average of about fifty dollars a month to be permanently bonded.
And the absolutely hilarious thing is that he will find this a perfectly acceptable arrangement.
I have anywhere from one to a dozen clients like Bud at any given time, and while you can’t get rich off them, they can definitely help pay the rent between the big customers. And at the moment, I dearly wished I had a bunch more.
But somebody named Amalgamated Greedy Guys, or whatever the hell it was, wanted them all, enough to scare off one of my clients. Or maybe they just wanted a big slug of money to make them go away and lose interest in me.
“When hell freezes over.”
“Excuse me?” said Agnes.
“Talking to myself again,” I said. “Sorry. Probably means I forgot to take my meds.”
“There are worse problems to have, Herman.” She gave me a sort of indulgent big-sister kind of smile.
“Yes there are. And we probably have them, too. Here come some more suits. More gangsters, you suppose?”
She looked out the window, to where I was gesturing with my coffee cup.
“They look more like government,” she said. “Feds, I’d guess.”
“I believe that’s what I said.” I opened the door for our new guests, a tallish, athletic-looking man and woman, maybe late thirties, in matching black business suits. The guy wore a dark red tie, the woman a black velvet choker with a tiny cameo pin. Other than that, they looked pretty much the same, except that her legs were better, and I was glad she let them show. Both of them—the people, not the legs—wore tight-lipped expressions that showed they took themselves very seriously.
“Mr. Jackson?” Her voice was deep and throaty, as if she routinely took just a bit too much Dewar’s in the evenings, and she had a heart-shaped face with puffy lips that seemed made for whispering. But her manner was all business. Oh, well. Another perfectly good fantasy, shot right to hell. I wondered if this could be the pair of feds my trash-barrel informant had been talking about.
“I’m Herman Jackson. How can I help you?” I held out my hand, but instead of shaking it, the Persons in Black held up some kind of plastic ID cards. Feds, definitely.
Not FBI, though, but Secret Service. I was surprised. Did the President need a bail bond?
“I’m Agent Krause,” she said, “and this is my partner, Agent Sladky. We are informed that you, Mr. Jackson, are the bonding agent for one Charles Victor.”
“Was,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I was his bonding agent. He was murdered last night.”
Agnes dropped her hands in her lap and gave me a look of wide-eyed astonishment. The two agents were unreadable.
“Then you owe him no further service.” She said it without pause or hesitation, as if she had rehearsed the speech. I had no idea what she was driving at.
“I didn’t owe him any prior service, either,” I said. “He hasn’t been bonded by me since the last time he got sent to the Ramsey County Workhouse, last winter. How is it you know about me being his agent, by the way?”
She ignored the question completely. “Whether he had a bond or not, you were holding something for him, I believe?”
“You mean some kind of standing security object?” I shook my head. “When he needed a bond, Charlie always gave me cash for security. And when he got out of the Workhouse, he took it back.”
“If he had that kind of money, why would he come to you for a bond at all? Why would he come to anybody for one? That’s not even a good lie.” Agent Sladky should have continued to let his partner do the talking. He had a slightly nasal, high-pitched voice that made him seem too young for the job. His comment about the lie didn’t help any in that department, either. Was there any experienced G-man or cop who didn’t expect to be routinely lied to by everybody?
“He didn’t trust the court to give him his money back again. He didn’t trust any government of any kind, period.” I shrugged, to
And the absolutely hilarious thing is that he will find this a perfectly acceptable arrangement.
I have anywhere from one to a dozen clients like Bud at any given time, and while you can’t get rich off them, they can definitely help pay the rent between the big customers. And at the moment, I dearly wished I had a bunch more.
But somebody named Amalgamated Greedy Guys, or whatever the hell it was, wanted them all, enough to scare off one of my clients. Or maybe they just wanted a big slug of money to make them go away and lose interest in me.
“When hell freezes over.”
“Excuse me?” said Agnes.
“Talking to myself again,” I said. “Sorry. Probably means I forgot to take my meds.”
“There are worse problems to have, Herman.” She gave me a sort of indulgent big-sister kind of smile.
“Yes there are. And we probably have them, too. Here come some more suits. More gangsters, you suppose?”
She looked out the window, to where I was gesturing with my coffee cup.
“They look more like government,” she said. “Feds, I’d guess.”
“I believe that’s what I said.” I opened the door for our new guests, a tallish, athletic-looking man and woman, maybe late thirties, in matching black business suits. The guy wore a dark red tie, the woman a black velvet choker with a tiny cameo pin. Other than that, they looked pretty much the same, except that her legs were better, and I was glad she let them show. Both of them—the people, not the legs—wore tight-lipped expressions that showed they took themselves very seriously.
“Mr. Jackson?” Her voice was deep and throaty, as if she routinely took just a bit too much Dewar’s in the evenings, and she had a heart-shaped face with puffy lips that seemed made for whispering. But her manner was all business. Oh, well. Another perfectly good fantasy, shot right to hell. I wondered if this could be the pair of feds my trash-barrel informant had been talking about.
“I’m Herman Jackson. How can I help you?” I held out my hand, but instead of shaking it, the Persons in Black held up some kind of plastic ID cards. Feds, definitely.
Not FBI, though, but Secret Service. I was surprised. Did the President need a bail bond?
“I’m Agent Krause,” she said, “and this is my partner, Agent Sladky. We are informed that you, Mr. Jackson, are the bonding agent for one Charles Victor.”
“Was,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I was his bonding agent. He was murdered last night.”
Agnes dropped her hands in her lap and gave me a look of wide-eyed astonishment. The two agents were unreadable.
“Then you owe him no further service.” She said it without pause or hesitation, as if she had rehearsed the speech. I had no idea what she was driving at.
“I didn’t owe him any prior service, either,” I said. “He hasn’t been bonded by me since the last time he got sent to the Ramsey County Workhouse, last winter. How is it you know about me being his agent, by the way?”
She ignored the question completely. “Whether he had a bond or not, you were holding something for him, I believe?”
“You mean some kind of standing security object?” I shook my head. “When he needed a bond, Charlie always gave me cash for security. And when he got out of the Workhouse, he took it back.”
“If he had that kind of money, why would he come to you for a bond at all? Why would he come to anybody for one? That’s not even a good lie.” Agent Sladky should have continued to let his partner do the talking. He had a slightly nasal, high-pitched voice that made him seem too young for the job. His comment about the lie didn’t help any in that department, either. Was there any experienced G-man or cop who didn’t expect to be routinely lied to by everybody?
“He didn’t trust the court to give him his money back again. He didn’t trust any government of any kind, period.” I shrugged, to
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