Todd Robinson - The Hard Bounce

Only one fact was carved in my mind as though set in marble.

The people I loved died.

She was kind enough never to come by The Cellar.

That’s not to say I didn’t look for her every night.

She deserved better.

I was sitting at Junior’s bedside, reading him some Eddie Bunker, when the nurse came in. “Hey, Boo,” she said.

I looked at her, vaguely recognizing her. “Hey,” I said.

“My name’s Patti. You remember me?”

Suddenly, I remembered the girl. She bartended at The Cellar while she was in school. For nursing, I could only assume. “Hey,” I said again. “You look different.”

She ran her fingers through her chestnut brown hair. “Yeah, they kinda frown on platinum mohawks on the nursing staff. Had to grow up a little.”

“Glad one of us did.”

“Just thought you’d want to know. The kid who came in with Junior?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s gonna make it. He’s out of the woods and out of the ICU.”

Relief flooded my chest so violently I couldn’t even breathe in for a couple seconds. “Thank you. I hadn’t heard.”

She lifted her chin at Junior. “How’s he doing?”

“Fucking thirsty,” Junior said.

“I’ll get you some ginger-ale,” Patti said, unaware of how big the moment was.

“Hey,” I said.

Junior squinted and took in a long breath through his nose. “Was that Patti?” he mouthed in a dry whisper.

“Yup.”

“Always did want to fuck her.”

Junior was going to be fine.

I walked into The Cellar to work out the weekly schedules. Since Junior wouldn’t be able to work for at least a couple months and I wasn’t exactly at my fighting best, I decided to hire in a couple of the guys I’d just given their walking papers at the other bars. It was as close to redemption as I could get.

When I walked in, Audrey was leaning at the end of the bar nearest the door, concentrating on a hand of solitaire with her well-worn deck of Jack Daniels cards. There was only one customer, sitting alone in the darkest corner of the bar.

“Hey, Willie,” she said in a bored and lonely monotone.

“How’s it going, cupcake?”

“You seen Brendan around?” she asked, ignoring my attempt at idle chitchat.

“Nope. Guess he’s taking a break.” I hadn’t seen him since the night at the loft. I hoped he was doing well. A week ago, I’d considered paying him a visit, but I thought it might unnecessarily complicate things.

“I got nobody to play cards with no more,” she said.

“When I come down from the office, we’ll go a few hands of gin.”

Her round face lit up. “You promise?”

“Promise.” I put up two fingers and held them together.

I got two steps away from the bar when I saw who the lone customer was.

Louis Blanc sat in an immaculate gray suit, sipping a bottle of Coke. He stared straight ahead at the liquor bottles behind the bar. His blind eye faced me, the long scar creasing the side of his head like a second mouth, frowning at me.

His lips made a soft popping sound when he brought the bottle away from his mouth. “Got a minute, Mr. Malone?” he said toward the bottles in that eerily paternal brogue of his.

I quickly calculated motive versus opportunity divided by common sense and decided he’d either come for the buffalo wings or to kill me. I took the barstool to his left, where he could at least see me. He didn’t look over. He wasn’t even watching me in the mirror. He seemed content to keep his eye on the bottles.

“Mr. Cade sent me here,” he said.

I didn’t answer. With gaping depression comes comfortable fatalism. It was a perk, in a way.

“He doesn’t want to thank you, exactly, for what happened. But he wants you to know that he’s in your debt. For opening his eyes.”

I didn’t want that unholy cocksucker to be in my debt for a goddamn thing, but I kept that to myself. I just nodded and stood up to leave.

“And I wanted to apologize,” he said.

Blanc saw that I didn’t understand.

“Not for your leg. You earned that one. I wanted to apologize about your friend. And the boy.”

“It was you at Sid’s that night,” I said with numb lips.

“Yes, it-”

Before I processed the consequences, my body was in motion. With a roar, I grabbed the collar of his perfect suit with my left hand and my right snatched the thick Coke bottle, smashing it into his temple in one vicious motion. His head snapped to the side as the glass exploded against his skull. As momentum and surprise took him backward over the barstool, I ran with him, off-balance myself, and drove him into the jukebox with my full weight. The glass on the jukebox shattered and we fell to the floor, my body on top.

Audrey screamed as we hit the floor. “Willie! What are you doing?”

Blanc’s good eye rolled up, and he groaned as I knelt over him. Two thin trickles of blood ran from the spot where the bottle burst on his head, one from the corner of his blind eye like a teardrop.

I still grasped the jagged neck of the bottle in my fist. I pressed the splintered glass against his pulsing throat. “Motherfucker,” I screamed in his face, spittle flying. I was foaming at the mouth like a mad dog. “Why?” I pulled him off the floor and slammed him back down. His head knocked loudly off the wood. “Why?”

“Willie, stop!” Audrey cried, doing a frantic dance from foot to foot behind us.

“Get back, Audrey,” I yelled over my shoulder. “He’s got a gun.” C’mon , my mind screamed. I leaned close and whispered. “Reach for that fucking piece. Do it. Just try, and I’ll push this bottle through your fucking neck until I hit the floor.”

Audrey gasped and Blanc, the cold bastard, smiled. “Actually,” he said calmly, “I don’t have a gun.” Bleeding, assaulted, and on the floor with a broken bottle pressed to his neck, he might as well have been on a cruise.

“Answer me why, you fuck! I swear to God, I’ll do you right fucking here!”

Blanc cleared his throat and spoke gently. “It truly was an accident. Sid pulled a gun on me, and I killed that pig. But I don’t kill children.”

His eyes locked with my own, never blinking as he said his confession.

And Lord help me, I believed him.

I climbed off him, panting harshly. “You… you’re a fucking killer,” I said, my voice ragged.

“This is true,” he said, gingerly applying his fingers to his wounds. He rubbed the light smear of blood between his thumb and forefinger. “But I’m not a murderer, and I think you know the difference.” The trickle of blood ran down his neck, seeping into his shirt collar. “Excuse me, do you have a napkin?”

“Get out of here. Now.”

Blanc helped himself to a few napkins off the bar. Dabbing at his head, he said, “Derek was told only to make one disc. He wasn’t supposed to make the second-the fake.”

Derek had said something about “making the other movie.” Another hint I’d missed.

“What disc? Who’s Derek?” Audrey was still way in the dark and confused to tears. “Who’s got a gun?”

Blanc took Audrey’s pudgy hand and smoothly kissed the knuckles. “I apologize, Audrey. It was a poor joke on my part, and Boo misunderstood me. Everything is fine.”

Hardly. But Audrey seemed satisfied with his answer and, so help me, blushed like a virgin on prom night. “That right, Willie?”

“Yeah. Misunderstanding.”

Satisfied, Audrey poured me a whiskey and cracked Lou a fresh Coke. “You two drink and make up, or I’m kicking both your asses.” With that, Audrey sauntered back behind the bar and resumed her solitaire game.

“ Slainte ,” said Blanc, holding his bottle to me with that smile.