class, eh? Tell me, what school did she go to before they started busing her to O’Keefe?”
“Lamont School.”
“She do pretty well over there?”
“She on the honor roll.”
“Your wife work?”
“She cleans.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in my cousin’s car wash.”
“This cousin—he your cousin or your wife’s cousin?”
“He my cousin. My wife’s people don’t amount to much.”
“Okay. Give me the name of your lawyer. I’ll see to it you get bail.”
“Hey. You means I gets out of here?”
“Sure.”
“What it cost me?”
“That bother you?”
“I just works in a car wash.”
“Well, it’s a pretty serious charge. I’d say they’ll set your bail at two thousand. It costs you ten percent of that, two hundred. You got two hundred dollars?”
“In the bank.”
“You give me a signed note saying I can draw two hundred dollars out of your account.”
“I gives you that you gets me out of here?”
“All there is to it. There’s just some papers you have to sign.”
“Papers.”
“You people shit your pants when you hear papers. Don’t worry. I ain’t selling livingroom bedroom suites or color TV’s. I’m Alexander Main, the freedom man. The Great Emancipator. No. These papers have nothing to do with money. They simply state that you waive extradition proceedings and consent to the application of such force as may be necessary to effect your return should you make an effort to jump bail.”
“What’s all that?”
“That if you try to get away I can kill you.”
“I ain’t gonna try to get away.”
“Of course not. You’re a good risk. That’s why I’m going your bond.”
“Gimme that paper. Where do I sign?” He fixes his signature laboriously, as if he were pinning it there.
“Fine. You’re as good as out.”
“I wants to thank you.”
“Sure. I understand. It’s true love, the real thing. You miss that kid.” I turn to the others. “Next. Who’s next? Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, it’s A. Main, the freedom man, selling you respite for ten percent down. Tired of the same old routine? Ass got cornhole blisters? Long to get back in the blue suede shoes? Bailbonds, bailbonds here. Bailbond, mister?”
“Yeah.”
“What’re you in for?”
“He’s on remand for murder, Phoenician,” Poslosky says.
“Murder? Who says murder? Is that true, son?” The kid, a dark, sullen-looking mug just out of his teens, stares back at me. You could skate on his eyes. “Come on, boy, think of me as you would a doctor. If I’m going to help you, you’ve got to put your balls in my hand and cough.”
“He killed a fourteen-year-old for winking at his girl.”
“He killed an enemy, an affair of honor. Since when is it murder to kill an enemy in an affair of honor? Not guilty. It’s the unwritten law.”
“They weren’t even engaged, Phoenician, they didn’t even go steady. It was their first date,” Poslosky says. “All the kid did was wink.”
“It’s the unwritten law. This is America. Since when is there one unwritten law for the married and another unwritten law for the single?”
“He set the boy on fire,” Poslosky whispers.
“Arson is a bailable offense. I see no reason why this man should be held without bond. It was an enemy he set fire to in an affair of honor. The word gets about in these things. What are the chances of someone else winking at his date? The risk’s negligible. Are you highly connected, son?”
“Highly connected?”
“Are your people rich?”
“Nah.”
“Not so fast, son. Hold on there. You’d be surprised what constitutes an estate. Is Father living?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a start, that’s a good start. Does he own his home?”
“He’s paying it off.”
“Where is this house?”
“Brackman Street.”
“Above or below the fourteen hundred block?”
“Below. Six Brackman Street.”
“Six, you say? River property? Six is river property.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t say
“Lamont School.”
“She do pretty well over there?”
“She on the honor roll.”
“Your wife work?”
“She cleans.”
“What do you do?”
“I work in my cousin’s car wash.”
“This cousin—he your cousin or your wife’s cousin?”
“He my cousin. My wife’s people don’t amount to much.”
“Okay. Give me the name of your lawyer. I’ll see to it you get bail.”
“Hey. You means I gets out of here?”
“Sure.”
“What it cost me?”
“That bother you?”
“I just works in a car wash.”
“Well, it’s a pretty serious charge. I’d say they’ll set your bail at two thousand. It costs you ten percent of that, two hundred. You got two hundred dollars?”
“In the bank.”
“You give me a signed note saying I can draw two hundred dollars out of your account.”
“I gives you that you gets me out of here?”
“All there is to it. There’s just some papers you have to sign.”
“Papers.”
“You people shit your pants when you hear papers. Don’t worry. I ain’t selling livingroom bedroom suites or color TV’s. I’m Alexander Main, the freedom man. The Great Emancipator. No. These papers have nothing to do with money. They simply state that you waive extradition proceedings and consent to the application of such force as may be necessary to effect your return should you make an effort to jump bail.”
“What’s all that?”
“That if you try to get away I can kill you.”
“I ain’t gonna try to get away.”
“Of course not. You’re a good risk. That’s why I’m going your bond.”
“Gimme that paper. Where do I sign?” He fixes his signature laboriously, as if he were pinning it there.
“Fine. You’re as good as out.”
“I wants to thank you.”
“Sure. I understand. It’s true love, the real thing. You miss that kid.” I turn to the others. “Next. Who’s next? Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, it’s A. Main, the freedom man, selling you respite for ten percent down. Tired of the same old routine? Ass got cornhole blisters? Long to get back in the blue suede shoes? Bailbonds, bailbonds here. Bailbond, mister?”
“Yeah.”
“What’re you in for?”
“He’s on remand for murder, Phoenician,” Poslosky says.
“Murder? Who says murder? Is that true, son?” The kid, a dark, sullen-looking mug just out of his teens, stares back at me. You could skate on his eyes. “Come on, boy, think of me as you would a doctor. If I’m going to help you, you’ve got to put your balls in my hand and cough.”
“He killed a fourteen-year-old for winking at his girl.”
“He killed an enemy, an affair of honor. Since when is it murder to kill an enemy in an affair of honor? Not guilty. It’s the unwritten law.”
“They weren’t even engaged, Phoenician, they didn’t even go steady. It was their first date,” Poslosky says. “All the kid did was wink.”
“It’s the unwritten law. This is America. Since when is there one unwritten law for the married and another unwritten law for the single?”
“He set the boy on fire,” Poslosky whispers.
“Arson is a bailable offense. I see no reason why this man should be held without bond. It was an enemy he set fire to in an affair of honor. The word gets about in these things. What are the chances of someone else winking at his date? The risk’s negligible. Are you highly connected, son?”
“Highly connected?”
“Are your people rich?”
“Nah.”
“Not so fast, son. Hold on there. You’d be surprised what constitutes an estate. Is Father living?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a start, that’s a good start. Does he own his home?”
“He’s paying it off.”
“Where is this house?”
“Brackman Street.”
“Above or below the fourteen hundred block?”
“Below. Six Brackman Street.”
“Six, you say? River property? Six is river property.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t say
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