept me from having to experience it. Blessings in disguise. I found what I was looking for fairly easily. In her desk, sitting right in the top drawer, was a ledger. On the front, in big, bold magic marker, was Red Dot Customers. The information on the inside was complete with payments, amounts, and…

Addresses.

I stuck the ledger under one arm, the fat chihuahua under the other, and left.

I named him Burrito.

During my flicker of lucidity right before I pulled the trigger on Donnelly, I realized what had been bothering me about my meeting with Cade, what had lurked in the recesses of my mind the second time I saw Derek Bevilaqua.

Ollie confirmed my suspicion with a few clicks on the computer when he hacked into the Boston Public School records.

I called ahead to Conor’s Publick this time. The dinosaur glared at me from under the thick bandage wrapped around his head but let me pass.

Without saying a word, I walked over to Cade’s table and placed the disc on the checkered cloth, then turned and left. I had nothing to say. The disc would tell all. Cade would recognize his daughter. I did. I would have never made the connection had she not inherited her father’s tragic ears. The poor kid who looked like the scared mouse on the first video we’d seen. The video where Derek beat and raped Angela Cade.

Frankie’s daughter.

Around the time of her death, there were rumors it was a suicide. She couldn’t have done it long after the video had been shot. She was thirteen at the time she died.

Five days later, the depression decided to stop dicking around and sucked me in completely. I spent a lot of time drinking with my whispering demons. 4DC lost two more security accounts. I had to let six of our guys go. I was still fucking up, still bringing grief into the lives of those around me. I found it hard to care. My mind flooded with questions. No answers.

What now?

Who gives a shit , the demons answered, and toasted me another round.

The media was still going apeshit. Forensics pulled up traces of blood on the floor of the DA’s bathroom. They found more in the trunk of Danny Barnes’s car. They’d pieced together that Cassandra died in the apartment and Barnes helped Donnelly cover it up, leaving the poor kid’s body in the squat.

I got no comfort from Barnes’s involvement. I’d still cost him his life. I wasn’t so sure he deserved what he got. When I’d walked a mile in his shoes, would I have done the same for Junior? Would he have done the same for me?

I didn’t like what I thought the answer might be.

Right behind the Donnelly story was a report on a severed arm found wrapped in a black plastic bag in a Dumpster in Providence. The report included an artist’s rendition of the snake tattoo wrapped around the dismembered limb.

Rhode Island police would appreciate any information.

A week and a half after that, I started to feel a little better. I managed to stay sober for a whole twenty-four hours.

I repossessed the last of the DVDs. In my recoveries, I only had to break a total of six fingers, one wrist, five noses, and three or four ribs.

I enjoyed each and every one so, so much.

Then I anonymously mailed the ledger with a note of explanation to the Boston Police.

The bounty we’d collected was almost depleted between the hospital bills from both my trips and Junior’s care. I didn’t give a fuck. The money was tainted, and I couldn’t get it out of my life fast enough.

Trying to buy a little bit of redemption, I bought a ’68 VW Van. After parking it in the driveway next to the house, I dropped the keys in an envelope and taped the envelope to Phil’s door. I think he’d been in hiding ever since he ran from the crash. I knew he was still up there, though. The clouds of pot smoke hadn’t diminished one bit.

I ended the day by paying a visit to Cassie’s grave as the setting sun painted the horizon the same pink as her room. I knelt to say a prayer before I remembered that I didn’t know any. Somehow, I’d managed to spend ten years of my life in a place named Saint Gabriel’s without memorizing one prayer. Not that I believed in it, but I thought Cassandra might have liked to hear me say one.

“I’m sorry, kid,” I said softly. “I wanted to be your hero. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Then I placed the bouquet of yellow and white daisies under the long shadow of her grave marker and listened to the wind for a while.

I got another message from Kelly. She sounded like she’d been crying when she asked why I wasn’t answering my cell or my phone at home or calling her back. As I listened, a gnawing ache dug through me. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to see her.

I also wanted her to do better than me. She deserved better. She deserved better than a thug who was good for nothing but playing tough guy. I tried to think objectively about the events, about what had happened.