“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 ‘yeah’ as if this were some vacant lot we’re talking about. This is bona fide river property.”
“It’s an old house.”
“On an older river. What size lot?”
“I never measured.”
“When you cut Dad’s grass — just give me an estimate on this — how long does it take you to go from the front to the back, from one side to the other? Do you use a power mower or a manual? Just give me a rough estimate.”
“I never cut no grass.”
“Too big a job? That could be in your favor if it was too big a job.”
“Yeah, it was too big a job.”
I whistle. “How many bedrooms?”
“Two.”
“Two? Only two on an enormous estate like that?…Are you an only child? This could be important.”
“Yeah, there’s just me.”
“Better and better. Look, son, think carefully, try to remember, is Mom dead or alive?”
“Yeah, I remember. I’m an only child and Mom’s dead.”
“Son, you’re an heir. You’re a son, son.”
“The old man hates my guts.”
“There are deathbed reunions. The ball game isn’t over till the last man is out. All right, let’s inventory this thing. We’ve got a good piece of riverfront property, a magnificent two-bedroom house and an only child. Now. Tell me. You look a stocky, sturdy guy. You take after your father? You built like Pop?”
“I’m taller. We weigh about the same.”
I squeeze the flab around his belly, palm his gut like a tit. “A hundred ninety? One ninety-five?”
He shakes me off. “One seventy-two.” The fat fuck lies.
“We’ll call it one eighty. How old’s your daddy?”
“I don’t know, he don’t invite me to his birthday parties.”
“Easy, son, easy. Pa in his sixties? Fifties?”
“I don’t know. Fifties.”
“He smoke?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good. I’ll tell you the truth, I’d have been a little worried if you’d told me he was in his sixties because that would have meant he’s beaten the actuarial tables. There’s no telling how long you can go once you’ve beaten the actuarial tables, but in his fifties, and a smoker, that’s something else…All right, is there insurance?”
“Who knows?”
“Fair enough. Is he self-employed or does he work for someone?”
“He’s a baker. He’s got a little bakery.”
“Hey. You didn’t say anything about a bakery. That’s terrific.”
“It’s a dump.”
“It’s a small business. It’s a small business and it’s insured. Okay, up to now we’ve been talking about potential collateral. What would you say he’s worth, right now, alive? Any stocks or bonds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Do you ever see him reading the financial pages? Does he rail at Wall Street?”
“No.”
“All right. Does he read the sports section? Following scores often indicates an interest in the fluctuation of dollars.”
“He reads the funnies.”
“I’m beginning to get a picture. Owns a piece of riverfront property which at today’s prices could be worth fifty or sixty thousand to a developer. He has a small business which means he probably banks his money. He an immigrant?”
“Yeah.”
“Sicily? Italy?”
“Yeah, Sicily, Italy.”
“An immigrant. Came to this country in the late twenties as a youngster. Saw the stock market crash and learned a good lesson. Worked and saved till he owned his own small bakery. Banks his money, likes to see it grow — watch the numbers get bigger. Sure. By this time there could be thirty or forty thousand in his account. At the inside your pop’s worth a hundred grand, not counting any possible insurance.”
“Gee.”
“Plus maybe a car, probably a small delivery truck.” The kid nods. “The equipment at the bakery, of course. The industrial ovens alone could be ten or fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Gosh.”
“That kind never throws anything out. The old-country furniture might be worth another couple grand. These are optimum figures. All in all between a hundred and seventeen and a hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars. Round it off at a hundred twenty.”
“Christ.”
“This is a great country, sonny. But those were optimum estimates. In my business you’ve got to be conservative. It might not be more than ninety thousand.”
“That old bastard sitting on ninety thousand bucks.”
“Wait, wait, I’m still figuring. Now, you know, when you come right down to it Poslosky here is right. You’re in for a capital offense, and while my arguments for your release might go over with the judge, the bond would have to be a high one.”
“How high?”
“Fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot.”
“We could swing that. I just showed you.”
“It ain’t my money, it’s his.”
“I could talk to him, bring him around.”
“Will you do that?”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? What’s all this about?”
“You’re a shitty risk.”
“What are you talking about? I acted in anger. Like you said yourself, people will steer clear of me. It couldn’t happen again.”
“That’s not it.”
“What? What then?”