The Hard Bounce

Chapter Seven

“Lord. That is one big dick,” said Underdog. He bent over the desk, squinting at the Polaroid. He didn’t touch the picture, and I understood why. Shit, I washed my hands after taking the photo out of my jeans. Might burn the jeans, too.

“The tattoo look familiar?”

Yeah, I could have shown Barnes the picture before we bolted. Fuck Barnes. Instead, I got Dog on the horn and told him to meet us at The Cellar. When he got there, I dragged him up to the office, since the issue was definitely not for any of the regulars’ eavesdropping ears to listen in on.

Besides, we were going to be discussing a massive schvonce.

You get my fucking point.

Dog continued to squint. The tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth while he wracked his drug-abscessed memory banks. “I’ve seen some like this before, but not this one.”

“Is it some kind of gang symbol?” asked Junior. “Looks like it could be a biker tat. Not any gangbanger shit I’ve ever seen.”

Underdog shook his head. “Nah. Doesn’t look like any biker gang stuff I’ve come across. I mean the style at least. Might mean something anyway.”

“Beyond the obvious reference to the snake hanging between his knees?” I asked. I lit a pair of smokes and handed one to Junior. My stress was making me smoke like a foundry. My pack of gum was in the trash.

“Maybe it’s a secret society tag,” Junior chuckled. “The Big Dick Association of America.”

“All right, Junior. Enough with the dick jokes,” I said.

“You weren’t invited to join, were ya?”

“For a man who likes his cars bigger than most Pacific whales, you think you might be compensating?”

“That’s enough!” Underdog’s tone was razor sharp. “Doesn’t it bother you two that you found this in the room of a fourteen-year-old girl? Doesn’t it bother you at all?” Brendan Miller was in the room. The grungy little junkie had turned back into the cop.

We were both silent, shamed. “It does bother us, Dog” I said. “We’re being jackasses because this whole deal has got us on edge.”

Underdog sighed. “I’m sorry too. This just… I don’t like it when shit like this, you know, involves kids. Look, I can have a buddy run a crosscheck on the station computers. See if we get a match on the tattoo.”

“Any suggestions on what we can do next?” I asked.

“You could show this picture around. I know you can’t show the pictures of the girl too much, but who gives a shit about this guy? Sounds like if you find him, the girl will be there, too.”

“Maybe we could start at some tattoo shops. See if anybody local did the work.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Junior stood up. “I’m not going to canvas Boston’s tattoo shops with a picture of John Holmes Junior there and ask if anybody knows where I can find the guy.”

“Junior…”

“Just cover the dick up with your thumb,” Underdog said.

“No good,” I said. “You’d be hiding too much of the tattoo.” I showed him.

“Oh, man. Just seeing you do that is freaking me out. I’m not putting my thumb over any man’s dick.”

“Come on, Junior. It’s just a little picture.” I waggled the photo in his face.

He swatted my hand away. “Get that thing outta my face. No man, seriously. My rep.”

“Is your rep worth more or less than twenty-five grand?”

He stopped dead, rolling his cigarette between his teeth. “Hmm. Good point. Twelve thousand, five-hundred on the nose, actually.”

I paused. “You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

“Damn straight.”

Three days passed. Nothing. Not a word or a trace.

Junior and me hit the ink shops with the picture of Snake and came up with zilch. A couple smartasses claimed the picture was of them. One guy got himself throttled by Junior when he made the mistake of cracking wise about our sexual predilections. The guy sobered up real fast when Junior grabbed his collar and shook the dude’s head like a maraca.

One place had two girls working the needles. They just snickered. I hoped I didn’t turn as red as Junior did.

The price tag on our reps was starting to feel pretty damn cheap.

“This is such bullshit!” Junior protested, slugging down another wine. We celebrated our humiliation the only way we knew how. We sat in The Cellar’s darkest corner and got loaded.

“It was worth a shot.” I was on my sixth round of beer and bourbon. My buzz took hold around the fourth round. The last two were insurance.

“Well, it was a bullshit shot. I can never get another tattoo in this town again. Christ! Probably not even in the whole goddamn state!”

“What’s left to tattoo, your taint?”

“What do you know about my taint?”

“As it is, you’re a walking Louvre.” Across the room, I could see Underdog stumbling through. Scanning the bar. I held my hand up and he saw me, returning the salute. He plopped himself in the chair across from me. “Drink?” I offered.

He waved his hand. “Nah. Prob’ly shouldn’t have any more.” Drunk as I was, I could tell he was on a whole other level of intoxication. I hoped it was just booze. “So!” He smacked his hands on the table, making the glasses rattle. “My buddy ran the picture for you. Got eleven matches on the snake tattoo. Factored in the probable age and hair type. Boiled it down to two.”

Junior and I looked at each other and sat up straight. “And?”

“Okay. First one. Marshall Conigliario-io-io.” Either Dog was having a hard time wrapping his tongue around the name or he was breaking out into a verse of Old MacDonald. “From Brockton.”

“So, what’s the deal? Is he our guy or what?” Junior asked.

“Nope,” said Underdog.

“Why not?” I asked.

“He’s up in Bridgewater doing eight to ten on armed robbery. Been there for two already.” He burped loudly. I smelled grapefruit juice. He held up his finger. “Second guy: Richie Dean in Allston.”

“You’re kidding me.” Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass if the girl had been in my own neighborhood the whole time?

“You got an address on the guy?” Junior asked. “Let’s go over there right now and tear him a new one.”

That would have been just dandy. A rescue at one in the morning by two drunks and a junkie.

“S’not him either. He’s dead. Motorcycle accident back in April.”

I was going to need another round to continue the conversation. I waved at Ginny and circled my finger over the table. She nodded.

“So what th’ fuck you telling us, Dog? You got nothin’ either?” My own words were starting to slip and slur.

“Not exactly. I was getting my copy of the picture back in the Vice office when one of the guys…” Dog blew out another acidic burp. “Yama. Japanese guy. You know him?”

“No.”

“Nice guy. Anyway, Yama sees the picture and recognizes it. Yama!” Underdog banged the table, like we would know him better the second time around. “Japanese guy?”

“Well, who the fuck is it, then?” Junior had had just about enough.

“No name. Just recognized the picture. Dick, too.”

“Yama’s a dick?”

“Noooooo. He recognized the dick.”

“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.