Todd Robinson - The Hard Bounce

The machine beeped again. “Mr. Malone? This is Kelly Reese. My employer has agreed to meet with you. A car will pick you up at The Cellar tomorrow night at ten o’clock Goodbye.” She ended the message without giving me a return number by which to accept or decline the offer. Regardless, I *69ed the number.

Unlisted.

My number’s unlisted, too. How they got it was just one more question I would have to add to the stack.

I woke up around noon the next morning-early for one living the night-owl lifestyle. I opened up another can for breakfast and turned on the news.

An elderly woman was killed during a botched home invasion. No suspects were in custody at the time.

A Harvard freshman’s suit against the city started the day before. He fell onto the Red Line tracks, losing both his legs.

The mayor was railing against his opponent’s stance on “the issues of the citizens.” Apparently, the incumbent couldn’t dig up any damning personal info to fling yet. Unfortunately for him, his opponent, a long-term DA, had a whole lot on him. Ah, politics…

I shut off the TV before the news anchor got to the report that my children’s lives just might depend on.

I did a quick workout, punching on a heavy bag until I broke a light sweat. I wanted to keep working the bag, which was always good for clearing my head, but my shoulder was still stiff from the Wile E. Coyote routine I’d re-enacted off The Cellar’s back door.

I had a lot of time to kill until my evening pickup, so I decided to do some recon work. I could at least try to fill in some blanks so I didn’t walk into the meeting with nothing more than my dick in hand.

My upstairs neighbor had resumed his post on the front steps, soaking in the sun like an otter on a rock. A strong mixture of patchouli and pot wafted off him. He even had an old VW van parked in the short driveway beside the house. I’d never seen anyone drive it since the day he moved in. At some point in its existence, somebody decided to paint a mural of peace signs, rainbows, and daisies on the front but lost interest about a quarter of the way back.

He’d been living above me for three years and I still didn’t know his name. Couple years back, I’d tossed him out of The Cellar after I busted him lighting a hash pipe. From that point on, I think he regarded me as a tool of the Man’s oppression.

He gave me a nod of acknowledgment as I passed him on the steps. I returned the nod and stopped. I pulled the picture from my back pocket and held it out to him. “You don’t happen to know this kid, do you?”

He lowered his sunglasses and stared blankly at the picture. He narrowed his eyes when he looked back at me. “Nope.”

Great. Now he had me pegged for a chickenhawk as well as a Fascist.

I hopped the Green Line train back into Kenmore. The Cellar didn’t open until three, but by the time the train got there, the bar would be ready for business. I knew Underdog would be inside as soon as the doors opened.

A few years back, Underdog was just another drinker at the bar. He was usually the first to show up and sometimes the last out at the end of the night. Pipe-cleaner thin, he would keep to himself in whatever part of the bar had the least light and steadily drink plastic pints of Busch. After a few weeks, he became a fixture and the staff began to feel sorry for him. The girls who work at the bar have a soft spot for strays like Underdog, and The Cellar was the type of bar that attracted them.

A year back, I’d made a rare daytime appearance at the bar. As I headed up the stairs to the offices, I heard a clattering from the well underneath the steps. I went to see what was going on, since the area was supposed to be off limits.

I got an eyeful of Underdog’s ass as I turned the corner.

And the long needle tracks along the pasty flesh of his inner thigh. The clatter I’d heard was a dropped hypo.

I felt duped, personally betrayed by a man we’d brought into our family.

A bloody haze fell over my eyes like a red-filtered Klieg light blazing at a thousand watts.

“Boo, I-” was all Underdog got out before my right hand clamped over his throat and squeezed off his protests. Feeble squeaks of alarm were all he could produce.

I crushed the syringe in my left hand, glass slicing into my palm.

I flung the shattered needle to the floor. With my bleeding hand, I went into his pockets while still choking him with the other. From his shirt pocket, I plucked a small bag of heroin. I dumped the beige powder on the floor, turning the baggie over right in front of his face. Underdog’s mouth started foaming at the corners, his oxygen-starved brain ordering his thin legs to kick at my shins. Unfortunately for him, a panicked hundred and twenty pounds doesn’t even register when I hit that wall.

And I’d hit that wall.

Hard.

Then his eyelids fluttered and he was beyond caring.

I felt through the front pockets of his jeans. A few loose bills. Keys. Stick of gum. Lint.

In the back pocket of his jeans, I found his badge.

My hand opened on Underdog’s throat, and he dropped to the floor, conscious by a hair. “You’re a cop,” I said, dumbfounded.

Dog lay at my feet, clutching his neck and wheezing asthmatically. He slid himself into the crevice under the stairs like a wounded animal.

“You’re a cop,” I said again. The answer-the gold shield in a leather case-was already in my hand. I was just trying to push the information into my brain. It didn’t want to go.

“Vice,” he squeaked from his corner, almost too softly to hear. Then he started weeping deep, heaving sobs like a child.

“Vice,” I repeated. I stared stupidly at the ID tucked into the flap of the wallet. Sure enough, it read: Brendan Miller, BPD, Detective-Vice Division-Narcotics. Then I looked long and hard at the photo. Any bouncer will tell you, the best way to spot a fake picture on an ID is by focusing on two things that don’t change on a person between license photos: the distance between the eyes and, barring breakage or surgery, the nose. Brendan Miller had an academy crew cut.

Underdog had a shoulder-length mousy tangle.

Brendan Miller was clean shaven, skin gleaming.

I’d never seen Underdog with a decent shave.

Brendan Miller was a healthy looking, young guy.

Underdog… wasn’t.

The picture on the ID was definitely the same person cowering on the dirty floor before me. But it sure as hell wasn’t the same man.

“I didn’t want to be this way,” he cried quietly.

I towed him up the stairs by the scruff of his shirt before anyone else came looking to see what the hubbub was about. I dropped him in the office and cleaned the bits of glass out of my hand in the upstairs bathroom. When I came back, he was still slumped in the bright yellow chair next to the desk, his sobbing tapering off. His shirt was streaked with stripes of my blood, and when he coughed, a little spray of his own came out.

I glared down at him, then looked at the cuts in my palm. “Any chance you gave me something? You got Hep?”

Softly, “No.”

“HIV?”

A shake of the head. “I get tested. I’m an idiot. I’m an asshole. I’m a fucking junkie. But I’m not suicidal.”

I handed him some paper towels. “Here. Clean yourself.”

I sat in the desk chair and watched him smear my blood deeper into his shirt. He started sobbing again. “I don’t wanna die, Boo. I really, really don’t.”

“So, what’s the story here, Dog?” I said quietly, not able to look directly at him. I’ve seen more than my share of junkies in my day and felt not a lick of pity for their weaknesses.

But dammit, this was Underdog.

He gave me his story in a monotone.

He’d been Vice for six years and on deep cover for the last three. Too deep and not enough cover, apparently. In his dealings, as a show of good faith, he’d shot up a few times with the people he was supposed to be keeping an eye on. Nobody shoots up and believes they’ll get addicted. Brendan Miller was no exception.