The Hard Bounce - страница 29

“Is it his own?”

“Nope.”

Junior grimaced. “Man, the day I recognize another man’s dick…”

“See,” Underdog continued, unfazed by Junior’s homophobia, “this is where it starts to get really messed up. Apparently, our boy Snake is a filmmaker.”

I didn’t like where this was heading. Ginny brought our drinks over just in time.

“Please tell me he videos Bar Mitzvahs,” I said.

Underdog shook his lead slowly. “Porn.” Underdog held up his glass. “Our boy is Boston’s answer to Roman Polanski, both as a filmmaker and baby fucker.” He lowered his glass and twisted his face. “Shit, that was a terrible toast.”

I didn’t lift my glass.

I wanted to puke.

Some of it was the alcohol.

Most of it wasn’t.

After Dog’s revelation, the three of us ripped into a bender that would have made Keith Moon blush. The rest of the night is piecemeal. I don’t remember getting a cab, but I remember the driver pulling over so I could puke. I don’t remember getting out of the cab, but I recall vomiting hugely into the bushes in front of my apartment. The hippie was on the steps smoking a joint the size of a burrito. I started vomiting off the porch and he was gone. Then his hand was on my shoulder, his other offering me a bottle of water. The unexpected kindness brought drunken tears to my eyes. I remember hugging him.

My last memory is of opening the book under my bed and unfolding the piece of paper. Tracing the outline of my one and only valuable. A flake of dry crayon fell off the picture onto the floor, crumbling into dust. The color remained on the old manila, the ghost of the crayon’s touch seeped deep into the rough paper.

The Boy sat on the bed next to me, shirtless, a monstrous scar curled down his sternum to his navel. I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was there, knew what the scar looked like.

The Boy sniffled, his breaths becoming hitched. I knew he was crying, tears streaming down his wide face.

He wanted me to hold his hand and cry with him, but I didn’t.

I can’t.

I won’t.

I lay down and closed my eyes tight, waiting for his crying to stop.

Next thing, it was afternoon.

Junior and I didn’t do much detective work that day. It was hard enough to keep my apartment from dancing a tango around me. A whole day slipped away. Later that night, I remembered to check my answering machine. No beeps. No business. No messages from Kelly or Barnes. No lunch date offers from Paul. Not even a telemarketer. I ripped the machine off my table and threw it into the wall. It detonated in an explosion of black plastic and circuits like I’d stuffed a cherry bomb into it. A whole fucking day wasted.

Dog said nobody in Vice knew Snake’s real name since he was careful not to show his face in any of the videos. Only the faces of the girls.

It now looked like Cassandra was in real danger. And we’d responded to the newfound urgency by incapacitating ourselves for a day and a half. Some rescuers we were turning out to be.

Four days since I’d first met Kelly and Barnes. And there I was.

Without a goddamn thing.

Around midnight my phone rang. I was going to let the machine get it. Then I remembered that my machine was strewn all over the kitchen in pieces.

I snatched up the receiver, angry at having my sulking interrupted. “What?” I barked.

“Uh, Boo?”

“What do you want, G.G.?”

“I think you oughta come in.” G.G. was swinging the bouncer shifts for Junior and me while we played private eye. He was a solid guy who could handle himself and the bar. A good part of the reason I gave him the shifts was because he didn’t call me when he was working.

“G.G., I’m really in no mood for the bar tonight. Can’t you take care of whatever it is?” My brain hurt, particularly behind my eyes. Had it been six hours since I took my last Advils?

“There’s a girl here. She’s a mess, man. I mean this chick is lit up like Times Square.”

“Kick her out, then. What’s the problem?” Hell with it. I took two more tablets. Never heard of anybody ODing on Advil.

He paused. “She says she’s waiting for you.”

“What? Me?”

“Says her name’s Kelly.”