Switchblade

by Carsen Taite

  The light heat of her breath had barely dissipated when I felt her gently push the papers into my hands. Within seconds, she was gone. I stared at the open door. Torn. I don’t have much willpower when it comes to beautiful women, no matter how much crap they send my way. A few long strides and I could catch her, pull her back, and wrest back the control she’d just robbed.

  I waited out my resistance and then shut the door. Speaking of crap, I had an armful of papers I assumed Ronnie had left to rev my curiosity. I tossed them on the kitchen counter and walked away. She didn’t have any right to assume she could jet back to Dallas and get me to do her bidding. Last time I’d done a favor for her, she’d lied every step of the way and nearly gotten us both killed. She could find someone else to do her dirty work. I wasn’t buying.

  Chapter Three

  Monday morning came too soon. When the first rays of sunlight poked past my closed eyelids, I covered my face with a pillow and tried to fall back asleep. Lasted a little while, but then the memory of basic life necessities like food, beer, and gas for my Bronco invaded my rest. I’d spent the better part of my last chunk of earnings on stuff for Mark’s wedding, and I needed to earn some more cash if I was going to fund my personal pyramid of needs.

  I pulled on sweats and running shoes, grabbed a five from the last of my stash, and headed out the door for a pseudo run to the corner store for a cup of black coffee to start my day. I must be getting old because it usually only took me a day to recover from a massive drinking binge, but two days out and I still felt the ache of alcohol struggling to run its course. Once Ronnie had left yesterday, I returned to bed and spent the rest of the day there. Now I was starving and caffeine deprived. Luckily, I had enough cash to net a cup of coffee, two glazed donuts, and a hot dog.

  So much for the run. I stood outside the store, wolfed down my purchases, and started to feel human.

  Home again, I showered and then dug through my closet until I found a lone clean T-shirt and an only worn once pair of jeans. After stuffing the smelly tux in the bag it came in, I headed for the door. As I was leaving, I spied the papers Ronnie had left yesterday morning. Tempted to throw them in the trash, I decided against the effort and headed out to my aging Bronco, hoping it had more gas in the tank than I remembered.

  Hardin Jones Bail Bond Agency was down the street from the Dallas County Jail and criminal courthouse, perfectly situated for friends and relatives as they looked for a friendly face when their loved ones ran afoul of the law. For a percentage of the bond amount set by the judge, Hardin would spring the loved one out of jail and guarantee their appearance for court dates. In exchange, the accused would have to check in with him on a regular basis, but invariably, some went missing because they couldn’t obey Hardin’s rules any better than they could obey the law. That’s where I came in. If Hardin turned in the fugitive, he wouldn’t owe the court any money, so he paid me a percentage of what he stood to lose and I tracked these deadbeats down. I got occasional work from other agencies, and even some lawyers who wrote their bonds—that was how I’d met Ronnie—but Hardin’s agency was my main source of business. I was hoping he had some work this morning.

  I pushed through the door of the only slightly remodeled former gas station and waved at the chain-smoking gatekeeper. Sally Jesse ran the front office, dealing with all the sureties who came in waving cash, begging for bonds to get their loved ones out of jail. Right now, she had an entire family, including three drooling toddlers, sitting in front of her desk. The presumed mother of the brood was bawling while her stern-looking man friend filled out forms on a clipboard. I raised my eyebrows at Sally, and she pointed to the back.

  Hardin was in his office, scuffed boots propped on his massive desk. He wore a John Deere cap even though he was inside. Come to think of it, I’d never seen him without it. He spit into a cup and cleared his throat. “Hey, Luca, whatcha up to?”

  “Nothing, which is kind of a problem. Got any work?” I hadn’t been by in a few weeks. Between nursing Jess back to health and all the wedding craziness, I hadn’t had the energy to take on any cases. But now that I was out of food, beer, and gasoline, I didn’t have a choice.

  He reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a couple of files. “Got a couple. Nothing big. Been a little slow lately. Holidays.”

  He didn’t have to say more. Law enforcement generally came to a screeching halt this time of year. Cops, prosecutors, and judges, all loaded up with lots of vacation time they needed to use by the end of the year, tended to take off work in droves, leaving the courthouse a dead zone between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Less court dates meant less bond jumpers. Perfect.

  If I found both these deadbeats, I wouldn’t come out much ahead, but I might be able to leverage my pay into bigger winnings. I shook off the idea. Normally, I’d take a small payout like this and buy in to a card game to try for something bigger, but my regular gaming house had recently experienced a bout of bad luck and had shut down for the season. Driving to Oklahoma to the casino would require more gas than I wanted to spend. If I caught both these jumpers, I could eat or pay rent, but not both. I already knew which thing would go by the wayside. Hopefully, my landlord, Old Man Withers, would go visit his daughter in Florida again this year, and I could avoid him until crime season picked back up.

  As I left his office, a nagging thought turned me back. “Hey, Hardin, you heard any scoop about a cop getting into trouble? Jorge Moreno, Miguel Moreno’s nephew?”

  He cocked his head and worked the wad in his mouth over to one jaw. “Can’t say that I have, but Miguel’s doing time with the feds, so probably the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Why are you interested?”

  “Just heard a rumor. No big deal.”

  “I’ll keep an ear out. Let you know if I hear anything.”

  If there was anything to hear, he’d let me know. I left Hardin to his chew and headed back to my ride. My nineteen ninety Bronco still served me well, thank God. I didn’t need a lot of newfangled equipment for my job, but wheels were essential. In deference to progress, I carried an iPhone and owned a laptop, for which I snagged Internet service from my next-door neighbor’s not well protected Wi-Fi, but most of what I do involves tracking down folks the old-fashioned way—knocking on doors, spying in windows, and the occasional breaking and entering. My only other equipment is a small arsenal of weapons, including a long Colt forty-five I’d carried since I left the force.

  I steered the Bronco back toward home and considered my next move. The hot dog and donuts from this morning had long since stopped fueling my day. Instead of pulling into my apartment complex, I opted to turn into the bar a few blocks down. Maggie’s had been my go-to place for beer and food for years, mostly because Maggie let me run a tab. Now that she was dating my father, I occasionally suffered pangs of guilt for accepting food and drink I might never be able to pay off, but I got over it every time I thought about other things I could spend my well-earned funds on.

  It was kind of early for lunch, and the place was deserted. I took a seat at the bar and spread out the files Hardin had given me while I waited for someone to appear and notice they had a new customer. The first case was Jerry Etheridge. Jerry’s crime was driving while intoxicated, first offense. I was surprised he’d jumped bond since the worst thing that usually happens on DWI cases is probation. Since the judge could hold him without bond for missing his court date, he’d do more time for avoiding court than he would if he’d been found guilty of the crime. Of course, folks in trouble don’t always think rationally, a fact I could attest to from my own experience.

  Jerry should be fairly easy to catch. The file listed his employer as a local bank, and his wife signed for his bond. Likely they had a little three bedroom, two bath in the suburbs. Maybe even a dog and child. I’d eat lunch and head on over to pick him up.

  “You still set on eating food that’s bad for you?”

  I looked up from the file into Maggie Flynn’s frowning face. S
he was dressed fairly tame for her, in a solid purple dress and big gold earrings that flounced through her wavy red hair. I was used to seeing her in crazy, mismatched patterns that hurt my eyes. She’d probably worn out her varsity wardrobe with all the wedding activities over the last week. Her pointed question was an attempt to goad me into the same healthy eating she’d bullied my father to take on since they’d started dating. What she didn’t know was he snuck beer and grease at every given opportunity. Unlike my father, I wasn’t much into hiding my vices. “Cheeseburger and fries. You can put lettuce and tomato on the burger if that makes you feel any better.”

  She slid a draft beer my way, shouted my order to the kitchen, and then slid onto the stool next to me. “You back at work?”

  “Gotta eat.”

  “True. How’s your gal?”

  “Gal?” I knew she was talking about Jess, but I didn’t feel like telling her I didn’t have a clue. It kinda gnawed at me that Jess hadn’t called since she’d dumped me at my place after the wedding. What if I’d died from alcohol poisoning? What if I’d tripped trying to get into my apartment and was wasting away on the stoop? Guess she didn’t give a shit, and if she didn’t, neither should I. I knew my reaction was less than adult. I was the one who’d gotten sloshed and ruined any chance we had at making up after Ronnie showed up on my doorstep.

  Jess didn’t like Ronnie, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. There was the whole cops don’t like criminal defense attorneys thing. Throw in the fact Ronnie skated real close to the edge of the law, and Jess had quickly decided Ronnie wasn’t right for me. What I didn’t know was whether her reaction was that of a jealous lover or a patronizing friend. If Jess wasn’t speaking to me, guess I’d never find out. I thought about the stack of papers Ronnie had left on my kitchen counter, papers I’d intended to ignore, and I realized it wasn’t just curiosity that had prompted me to ask Hardin about them. Maybe I would poke around to find out what was going on with Jorge Moreno. When Jess found out I was looking into a fellow cop, a Moreno no less, that would get a rise out of her. In the meantime, my casual response to Maggie’s question had gotten a rise of its own.

  “Luca, you need to settle down. Look at your brother. Mark’s a nice boy and he’s found a nice girl. Nice wedding, nice honeymoon, nice life. You could have all that.”

  I almost spit my beer across the bar as I snorted with laughter. Nice wasn’t a word anyone would use to describe me, and I liked it that way, but trying to convince Maggie otherwise was a wasted enterprise. “Do you think my burger might be ready?”

  She huffed off, and I knew I hadn’t heard the last of her nagging. Any day now I expected her to announce she and my father were getting married. Once the bug hits, it doesn’t let go. All the more reason for me to steer clear of Jess. After all, she’d practically sobbed like a baby at Mark’s wedding. Jess was the last person I expected to be all sentimental over some stupid vows. Her reaction shook my confidence in the universe. Yeah, I’d gotten a little choked up too, but I wrote it off more to fear than mush.

  File number two was another small-time crime. The unimaginative Susie Kemper was on probation for shoplifting when she’d picked up a new case for the exact same thing. Her attorney had talked the judge into setting a bond on the new case, but when the probation officer loaded her up with conditions on the first one, she decided to skip out. Another case of dumb judgment. If I was facing hard time, I might skip out on court dates, but it looked like all she had to do was toe the line and she would’ve been right back on probation. I shook my head, but didn’t spend a lot of time mourning Susie’s thick skull. Stupid people kept me fed.

  Maggie dropped a plate of grease and comfort in front of me and pointed at my empty beer mug. I nodded, but vowed that would be my last for the day. As tempting as it was to drink away the afternoon, I decided to be a productive citizen. I’d round up these two, collect my fee, and be home in time to celebrate with a six-pack in front of the Mavericks game if my TV antenna was working. I live the high life.

  Chapter Four

  Jerry Etheridge’s house was exactly as I suspected. Moderate, in a decent neighborhood, and dead quiet. The whole neighborhood was quiet, too quiet for me to take a stroll down the street and sneak a look into his garage to see if his car was there. Even if his car was there, didn’t mean he was. He wasn’t supposed to be driving without an ignition interlock device, a not as fancy as it sounds thingie that you have to blow into before you can start the car to prove you haven’t been drinking. The device then beeps at you during your drive to remind you to keep blowing, as if blowing into a tube while driving a moving vehicle is less dangerous than the DWI you got arrested for in the first place. Court records showed he either hadn’t gotten the device installed, or hadn’t bothered to turn in the paperwork if he had. I was betting on the former. His wife drove a Smart car, but I’d already swung by her job at a local insurance agency, and the bright yellow go-cart was parked out front. Didn’t look like two regular-sized folks could’ve fit in that tiny ride. I’d lay all the money I didn’t have that Jerry was in the house.

  I wasn’t supposed to break into people’s homes, and I sure wasn’t supposed to be carrying a gun if I did. Bounty hunters are licensed private investigators. Key word: licensed. If I got caught breaking the rules I could lose my license and then most bonding companies wouldn’t want to work with me. It had happened before, more times than I could count, but breaking the rules was kind of a necessity in my line of business. I rarely had to fire my gun since flashing the big piece was usually enough to tame any desire to fight back, but no way was I going to approach some of these idiots without one. The possible payout from Jerry’s little case didn’t seem worth risking a show of force. Yet.

  An hour later, I called it. There hadn’t been a single sign of life from the Etheridge house, and the beers I’d had at lunch were taking their toll. I drove back home and considered my options, finally deciding to try Jerry again in the morning before his wife left for work. I still had a couple of hours of daylight so I resisted the pull of my couch and drove to jumper number two, Susie Kemper’s neck of the woods, which couldn’t have been more different from Jerry’s neighborhood. The minute I pulled up in front of the ratty apartment complex, I understood why she skipped out. Poor people weren’t cut out for probation. Probation sounds easy and all, but for a lot of folks it’s way harder than a couple of weeks in jail, which is the most a shoplifter can usually expect, even for the second offense. After you enter your plea, you get a long list of conditions. Take this class, do this community service, pay this fine, pay this fee. And you have to pay for the privilege of the classes and community service, not to mention court costs. Judges will tell you they’ll never violate you for not making payments, but every time you turn around, someone’s holding out their hand and you start to feel the pressure. When you don’t have enough money to buy groceries, you make a hard choice. In Susie’s case, it was a dumb choice, since instead of talking to someone about her problem, she just lit out. I almost felt sorry for her, but then I thought about all the bills I had to pay and how she was my best chance at a paycheck.

  I found apartment 204 easily and figured I’d play this one straight. I’d seen her picture, and no way was she going to outrun or outfight me. What I hadn’t considered was the wild fit of barking I heard when I knocked on the door. Ferocious, kill you now, eat you later kind of barking. I’m not scared of much, but after I’d seen a junkyard dog eat his way through a guy’s leg years ago, big, burly dogs commanded all my respect. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone would notice if I slunk quietly away. Not a soul in sight, but before I could make my getaway, the door creaked open and a pixie face poked out.

  “Not buyin’,” Susie announced.

  I scoured the door opening for signs of the beast. Nothing. No way could I leave now. “Not selling.” I placed a hand on the door to keep her from closing it in response to my next words. “I work for Hardin—”

  Bare
ly got the words out before we were both struggling for control of the door. “Get out,” she yelled.

  “You’ll have to come with me to get things sorted out. I’m not leaving until you do.”

  Her size completely fooled me. She wasn’t budging, and Fido the Terrible was cheering her on in his best “I’m going to tear you to shreds” voice. For a second, I considered letting go of the door and taking off. Only thoughts of my next meal and a few shards of self-respect kept me from running. I shouldered into the door and finally managed to make some headway by grabbing her hair. She yelped and let go of the door. I pushed it open cautiously. Still no sign of the dog, but as insurance, I tightened my hold on her scalp.

  “Let go of me, bitch!”

  “Call off your dog and I will.”

  I watched her expression change from defiance to resignation as she considered her options. Finally, she said, “Jellybean, down.”

  Good thing I hadn’t run. I’d never in a million years respect myself for running from a dog named Jellybean. I pushed farther into the apartment and finally laid eyes on the beast. A gorgeous Husky with brilliant blue eyes rolled around on the floor making odd noises that sounded suspiciously like words. In person, Jellybean inspired absolutely no fear in me. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He wants you to rub his belly.”

  I wasn’t falling for that. If I put my hand within reach, he would surely tear it off. “He’s your dog. You rub his belly.”

  She responded by pointing at my hand, which still clutched her hair. I let go and she bent to the floor and began petting the monster. He responded with more of his special language. All signs of aggression were gone, and he was probably laughing at my fear. I didn’t know jack about dogs, but this one seemed like an expensive breed, not the kind owned by a two-bit criminal who could barely make ends meet. “Where’d you get him?”