The Hard Bounce - страница 13

And beat-up.

Beat-up cars, beat-up bicycles. Beat-up lives.

Nice thing about our business though? Sometimes we got to beat back.

While waiting for a cab, I leaned against the front of the bar and looked at Cassandra’s picture.

The picture was taken at a mall somewhere in the suburbs. I could make out a Sunglass Hut and Spencer Gifts in the background. She was a cute kid with a sweet smile: a kid’s smile, without the self-consciousness that develops with adulthood. Her hair was slightly shorter in the shot so it couldn’t have been more than a few months old. I noticed the unusual maturity I’d seen in her eyes earlier that day wasn’t present in the picture.

Whatever put it there happened recently.

I handed the cabbie ten bucks after the short drive up Commonwealth from Kenmore Square to my apartment in Allston. The young neo-hippie who lived upstairs wasn’t at his usual post on the front steps. He’s usually perched there all odd hours during the summer, never on any type of schedule that might coincide with having a job. Might be a student. Never cared enough to ask.

I have the entire first floor of a two-family house on Gordon Street. It’s got three big rooms-more space than I need, but the price is right. The landlord cut me a deal when 4DC shoo-flyed some meth-head squatters from another one of his properties. I converted the front room into a home gym and use the second for a living area. The smallest room, no bigger than a large closet, is my bedroom. Growing up like I did, I tend to find comfort in smaller spaces. Less to defend.

The red light on my answering machine blinked three times. I hit play and walked into the kitchen to open a can of dinner. I dumped the canned pasta into my lucky bowl and tossed it into the microwave. It’s my lucky bowl because it’s my only one. I also own a lucky plate and a lucky glass. It says Welch’s Grape Jelly on it and features Tom & Jerry.

The first message was from Curtis, the manager at The Drop Bar in Cambridge. He needed some extra security on weekends. He said the bar had been attracting a rowdier crowd in the last month and more fights had been flaring.

The machine beeped. Message two. Some woman was overly concerned with my cable TV package. She left a number in case I was as excited about the movie lover’s package as she was.

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.