A World Without Secrets (7 page)

* * *

After days of trying to figure out how the gizmo could quickly solve my financial woes, I hit upon a plan. It was perfectly legal, and I would even be performing a community service. Over the weekend I spent some time doing research on the internet, then took a downtown bus on Monday morning.

Verifying the address on the page I'd ripped from my home telephone directory, I entered the doors beneath a hanging sign that advertised bail bonds.

The lobby held just two elevator banks, mailboxes, and locked, unmarked doors, but there was a wide stairway on the left. One flight up, a sign on an entrance door advertised 'Edward Harris - Bail Bonds.' The office, like the building itself, looked like something from the nineteen forties. The movie
The Maltese Falcon
came to mind. I could almost imagine bumping into Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre on their way out to a saloon to grab a liquid lunch during a break in filming.

Two women and a man, all three speaking on phones, sat at desks behind a chest-high counter. I took a seat in one of the cheap, vinyl-covered chairs placed against the wall that faced the counter to wait until one of the three was free.

After several minutes, one of the women stood up and approached the counter. She was middle-aged and it appeared she had long ago ceased to care about maintaining a meticulous appearance, but at least she was wearing modern clothing. She looked at me over her eyeglasses and asked, "What's your problem, champ?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Harris, or whoever runs this office."

"What about?"

"I'm a skip tracer." I had found the term on the internet and hoped it would get me an interview.

She seemed amused as her eyes traveled from my feet to my head before fixating on my face. "Hang on," she said as she walked back to her desk. Picking up the phone receiver, she pushed a single button and then said, "There's a guy out here who wants to see you. Says he's a skip tracer. He's got the height and build for it, but he has the eyes of an accountant." She listened for a minute, then said to me, "What's your name, pal?"

"Colton James."

"Name's Colton James." She listened for a couple of seconds, then replaced the receiver onto the cradle and walked back to the counter. Pointing, she said, "His office is down that hallway. First door on the left."

The woman pressed a button beneath the counter and a buzzer sounded as I rose and walked the way she had pointed. She held the button until I had swung the gate open, then without a further glance backward she returned to her desk and sat down. I released the wooden gate after I passed through and it slammed back into a locked position.

As I sauntered down the hall, I identified and then entered a door marked 'E. Harris.' A middle-aged, thin, slightly balding man sat behind a metal desk that looked older than the two of us put together. It was covered with papers and official-looking documents.

"Ya got two minutes, kid," Harris said brusquely as he continued to shuffle papers on the desk. "What can I do for ya?"

"It's what I can do for you. I specialize in finding people nobody else can locate. It doesn't matter how cold the trail is. I can find anyone, anywhere."

"I already got all the recovery people I need."

"Do they guarantee they can find anybody?"

"Nobody can guarantee that."

"I can."

Mr. Harris stopped shuffling papers and looked up at me. "Define guarantee."

"If they're still alive, I can find any skip within five days."

"And if you can't find them you just say they're dead?"

"No, if I say they're dead, I'll produce incontrovertible evidence of that within thirty days. But it'll cost you an extra grand."

Harris leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar, studying my face in silence for several minutes. Finally, he said, "Alright, I'll give you a chance. If you can deliver one of my skips within five days, I'll start throwing some work your way."

"I don't deliver. I find. You probably have some goons who'd have trouble finding their lunch in a paper bag. I'll provide the directions and they pick up the skip. I get fifty percent of the bounty; they split the rest, unless you make separate arrangements with them. Whatever you do, I still get fifty percent of the recovery fee."

Harris looked at me for several seconds as if trying to figure if I was nuts or on the level. "Okay, pal. We'll see what you can do." Shuffling through some papers on his desk, he pulled a sheet out and read from it. "Scott 'Peewee' Smith, charged with attempted murder, skipped out after he was arraigned. My guys can't find him. Locate him for me before Thursday and you get a grand for your effort."

"Cash?"

Harris nodded. "Cash."

I took out a small notebook and pen, and wrote down the name. "Description?"

Harris read from the paper, "Caucasian male, six foot three, two hundred fifty pounds." Glancing up at me, he added, "If you put on twenty pounds, you could pass for his brother."

"I'm only six two and two ten. Arraignment date, time, and court?"

"January twelfth, ten-thirty a.m., at the Criminal Court Building on Broadway."

"Who do I call when I find him?"

"Call here."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later today."

"Yeah, right," he said with a chuckle.

"You got someone who can pick him up tonight if he's still in Manhattan?"

"Sure," Harris said chuckling, "but you're not going to find him by tonight."

"I'll talk to you later, Mr. Harris. Be ready to pick up your skip."

I stood up and left the office. Harris just sat there, grinning like a fool and shaking his head.

I visited five more bail bondsmen but failed to get any other assignments, so I headed home to work on the deal I'd landed. It only took me an hour to find the right courtroom and tag Smith. Advancing the time to the present, I learned that Smith was hiding out in Brooklyn, watching a video replay of a New York Jets football game. I wrote down the address and called the bail bond office.

"Mr. Harris? Colton James. I have a location for you."

"What? Already?"

"Yes. Do you have your people ready?"

"Not yet. You're absolutely sure you've found Smith?"

"Yes."

"You're ah, a bit faster than I expected."

"How soon do you think they'll be ready?"

"How many will I need?"

"Smith is alone right now. I haven't had time to find out if he has any support, but it doesn't look like it. I'd say at least three. Four would be better."

"It'll take me a couple of hours to get four men here."

"Have them assemble in Brooklyn at the corners of Dumont and Rockaway. When they're ready, I'll give them the address and stay on the line while they move in. Give them the cell phone number I gave you."

"You'll be there?"

"I'll be watching and direct the capture, but I won't otherwise participate or even reveal my location."

"Uh, you're absolutely sure you found the right guy?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay. My guy will call when they're set."

It was almost four hours before I got the call-back. It was after six and would be getting dark soon.

"This is Vinny. Is this Mr. James?"

"Yeah. Call me Colt, Vinny. Are you ready to move in?"

"We're set."

"How many are you?"

"Four."

"Okay. The skip is watching television on the second floor of a three-family house on Pacific off Rockaway. There's no exit up there except the fire escape in the front or through the roof hatch, and it's a two-story drop to the back yard. The buildings are all attached so it'll be tough getting to him if he dogs out the back. I'll watch him and let you know where he goes. Call me as soon as you're ready to move in and I'll give you an update."

"Where are you, Colt?"

"Not too far away, but I can only help with the spotting."

I gave him directions to the house and then sat down to watch events play out.

My cell phone rang when Vinny was ready. I told him the skip was still watching television on the second floor, unaware of what was about to take place. Vinny was wearing a Bluetooth headset phone and would be in constant contact.

As the four enforcement agents busted in the downstairs door, Smith leapt up from the sofa.

"Smith is up," I said into the phone. "He's got a double-barrel break-action shotgun aimed at the door of the apartment." I wished I had a second device so I could see what was going on in the hallway. Rather than moving the image, I continued to watch Smith.

"We're on the second floor," Vinny said. "Is he still here?"

"Yes. Be careful. He's still pointing the shotgun at the apartment door." I moved the event window quickly to the hallway.

The situation was tense as Vinny stood to one side and banged on the door with a broom handle, calling for Smith to come out. I could hear because of the cell phone connection. It was a standoff. The enforcement agents didn't want to move in and get shot, and Smith didn't appear predisposed to surrendering. The situation changed quickly when Vinny used the broom handle to shake the doorknob. Believing someone was standing in front of the door, Smith fired both barrels, blowing a large hole in the center of the door and shattering the broom handle.

I quickly moved the window back into the room. "He's empty," I said, "but he's trying to reload."

As soon as they knew the gun was temporarily empty, one of the enforcement men kicked in the door. Smith dropped the shells he had been fumbling to get into the barrels and swung the shotgun at the head of the nearest man. He missed as the enforcement agent ducked, and he didn't get another try. The four men were on him in a second. After a short struggle, Smith was down and handcuffed.

With the excitement over, Vinny said into the headset, "Colt?"

"Yeah Vinny, I'm here. Good work."

"Thanks for the information about the shotgun. Where are you watching from?"

"I'm not too far away. Glad I could help. Good job, Vinny. Tell Mr. Harris I'll be down to see him tomorrow."

"Will do, Colt. Thanks again."

I turned off the cell phone. As Vinny and his men dragged Smith down the front stairs outside the house, the police arrived, no doubt in response to a call about the shotgun blast. As curious people began appearing from neighboring homes, Vinny showed the uniformed cop a badge in his wallet and a copy of the paperwork from the court. After the cop filled out a report, the four enforcement agents were permitted to take Smith to the station house and turn him over. As a known flight risk, the court wouldn't be setting bail again.

I had just earned a thousand dollars for a few hours' work. I felt like dancing around my flat.

* * *

I arrived at the bail bond office a little before nine the next morning. The woman at the counter buzzed me through without my having to say anything. I walked to Harris' office, knocked once, and entered.

"Good morning, Mr. Harris."

"Morning, James. I have to admit you surprised me yesterday. How did you find Smith so quickly?"

"Just a matter of knowing where to look and who to pay for information."

"I see. Well, I can't argue with success. Here's your money," Harris said, handing me an envelope.

I opened it and counted the fifties. "It seems to be a bit light. There's only five hundred here."

"That's what we agreed on. Fifty percent for you and fifty for the men I had to send for the pickup."

"My share was supposed to be a thousand."

"No, a thousand was the entire bounty."

"You said, 'Find him before Thursday and you get a grand for your effort.' I expect another five hundred."

"You misunderstood."

I sighed wearily. There was nothing in writing, so it would be my word against that of Harris. "Very well, Mr. Harris," I said as I turned to leave.

"Wait, I have another job for you."

I stopped, turned, and stared at him intently. "I don't work for people who cheat me. I checked the paperwork on Smith. You were out a hundred thousand if I hadn't found him for you. The recovery fee should have been ten thousand, and my share would have been five thousand. I agreed to take the case for a mere thousand solely to acquaint you with my services. Then you want to chisel me out of half that paltry amount. Good day, Mr. Harris."

I was almost to the locked gate in the counter when Harris caught up with me. He'd obviously thought I was only posturing at first.

"Wait, wait. C'mon back a minute, kid."

The office staff stared after us as I allowed Harris to pull me back into his office.

"Okay, here's another five hundred," he said as he produced the money from a cashbox stuffed with bills. "I don't owe it to you, mind you, but I want you to find another skip for me, so I'll pay it."

I counted the proffered bills and added them to the original envelope before re-stuffing it into my pocket. "Who's the next one?" I asked as I took out my small notebook and a pen.

"Desmond Sutton. Male, black, five foot eight, one hundred fifty pounds."

"Arraignment date, time, and court?"

"August second, two p.m., at the Criminal Court Building on Broadway."

"Charge?"

"Possession of narcotics with intent to sell."

"Bail amount?"

Harris hesitated but knew it was public record and could be learned with a simple phone call. "Fifty thousand."

"Very well. I'll find your skip for twenty-five hundred dollars. That's twenty-five hundred to me, regardless of what you pay Vinny and the others."

"Twenty-five hundred? No way. I'll give you a thousand."

"Twenty-five hundred, or I take my services elsewhere. As I said, the first find was only to introduce you to what I can do. I find the ones no one else can find. Don't waste my time, Mr. Harris."

Harris mumbled under his breath. "Okay. Twenty-five hundred."

"I'll call you as soon as I find him."

"The twenty-five hundred is only good if he's still in the city. If he's out of the state, the price drops to a thousand."

"I'll call if he's still in the city."