Stanley Elkin - Searches & Seizures

“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?”

“You never cut the grass. You haven’t got good ties to the community. Next, who’s next here?”

There’s a tall, good-looking white man in his late thirties. Well dressed, he’s the only one in the room not in prison garb. I go up to him. “Sir, it looks to me as if we might have a case of false arrest here. Excuse me, I just want to take a swig of this coffee, I think it’s getting cold…Now. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” He walks abruptly away from me and I follow. “Don’t get sore, that’s just my way of scraping acquaintance. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not talking to this creep,” he tells Poslosky.

“This is the bondsman,” Poslosky says. “If you want to get out you’re going to have to work with him.”

“I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

“Why is this man dressed like this, Lieutenant?”

“Maybe he hasn’t been processed yet, Phoenician.”

“He just came in,” the guard from his cellblock volunteers. “I brought him down to see the bondsman. I’ll get him fixed up as soon as we go back.”

“Like hell,” the chap says. “You’re not getting me in one of those outfits. I haven’t been convicted of anything. I can wear my own clothes.”

“Shut up, bigmouth,” Poslosky says.

“Hold on, Lieutenant,” I say mildly, “he’s right. He knows his law. The law states that a prisoner may wear his own clothes while he’s waiting to be brought to trial.”

“Well, sure,” Poslosky sputters, “but—”

“As long as they’re neat and presentable.”

“I know, but—”

I throw the remainder of my coffee at the guy’s suit. “There,” I say, “now they’re not neat and presentable.”

Poslosky roars with laughter and the guy starts for me. Almost has me, too, but the guards grab him. “All right,” I say, “I think he’s going to be a good sport about this. You can let him go. He won’t touch me. You won’t touch me, will you, Morgan?”

“If you know who I am and still did that, you’re a fool,” Morgan says.

I turn to Poslosky. “That’s it for today, Lieutenant, I think. I’ll get back to you about the golliwogg once the bank releases his dough. They can go back. All but Morgan. I’ll go Morgan’s bail. We’ll work something out so it’s processed immediately.”

“You haven’t asked any questions. You don’t even know what he’s in for.”

“Morgan? Morgan’s all right. Morgan’s a good risk. I know a little something about the case and I give you my assurance he’s bondable.”

“I’m not going with this guy.”

“We can’t keep you once your bail’s been paid.”

“I don’t want it paid.”

“The state has no rights in it,” I tell him quietly. “If you’re bondable, you’re out.”

“I’ll jump bail.” Poslosky looks at me.

“Nah. That’s exuberance talking, the flush of freedom. The guy’s got terrific community ties. Roots like beets. Bring him along, then.” This is a violation of procedure and Poslosky visibly balks. Morgan’s guard stands up against his man like a Siamese twin. Sotto voce I say to Poslosky: “Ontday ooyay ohnay oohay oovyay otgay?”