Stanley Elkin - Searches & Seizures

“ Civilians? That’s the way you talk to a man who’s been in the war against crime all his life? Unlock the fucking door, I’m reviewing the troops.”

Inside, in addition to the guards, there are seven men and four women. I hadn’t expected a crowd, but it’s a poor showing. I rub my hands. “Most bondsmen wouldn’t take this trouble,” I tell them. “What can I say? It’s the way I’m built. Painstaking attention to detail. We try harder.” I recognize no one. Most of them have probably been refused bail already. Others couldn’t find anyone who would put it up for them. They mill about listlessly. Some have come just to get out of their cells. I go up to one. “How’s the grub?”

“I’ve tasted worse.”

“My compliments to the chef. Beat it, I wouldn’t touch you. All right, anybody else like the food here? No? Who’s been refused bail? Come on, come on, don’t waste my time.” I grab a nigger. “Hey, didn’t I already turn you down for bail?”

“No, sir, Cap’n, I never got no hearing.”

“No hearing, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“Must have been pretty bad, what you did, if you didn’t get a hearing. What’d you do, slice up on someone.”

“No, sir.”

“Shoot? Chain whip? Don’t stand there and tell me you used poison. Dropped a little something extra in the soul food?”

“I didn’t do none them things.”

“Well, my bad man, you must have done something pretty awful if you never got a hearing.”

“They say I slep’ with my child.”

“Who says that?”

“My wife. She swore the complaint.”

“And you want to get out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bad?”

“I can taste it.”

“Yeah, taste it, I know what you mean. How old’s your daughter? This is a daughter we’re talking about? They don’t say you buggered your boy?”

“No, sir, my daughter.”

“Well, you look to me to be a young man. What are you — twenty-six, twenty-seven?”

“I be twenty-eight the Fourth of July.”

“Yankee Doodle Dandy. How old’s the kid?”

“She nine, sir.”

“Now you told me you were married. This isn’t some woman you’re living with. You two are legally married?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Ever been divorced? I check all this stuff out. It won’t help you to lie.”

“No, never. My wife and me been married since we both seventeen.”

“So this little girl — what’s the little girl’s name?”

“Ruth.”

“So Ruth is your and your wife’s blood daughter?”

“That’s right.”

“She go to school?”

“ ’Course she go to school. What the hell you talking about?”

“Take it easy, Romeo. What school does she go to, what grade’s she in?”

“O’Keefe School, she in the fourth grade.”

“O’Keefe’s a white school.”

“They buses her.”

“What are her marks?”

“She smart, she get good scores.”

“Ever been to a P.T.A. meeting?”

“Sure I been. Ruth the president of her class.”

“The president of her 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 ‘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.”