I took the baseball cap off of Dave’s head and put it back on with the bill facing backwards. He immediately adjusted the cap back to his preferred position, as he always did. “Dave, you’re a dorky little kid,” I told him with genuine affection, “you need to wear your baseball cap backwards. It’s the law.”
The “little” part was an understatement. Though nearly twelve years old, Dave stood as tall as average fourth grader. I thought that always explained his moments of mousy shyness, but his mother assured me that he was among the most popular kids in his class, which reminded me of how the smallest kids always had their stalwart defenders.
“It looks stupid backwards,” Dave explained to me for the hundredth time as I parked the car. We got out and went inside the Dairy Queen, a small bell pleasantly heralding our arrival. It was a tiny franchise, awash in fluorescent light and splattered with white tiles.
“Get anything your heart desires, Mr. Dave,” I commanded. His eyes went alight when faced with the array of items suggested by the framed posters on the wall, most probably older than he was.
The collection of frozen treats to savor seemed staggering in their variety. Ice cream of flavors ranging from vanilla to peach, ready to be served in both cups and cones, eaten with a spoon or without. Banana splits coated in a variety of delicious chocolate and strawberry toppings. Dishes that contained brownies smothered with ice cream with peanuts sprinkled on top, assuming you weren’t allergic.
Dave and I moved closer to the counter. A couple of minutes had passed, but Dave still stared at the menu. “What’re you thinking of, partner?” I asked. He slowly swiveled his head to the left as if shaking his head “no” in slow motion.
“I don’t know,” he said. But how could he not know? The menu was vast, but contained nothing unappealing to even the most discerning palate! Milk shakes and malts, flavored with vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, raspberry, peach, cherry, pineapple, marshmallow, butterscotch, or caramel. Blizzards with his choice of Butterfinger, M&M’s, Oreo, Peanut Butter, Nerds, Whoppers, Nestle Crunch, Reese’s Pieces, cookie dough, cheesecake, gummy bears, Twix, and about a hundred other things that are absolutely terrible for us.
We got to the front of the line. A 15 year old girl looked to me to take the order, Dave’s small size not alerting her to the fact that he was several years closer to her in age than I was.
“What’ll it be?” I ask him.
“Uhhhhh…” he responds, and I can tell he is no closer to deciding on his treat now than he was when we were in the car. But how? He could order chocolate ice cream frozen on a stick. A bar of ice cream shaped like a star and coated with a green shell. Two cookies sandwiched between a portion of vanilla. An entire chocolate cake made of ice cream. He could even get a cup of ice creamed drenched with cold coffee, the world is his oyster! If ice cream isn’t his cup of tea, then he can order a cup of frozen ice in a cup with artificial flavoring poured into it, or if he finds himself a bit parched, a delicious Coke with a 500% mark-up. What more could a kid ask for?
He finally looked at the girl. “Uhhhh, can I get an Oreo crunch?” The girl looked at me when she spoke.
“We don’t have that.”
I shook my head a bit, just enough not to be a jerk in front of my favorite little cousin. “Can we get a medium Oreo Blizzard?” I stated in the form of a question. She jotted the order down on a pad and got to work. Dave looked way, way up at me.
“I wanted an Oreo crunch,” he said, repeating the name of the phantom treat. I put my hands together and popped my wrists.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like the Oreo Blizzard,” I said.
“What are you getting?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t really care for ice cream,” I confessed as I took off his baseball cap and put it back on his head, the bill reversed.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tony's War
It was cold. Drafty. The men were exhausted after a day’s battle, their muscles burning as they moved and their clothes sticky with sweat and grime. But not Tony. He sat in the red foldout chair, a can of Steel Reserve clutched in his hand, staring through the comrades before him as if they weren’t there. Tony’s foot knocked over a pyramid of empty Steel Reserve cans when he placed his foot on top of his sword, feeling it’s foam casing give underneath his sandals, the action lacking conscious direction, as if conducted by an outside observer granted temporary control over a piece of the landscape.
He finished the last of the Steel Reserve and tossed the can over his shoulder without looking, oblivious and unconcerned about the bespectacled 16-year-old girl looking ridiculous in an elf outfit that it struck in the head, her yelp being of no consequence to Tony, who only pawed at air on the ground next to the chair. The remaining Steel Reserve was in a cooler over by an old oak tree, twenty feet away.
“Hey, BJ, get me another Steel Reserve,” Tony called out to the high-schooler next to the cooler, one of the unit’s newest recruits. The kid looked up, irritated.
“It’s JB,” he said.
“BJ, JB, DS, IRS, get me another fucking beer, now,” Tony said, not looking at JB, but straight ahead, his words fielded in an arc so that everyone could hear. JB’s eye winced in an unfriendly way, his mannerism coated in contempt.
“I’ve been fighting all day. You get it.”
Tony closed the distance from the chair to JB seemingly within an instant, his hands clutching the diminutive high school sophomore’s throat and ramming the boy’s head into the hard plastic top of the beer cooler. JB’s nose was overwhelmed with bourbon and cheap beer before the remainder of his senses could catch on.
“Let me tell you something about war sonny gem!” Tony thundered into the boy’s face, spittle pouring from his mouth. “I was recruited into the 32nd Hell Hammers while you were still finger-painting at Hansen. I was one of the only survivors of my unit at the Battle of Lucky Peak in ’01. I slew seven enemy archers and relieved pressure on our flanks at the University of Southern Illinois in 03’. I was at the forefront of Bluebeard the Wicked’s charge at the Battle of Ulrich Park in 05’. When our commander was struck down, I took control and personally led the defense at the Battle of Black Hawk in 06’. I’ve killed over two hundred men and crippled hundreds more. So don’t you tell me about war, sonny gem! Now when the pain stops, open the cooler and bring me a fucking beer!”
Tony’s knee bolted into the boy’s crotch. JB saw clouds of black and white as his legs gave out and Tony’s hands released, dropping him to the ground. He choked and hacked and didn’t notice as Tony walked away and took his seat in the red foldout chair, once again staring forward as if through one dimension and into another, a plane of existence containing something deserving of his precious attention.
He finished the last of the Steel Reserve and tossed the can over his shoulder without looking, oblivious and unconcerned about the bespectacled 16-year-old girl looking ridiculous in an elf outfit that it struck in the head, her yelp being of no consequence to Tony, who only pawed at air on the ground next to the chair. The remaining Steel Reserve was in a cooler over by an old oak tree, twenty feet away.
“Hey, BJ, get me another Steel Reserve,” Tony called out to the high-schooler next to the cooler, one of the unit’s newest recruits. The kid looked up, irritated.
“It’s JB,” he said.
“BJ, JB, DS, IRS, get me another fucking beer, now,” Tony said, not looking at JB, but straight ahead, his words fielded in an arc so that everyone could hear. JB’s eye winced in an unfriendly way, his mannerism coated in contempt.
“I’ve been fighting all day. You get it.”
Tony closed the distance from the chair to JB seemingly within an instant, his hands clutching the diminutive high school sophomore’s throat and ramming the boy’s head into the hard plastic top of the beer cooler. JB’s nose was overwhelmed with bourbon and cheap beer before the remainder of his senses could catch on.
“Let me tell you something about war sonny gem!” Tony thundered into the boy’s face, spittle pouring from his mouth. “I was recruited into the 32nd Hell Hammers while you were still finger-painting at Hansen. I was one of the only survivors of my unit at the Battle of Lucky Peak in ’01. I slew seven enemy archers and relieved pressure on our flanks at the University of Southern Illinois in 03’. I was at the forefront of Bluebeard the Wicked’s charge at the Battle of Ulrich Park in 05’. When our commander was struck down, I took control and personally led the defense at the Battle of Black Hawk in 06’. I’ve killed over two hundred men and crippled hundreds more. So don’t you tell me about war, sonny gem! Now when the pain stops, open the cooler and bring me a fucking beer!”
Tony’s knee bolted into the boy’s crotch. JB saw clouds of black and white as his legs gave out and Tony’s hands released, dropping him to the ground. He choked and hacked and didn’t notice as Tony walked away and took his seat in the red foldout chair, once again staring forward as if through one dimension and into another, a plane of existence containing something deserving of his precious attention.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
My Word Is My Bond
I parked in front and glanced out the window. The brick house was old and the yard had been neglected, with dead plants and second hand children’s toys scattered at intermittent places. A small Indian boy quietly sat on a tire swing that hung from an old Magnolia tree, whose shade provided the sole bastion of relief from the vicious rays of the afternoon sun.
I got out and walked with a slight limp on my left leg up through the path, squinting through the sun’s glare, the boy staring at me wordlessly. A short Indian man answered the door long after my gentle knock, his face showing the xenophobic look you learn to expect as a stranger showing up uninvited on people’s property. I smiled widely.
“Hello, I’m Marty Wilson. How are you today, sir?” I said, softening my tone to emphasize the central Mississippi accent. In lieu of words, the Indian nodded almost imperceptibly. “Is Lullabelle home today?” I asked. The Indian continued to glare, and showed no signs of recognition.
“Lullabelle? No Lullabelle,” he said, his voice deep as if spiraling down the chasm of his throat.
“There’s no Lullabelle here?” I asked, sounding a bit embarrassed. He shook his head, slightly. My $200 suit was beginning to get heavy with sweat.
“No Lullabelle,” the Indian said. I nodded.
“Well, I’m really sorry to bother you.”
The Indian started to shut his door, but I continued.
“It’s too bad that Lullabelle isn’t here. Could you do me a favor?” I asked. He didn’t respond. I reached into my pocket and removed a white envelope. “See, I have a check for Lullabelle for $8,000.”
The Indian’s eyes twitched in a way that I may have imagined as to extract a reaction from my words, but was real to me nonetheless. His posture lost some rigidity, as if a small amount of muscle mass had suddenly evaporated from his back and knees.
“$8,000?” He asked. I nodded and clutched the envelope to my chest.
“Yes sir. An old uncle of hers just passed and he had some money set aside in the will for Lullabelle.” I waited just an instant, allowing him to process the words. “Say, if it wasn’t too much trouble for you, sir, I’d be grateful if you could keep your eyes open for Lullabelle and let her know I have a check for her. Here’s my phone number if you need it.”
I handed him a small slip of paper with my cell written in black pen. I noticed his eyes follow the envelope as I slipped it back into my pocket.
“Thank you very much. Have a nice day,” I said, turning around and limping back to the car. The heat of the sun draped itself across my back, and I felt as if the Indian’s eyes cast a greedy energy that only flared when no one could see it. The boy continued to swing.
I started my car and drove around the neighborhood. The air conditioner hummed cool air into my face as I sipped a cold Diet Dr. Pepper. Not ten minutes went by before my cell rang. I brushed the moisture from the soda can off my hand before I answered.
“You have check?” Lullabelle asked, predictably foregoing any pretense of politeness. Questions such as who I was or which of her uncles had died were made into moot points at the promise of an $8,000 check.
I drove back to the house, the child in front off the tire swing and focused on soaking an anthill with a plastic water gun that was half his size. As I parked and stepped out of the car, Lullabelle came outside. She was wearing blue jeans and a Sea World T-shirt with a giant Shamu, her charcoal hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. Her features were rigid, and a string of black bruises was visible up her left arm before disappearing up the shirtsleeve, resembling a swirl of black tornadoes on a weather map.
I took the envelope in my right hand and kept my left in my pocket. I limped to the other side of the car as she approached, eagerly, as if waiting for this stroke of luck for her entire life.
“Lullabelle?” I asked. She nodded impatiently.
“You have check?” She asked with the voice of someone who could understand English very well but had never bothered much with the speaking part.
“Why, yes ma’am. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I smiled and extended the envelope to her. She reached out to take it and with my left hand I snapped the handcuffs around her wrist. I had planned to take advantage of a one second shock that normally hits the skip, but Lullabelle reacted immediately, attempting to lunge backwards with adrenaline fueled force and screeching into the air as if her nails were being torn apart with pliers. I moved quickly, surging forward and twisting her arm backwards, pushing her roughly to my car. The mild but sharp impact made her left arm’s violently random movement come to a halt, allowing me to cuff the other arm. I kept her pinned and popped open the rear passenger door with my free hand and pushed her inside.
She screeched at me in her native tongue and repeatedly slammed her feet into the back seat, as if throwing a big enough tantrum would make me reconsider and set her free. I shut the door and moved to the driver’s side as the Indian man stepped outside and started jogging towards the car, cursing angrily in Choctaw. I started the engine and drove off amidst the intersecting demands and threats of Lullabelle and the man, the child in the lawn observing the scene with muted, confused horror on his face.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
I am 55 years old, and have been a bail bondsman based out of Louisville, Mississippi, for the past five years. I own my own business, Drummond Bail Bonds, and run it with the Bill Watts, an old friend from the Jackson police force, and Katie, his 20 year old daughter, who never leaves the office. Cases like Lullabelle Bailey’s, who skipped court two months ago on a second degree theft charge that stemmed from her stealing an acquaintances pistol for drug money, are the frequent ones that come across my desk.
Many of my colleagues consider their skips to be stupid people, burdened by genetic deficiencies in intelligence and looks that cripple their chances for success long before they are even born. I used to share this outlook, though the past few years have convinced me that this is untrue. The men and women that I pursue are crippled before birth, but it has nothing to do with intelligence or looks. Their brainpower can make itself clear through surprising streaks of cunning and insight, and though most are too heavy or not heavy enough, I have seen enough beautiful people to know that their appearance has as much to do with their positions in society as it does their parent’s DNA.
The people I pursue wind up where they are because of forces they cannot control, but others can. 75% are minors, and out of several hundred skips I have only brought in people that are not from the Deep South less than ten times. Their parents are often single and poor, and live in areas that would be standard in many nations but are pathetic in the modern United States. Schools are effectively useless after teaching the basics of language and numbers, burdened with lack of funds and an abundance of educators who received their degrees from diploma mills that are the academic equivalent of acquiring your teaching license off a box of Cracker Jacks. The collective force of media, from movies to television to music to the news, treats them with condescension and disrespect, labeling them as people that need handouts, only worthy of jobs where the pinnacle of career advancement is shift manager at a Sonic drive-in. Their lives are strings of devastating setbacks and defeats, where the only victories are minor and consist of sex, narcotic highs, creature comforts, and escaping from men like me who profit off of their misfortune.
Bounty hunters have many methods. I once dated a woman who was only five feet tall, all of 100 pounds, who would find her skip and rush at them, massive .44 revolver in her hand, screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs, neutralizing her target by a bizarre mixture of intimidation and surreal confusion.
Many bondsmen dress themselves up in body armor, and carry fierce weapons such as SPAS-12 shotguns and AR-15 rifles, and launch colorful frontal assaults in groups, storming houses where a skip who could hardly harm a fly lay hiding under a child’s bed. This can be an effective technique, but it is one I look upon with bitter distaste, the militaristic and careless attitudes they display serving primarily to feed their own hungry egos by terrorizing people who already have enough to worry about.
When I pursue a skip, I do so with what I would like to consider a much quieter, humane approach, although one that admittedly leaves the skip feeling humiliated, doting over their mistakes afterward. Many skips are not much of a problem, are easy to find, and come along willingly, almost apologetically, upon capture. They are people who simply forgot their court date out of carelessness, or figure that their free time would be better spent not running away.
The trouble comes when people decide to test their hand at avoiding the inevitable, like the sort of man who travels the world in search of an ancient, tribal cure for cancer. They may miss court at will, or because they forgot, or a hangover, or a family emergency, but their explanations are moot. They will hide at friend’s houses, sleep in cars, occasionally jump several states, but in the end, I always win. All humans have weaknesses, such as a fondness for drugs, an old girlfriend, Chinese food, prostitutes, Atlanta Braves baseball, it doesn’t matter what, as long as it helps me find them.
I research each skip, find out height, weight, color, Social Security number, phone numbers, addresses, license plate numbers, family members, friends, accomplices, preferences, character traits, arrest records, medical history, and so on. I interview people, bribe family and friends, make dozens of phone calls, and spend endless hours waiting.
People often ask me if I fear for my safety, and for the most part, the answer is no. I rarely track violent felons, as the amount of bail increases substantially if the defendant caused physical harm to another. When most skips are caught, they surrender immediately, their primary comfort being that the cruel hand of time eventually catches up to all. Even the few who choose to resist limit their attempts to running or squirming.
The closest I have come to being killed occurred two years ago. I had slipped a $20 bill to the skip’s best friend, who in turn gave me an address. The charge was a simple DUI, and by my estimation I had nothing to fear. When I approached Ben Curtis, the skip, at his 2nd cousin’s home, he drew a .357 revolver, pointed it in my face, and demanded I make myself scarce and never return. I did not for one second believe that the man seriously intended to kill me, though the harsh shaking that surged through his body was cause enough for me to worry about an accidental discharge. I took a deep breath, seated myself on the couch, and calmly began glancing through a People magazine that was so old Tom and Nicole were still happily married. Ben was insistent that I leave, but I shrugged my shoulders and feigned a lack of concern. With each use of the word ‘fuck’ the fury withered, until he finally threw the pistol into a recliner and let me take him away.
Do I enjoy my career? Not usually, though like many men and their professions, it has become as integral to my persona as any other element. I am good at what I do, and need my place in the world. After I retired from the Jackson police department, I spent a few miserable months running my uncle’s bait shop. Nearly every night I found myself staying up late, watching TV, drinking Johnny Walker and Coke, nothing occurring that ever struck me as exciting or relevant. It was only after several long discussions with bail bondsman who I knew and respected that I decided to try my hand at the field, and I have yet to look back.
Perhaps one day I shall tire of the often morbid and depressing space I inhabit, and a job at the bait shop will be a sweet reward after years of relentlessly profiting off those who inevitably launch me through guilt trips that spiral through my brain, leaving me with echoes that seem to start softly and become perpetually louder. Or maybe I will only quit when I become too old to continue, and the memories of my experiences will punctuate the fractured landscape of my mind for the remainder of my days.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
I was about to stop at Doug’s to buy a catfish dinner when the cell rang. Bill Watts, my friend and partner, told me that Leroy Jackson, a skip who was running on a cocaine charge, had been spotted.
The building he was in could hardly be described as more than a shack. The wood was ancient and rotting in several areas, and inside I could see the glow of a fire. The shack was a known hang out for Leroy and his friends, and was one of those rare spots in the contemporary South that, if photographed properly, could appear to be located in the third world.
I removed my .45 Glock from the glove compartment and pulled back the receiver, sliding a round into the chamber. I placed it in my rear jeans pocket, believing little need for it but erring on the side of caution nonetheless. The space was painfully small, and if Leroy or any of his friends were doing the wrong kind of drug, aggression could flare quickly and with little warning.
The sky was the sort of gray you felt you could reach out and touch the way you could place your hand in wet cement, the humidity seemingly expanded by the millions of mosquitoes the way placing ice cubes in a glass of water displaces the liquid. In the distance, I could hear the frustrated barking of a large dog.
I opened the shack’s door and stepped inside. Six black men sat around a fire, drinking Budweiser and eating fish off paper plates. Their chatter stopped immediately upon my entry, the sight of an old white man in jeans and Hawaiian shirt invading their space all his lonesome must have understandably appeared dizzyingly bizarre. The floor was made of dirt, and I could smell reefer along with cooking fish.
“Any of you Leroy?” I asked. The man closest to me motioned to the next room, the only other one in the shack.
“He in there, cookin’ fish,” the man said.
“Hey Leroy! Come out here!” I yelled loud enough so that he could hear. A few awkward seconds passed before Leroy stumbled out of the room. He was about 30, thin, with veins that prominently popped out from beneath his dark skin. Leroy shot me an incredulous look.
“Who you?” he asked impatiently. I reached into my pants pocket and removed his arrest warrant.
“I’m Marty Drummond, and I’m here to bring you back to court,” I said. An observer standing outside of the shack would likely have been reminded of circus clowns stumbling out of a tiny car, as Leroy’s friends dropped everything to evacuate the shack as rapidly as possible. Leroy shook his head and looked at the floor, twisting his shoe in the dirt.
“Shit, man,” he said, turning and glumly walking back into the other room. I followed him quickly, not allowing him much space. Inside the other room was a small grill over another fire, with an ice chest full of Budweiser and fish. He plopped down at the grill, which was searing two fish patties. “Can I have a cold beer before I go?” Leroy asked. I nodded and realized how hungry I was.
“Sure Leroy, if you’ll let me have a couple of your fish patties.” I sat next to him and he put the patties on a paper plate, handing it to me with a plastic fork. He snapped open a beer and took a long pull, the prospect of it being the last for a while imbuing it with special importance.
“How you find me, man?” He asked, his voice laced not with malice, but curiosity. I took a bite of the fish, which wasn’t the worst I ever had. “People talk. It doesn’t matter who, Leroy. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know.”
This was a lie, as I knew his uncle had divulged the information for a $50 bill, but betraying the confidence of your sources is a fatal way to conduct business. Leroy seemed to accept the explanation, and took another swig. I had another bite of fish. “I wish you guys would just learn to go to court,” I remarked, almost thoughtlessly, as if some nerve in my brain had directed my thoughts directly to my mouth.
“I reckon you be out of a job, den,” Leroy said with a smirk. I finished my fish and shrugged. He took another long drink of beer, draining the can. He dropped it to the floor, landing with a faint metal clank amongst a pile of similarly discarded cans. I sat my paper plate down.
“Ready to go Leroy?”
He stared at the floor as if it were a 3-D puzzle that he could unlock. “Mind if I take another beer? It’ll be a long time.” I looked at him, defeated and hopeless, and found it impossible to say no.
“Go ahead, Leroy.” He grabbed another beer from the cooler and offered it to me first, though I declined with a slight shake of the head. Against the wall the flames of the fire made our shadows dance chaotically while I watched, and Leroy finished another beer.
I got out and walked with a slight limp on my left leg up through the path, squinting through the sun’s glare, the boy staring at me wordlessly. A short Indian man answered the door long after my gentle knock, his face showing the xenophobic look you learn to expect as a stranger showing up uninvited on people’s property. I smiled widely.
“Hello, I’m Marty Wilson. How are you today, sir?” I said, softening my tone to emphasize the central Mississippi accent. In lieu of words, the Indian nodded almost imperceptibly. “Is Lullabelle home today?” I asked. The Indian continued to glare, and showed no signs of recognition.
“Lullabelle? No Lullabelle,” he said, his voice deep as if spiraling down the chasm of his throat.
“There’s no Lullabelle here?” I asked, sounding a bit embarrassed. He shook his head, slightly. My $200 suit was beginning to get heavy with sweat.
“No Lullabelle,” the Indian said. I nodded.
“Well, I’m really sorry to bother you.”
The Indian started to shut his door, but I continued.
“It’s too bad that Lullabelle isn’t here. Could you do me a favor?” I asked. He didn’t respond. I reached into my pocket and removed a white envelope. “See, I have a check for Lullabelle for $8,000.”
The Indian’s eyes twitched in a way that I may have imagined as to extract a reaction from my words, but was real to me nonetheless. His posture lost some rigidity, as if a small amount of muscle mass had suddenly evaporated from his back and knees.
“$8,000?” He asked. I nodded and clutched the envelope to my chest.
“Yes sir. An old uncle of hers just passed and he had some money set aside in the will for Lullabelle.” I waited just an instant, allowing him to process the words. “Say, if it wasn’t too much trouble for you, sir, I’d be grateful if you could keep your eyes open for Lullabelle and let her know I have a check for her. Here’s my phone number if you need it.”
I handed him a small slip of paper with my cell written in black pen. I noticed his eyes follow the envelope as I slipped it back into my pocket.
“Thank you very much. Have a nice day,” I said, turning around and limping back to the car. The heat of the sun draped itself across my back, and I felt as if the Indian’s eyes cast a greedy energy that only flared when no one could see it. The boy continued to swing.
I started my car and drove around the neighborhood. The air conditioner hummed cool air into my face as I sipped a cold Diet Dr. Pepper. Not ten minutes went by before my cell rang. I brushed the moisture from the soda can off my hand before I answered.
“You have check?” Lullabelle asked, predictably foregoing any pretense of politeness. Questions such as who I was or which of her uncles had died were made into moot points at the promise of an $8,000 check.
I drove back to the house, the child in front off the tire swing and focused on soaking an anthill with a plastic water gun that was half his size. As I parked and stepped out of the car, Lullabelle came outside. She was wearing blue jeans and a Sea World T-shirt with a giant Shamu, her charcoal hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. Her features were rigid, and a string of black bruises was visible up her left arm before disappearing up the shirtsleeve, resembling a swirl of black tornadoes on a weather map.
I took the envelope in my right hand and kept my left in my pocket. I limped to the other side of the car as she approached, eagerly, as if waiting for this stroke of luck for her entire life.
“Lullabelle?” I asked. She nodded impatiently.
“You have check?” She asked with the voice of someone who could understand English very well but had never bothered much with the speaking part.
“Why, yes ma’am. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I smiled and extended the envelope to her. She reached out to take it and with my left hand I snapped the handcuffs around her wrist. I had planned to take advantage of a one second shock that normally hits the skip, but Lullabelle reacted immediately, attempting to lunge backwards with adrenaline fueled force and screeching into the air as if her nails were being torn apart with pliers. I moved quickly, surging forward and twisting her arm backwards, pushing her roughly to my car. The mild but sharp impact made her left arm’s violently random movement come to a halt, allowing me to cuff the other arm. I kept her pinned and popped open the rear passenger door with my free hand and pushed her inside.
She screeched at me in her native tongue and repeatedly slammed her feet into the back seat, as if throwing a big enough tantrum would make me reconsider and set her free. I shut the door and moved to the driver’s side as the Indian man stepped outside and started jogging towards the car, cursing angrily in Choctaw. I started the engine and drove off amidst the intersecting demands and threats of Lullabelle and the man, the child in the lawn observing the scene with muted, confused horror on his face.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
I am 55 years old, and have been a bail bondsman based out of Louisville, Mississippi, for the past five years. I own my own business, Drummond Bail Bonds, and run it with the Bill Watts, an old friend from the Jackson police force, and Katie, his 20 year old daughter, who never leaves the office. Cases like Lullabelle Bailey’s, who skipped court two months ago on a second degree theft charge that stemmed from her stealing an acquaintances pistol for drug money, are the frequent ones that come across my desk.
Many of my colleagues consider their skips to be stupid people, burdened by genetic deficiencies in intelligence and looks that cripple their chances for success long before they are even born. I used to share this outlook, though the past few years have convinced me that this is untrue. The men and women that I pursue are crippled before birth, but it has nothing to do with intelligence or looks. Their brainpower can make itself clear through surprising streaks of cunning and insight, and though most are too heavy or not heavy enough, I have seen enough beautiful people to know that their appearance has as much to do with their positions in society as it does their parent’s DNA.
The people I pursue wind up where they are because of forces they cannot control, but others can. 75% are minors, and out of several hundred skips I have only brought in people that are not from the Deep South less than ten times. Their parents are often single and poor, and live in areas that would be standard in many nations but are pathetic in the modern United States. Schools are effectively useless after teaching the basics of language and numbers, burdened with lack of funds and an abundance of educators who received their degrees from diploma mills that are the academic equivalent of acquiring your teaching license off a box of Cracker Jacks. The collective force of media, from movies to television to music to the news, treats them with condescension and disrespect, labeling them as people that need handouts, only worthy of jobs where the pinnacle of career advancement is shift manager at a Sonic drive-in. Their lives are strings of devastating setbacks and defeats, where the only victories are minor and consist of sex, narcotic highs, creature comforts, and escaping from men like me who profit off of their misfortune.
Bounty hunters have many methods. I once dated a woman who was only five feet tall, all of 100 pounds, who would find her skip and rush at them, massive .44 revolver in her hand, screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs, neutralizing her target by a bizarre mixture of intimidation and surreal confusion.
Many bondsmen dress themselves up in body armor, and carry fierce weapons such as SPAS-12 shotguns and AR-15 rifles, and launch colorful frontal assaults in groups, storming houses where a skip who could hardly harm a fly lay hiding under a child’s bed. This can be an effective technique, but it is one I look upon with bitter distaste, the militaristic and careless attitudes they display serving primarily to feed their own hungry egos by terrorizing people who already have enough to worry about.
When I pursue a skip, I do so with what I would like to consider a much quieter, humane approach, although one that admittedly leaves the skip feeling humiliated, doting over their mistakes afterward. Many skips are not much of a problem, are easy to find, and come along willingly, almost apologetically, upon capture. They are people who simply forgot their court date out of carelessness, or figure that their free time would be better spent not running away.
The trouble comes when people decide to test their hand at avoiding the inevitable, like the sort of man who travels the world in search of an ancient, tribal cure for cancer. They may miss court at will, or because they forgot, or a hangover, or a family emergency, but their explanations are moot. They will hide at friend’s houses, sleep in cars, occasionally jump several states, but in the end, I always win. All humans have weaknesses, such as a fondness for drugs, an old girlfriend, Chinese food, prostitutes, Atlanta Braves baseball, it doesn’t matter what, as long as it helps me find them.
I research each skip, find out height, weight, color, Social Security number, phone numbers, addresses, license plate numbers, family members, friends, accomplices, preferences, character traits, arrest records, medical history, and so on. I interview people, bribe family and friends, make dozens of phone calls, and spend endless hours waiting.
People often ask me if I fear for my safety, and for the most part, the answer is no. I rarely track violent felons, as the amount of bail increases substantially if the defendant caused physical harm to another. When most skips are caught, they surrender immediately, their primary comfort being that the cruel hand of time eventually catches up to all. Even the few who choose to resist limit their attempts to running or squirming.
The closest I have come to being killed occurred two years ago. I had slipped a $20 bill to the skip’s best friend, who in turn gave me an address. The charge was a simple DUI, and by my estimation I had nothing to fear. When I approached Ben Curtis, the skip, at his 2nd cousin’s home, he drew a .357 revolver, pointed it in my face, and demanded I make myself scarce and never return. I did not for one second believe that the man seriously intended to kill me, though the harsh shaking that surged through his body was cause enough for me to worry about an accidental discharge. I took a deep breath, seated myself on the couch, and calmly began glancing through a People magazine that was so old Tom and Nicole were still happily married. Ben was insistent that I leave, but I shrugged my shoulders and feigned a lack of concern. With each use of the word ‘fuck’ the fury withered, until he finally threw the pistol into a recliner and let me take him away.
Do I enjoy my career? Not usually, though like many men and their professions, it has become as integral to my persona as any other element. I am good at what I do, and need my place in the world. After I retired from the Jackson police department, I spent a few miserable months running my uncle’s bait shop. Nearly every night I found myself staying up late, watching TV, drinking Johnny Walker and Coke, nothing occurring that ever struck me as exciting or relevant. It was only after several long discussions with bail bondsman who I knew and respected that I decided to try my hand at the field, and I have yet to look back.
Perhaps one day I shall tire of the often morbid and depressing space I inhabit, and a job at the bait shop will be a sweet reward after years of relentlessly profiting off those who inevitably launch me through guilt trips that spiral through my brain, leaving me with echoes that seem to start softly and become perpetually louder. Or maybe I will only quit when I become too old to continue, and the memories of my experiences will punctuate the fractured landscape of my mind for the remainder of my days.
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I was about to stop at Doug’s to buy a catfish dinner when the cell rang. Bill Watts, my friend and partner, told me that Leroy Jackson, a skip who was running on a cocaine charge, had been spotted.
The building he was in could hardly be described as more than a shack. The wood was ancient and rotting in several areas, and inside I could see the glow of a fire. The shack was a known hang out for Leroy and his friends, and was one of those rare spots in the contemporary South that, if photographed properly, could appear to be located in the third world.
I removed my .45 Glock from the glove compartment and pulled back the receiver, sliding a round into the chamber. I placed it in my rear jeans pocket, believing little need for it but erring on the side of caution nonetheless. The space was painfully small, and if Leroy or any of his friends were doing the wrong kind of drug, aggression could flare quickly and with little warning.
The sky was the sort of gray you felt you could reach out and touch the way you could place your hand in wet cement, the humidity seemingly expanded by the millions of mosquitoes the way placing ice cubes in a glass of water displaces the liquid. In the distance, I could hear the frustrated barking of a large dog.
I opened the shack’s door and stepped inside. Six black men sat around a fire, drinking Budweiser and eating fish off paper plates. Their chatter stopped immediately upon my entry, the sight of an old white man in jeans and Hawaiian shirt invading their space all his lonesome must have understandably appeared dizzyingly bizarre. The floor was made of dirt, and I could smell reefer along with cooking fish.
“Any of you Leroy?” I asked. The man closest to me motioned to the next room, the only other one in the shack.
“He in there, cookin’ fish,” the man said.
“Hey Leroy! Come out here!” I yelled loud enough so that he could hear. A few awkward seconds passed before Leroy stumbled out of the room. He was about 30, thin, with veins that prominently popped out from beneath his dark skin. Leroy shot me an incredulous look.
“Who you?” he asked impatiently. I reached into my pants pocket and removed his arrest warrant.
“I’m Marty Drummond, and I’m here to bring you back to court,” I said. An observer standing outside of the shack would likely have been reminded of circus clowns stumbling out of a tiny car, as Leroy’s friends dropped everything to evacuate the shack as rapidly as possible. Leroy shook his head and looked at the floor, twisting his shoe in the dirt.
“Shit, man,” he said, turning and glumly walking back into the other room. I followed him quickly, not allowing him much space. Inside the other room was a small grill over another fire, with an ice chest full of Budweiser and fish. He plopped down at the grill, which was searing two fish patties. “Can I have a cold beer before I go?” Leroy asked. I nodded and realized how hungry I was.
“Sure Leroy, if you’ll let me have a couple of your fish patties.” I sat next to him and he put the patties on a paper plate, handing it to me with a plastic fork. He snapped open a beer and took a long pull, the prospect of it being the last for a while imbuing it with special importance.
“How you find me, man?” He asked, his voice laced not with malice, but curiosity. I took a bite of the fish, which wasn’t the worst I ever had. “People talk. It doesn’t matter who, Leroy. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know.”
This was a lie, as I knew his uncle had divulged the information for a $50 bill, but betraying the confidence of your sources is a fatal way to conduct business. Leroy seemed to accept the explanation, and took another swig. I had another bite of fish. “I wish you guys would just learn to go to court,” I remarked, almost thoughtlessly, as if some nerve in my brain had directed my thoughts directly to my mouth.
“I reckon you be out of a job, den,” Leroy said with a smirk. I finished my fish and shrugged. He took another long drink of beer, draining the can. He dropped it to the floor, landing with a faint metal clank amongst a pile of similarly discarded cans. I sat my paper plate down.
“Ready to go Leroy?”
He stared at the floor as if it were a 3-D puzzle that he could unlock. “Mind if I take another beer? It’ll be a long time.” I looked at him, defeated and hopeless, and found it impossible to say no.
“Go ahead, Leroy.” He grabbed another beer from the cooler and offered it to me first, though I declined with a slight shake of the head. Against the wall the flames of the fire made our shadows dance chaotically while I watched, and Leroy finished another beer.
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