by Carey Lewis
Ever since he called Harvey, he knew he’d have to explain some things, but didn’t want to explain them all. “I’m protected by some sort of privilege right?”
“Yeah, totally. Realtor/ client privilege. Are you fucking with me Deke, thinking that’s a thing?”
“The house we just did here? There’s a guy tells them he’s with the show and the family’s got to get out while they repair it. So he’s charging the family for repairs he’s not going to do.”
“So tell the family the guy’s full of shit.”
Deacon shook his head.
Harvey took a breath, steadying himself. “What’s he using the house for?”
“They got a bunker there where the guy built the house died. It’s why they thought it was haunted. The guy’s using the bunker for something he shouldn’t be using it for.”
“I love it when you touch me with kid gloves. If it’s illegal, call the cops. Tell the family to call the cops if you don’t want the house.”
“No cops.”
“So you want to show this guy doing something he shouldn’t be doing a deed saying you own it so you can kick him off. Why can’t you just go to the family and tell them to tell this guy to fuck off? You want to go the way you got in your head, get them to sign a fake contract saying you own it.”
“What’s to stop them calling the cops?”
“Shit Deke, what’s stopping you?”
“That’s the question I don’t want to answer.”
“You can’t just sign their name huh?”
“They need to know what’s happening if the bad guy phones them. They got to think it’s legit.”
Harvey finished his second fish taco and wiped his hands on the napkin, putting it on the plate. Now he put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You get them to sign a contract then don’t file it. Not sure how much this family knows if they’re getting swindled the way they are without going some place to find it legitimate. So you don’t file it, that way you don’t have to worry about the money. They start asking, tell them it’s in escrow. But it sounds like the problem you’re having is convincing them to sign on the line that’s dotted.”
“I go up to them, tell them it’s going to cost more than they have to fix the house, play along with the bad guy’s game. Like I’m working with him,” Deacon said, rolling it around in his brain.
“That could work. Offer enough it sounds like they’re making out on the deal but not enough to make them question it. Problem will be if they go see a lawyer and he starts poking around.”
“Or a Realtor,” Deacon said, smiling.
“They’re nosy those ones. The thing is you do that, you still got the problem of getting the bad guy off the property and giving up his scam. Can we go to the beach now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CESAR WAS SURPRISED AS ANYONE to find himself waking up in a good mood. He was optimistic. Positive everything would work out. The dogs were going crazy, poking him with their wet noses, so he got out of bed and let them out. Stood at the door, watching them run around and sniff everything on the property. He’d take them to the farmhouse today if he wasn’t bringing the plants over. Huey would be close to done, he hoped, so he had to get those plants growing, start making money.
Maybe that’s why he was in such a good mood. It was coming together. A few set-backs but nothing he couldn’t handle. Get those plants going, figure out where the bondsman was coming from, get the money from Deacon just in case. Or hell, that performance he put on yesterday? Get his money just out of principle now. Man going and acting like he got a dick big as a sledgehammer. Maybe it was having his wife there got his blood boiling. Maybe get that situation going again, show the TV star who packed the sledgehammer. In front of his wife.
He called the dogs in and got dressed. Knew he’d be working in some dirt today so he wanted to dress for it, but still look good. Nice blue jeans and a T-shirt he paid too much for, ran him about seventy-five if he remembered correctly. Went around to the back of the house and opened the bags and smelled inside. The plants still smelled good.
They took up the entire back seat and trunk of the Acura. Still feeling good, jamming to some classic rock ‘n roll on his way to old man Dwight’s. Decided that wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was some of that black music, the rappers telling him about all the bitches and hoes they got, all the money attracting them. That’s what he wanted because that’s what he was headed to himself. Just a matter of time.
White people sang about getting laid, sometimes begging for it. That was bullshit. Black people sang about the getting laid lifestyle. The cars, the rims, the crystal, the houses, the jewelry they called bling. The way they ain’t taking shit from nobody, plugging any fool wants to get in their face, bragging about it. Shit, how could you not like that music, start dreaming about that life?
He pulled past the white fence and down the drive, seeing Hector in the barn, still asleep on the couch. That was disappointing but he wasn’t going to let it ruin his day. Turned the car off and walked into the barn, standing over Hector, looking at the twelve cans of foreign beer on the ground, him snoring away. His face was puffy and red on the side he was sleeping on. Staring at Hector thinking how far apart they were growing since this started. It was fine when they were playing kiddie ball, an operation making them maybe a grand or two a month if they were lucky. Hector worried about growing, stepping everything up and playing with the big boys. An American analogy - he didn’t want to play in the big leagues.
Cesar heard the generator humming smoothly as he went down the stairs into the bunker, surprised to see it empty. He knew all the furniture was in the barn above him but it still surprised him.
“Huey?” he called out but got no answer. He went to his left where the bedrooms were. The first one was still empty. Went into the second one and saw Huey did his job. All the lights were set up, ready for four rows of plants end to end. He smiled.
Went through the rest of the bunker, but still no Huey. Called out for him like a bitch in a horror movie and that bothered him. Went up the stairs and looked around before going over to Hector and smacking him hard in the head.
“Huey’s gone.”
“Where?” Hector asked.
Cesar wanted to take the Glock out of his pants and shoot him. “While you were busy getting drunk I guess he split,” Cesar said.
“I’ll go look for him,” Hector said, rubbing his eyes, sitting upright on the sofa.
“We ain’t got but the one car you fucking idiot.”
That woke him up. He was staring up at Cesar with his sleepy eyes, his nostrils flaring. “That’s why I didn’t think he’d go nowhere,” he said, trying to control the words.
“One job Hector,” Cesar said, and he walked to the doors of the barn, looking out. Hector glared at him, Cesar could feel it on his back. He looked over his shoulder to see Hector taking a joint out of a tin, putting it in his mouth and lighting it. “Really?” Cesar said. “You wake and bake now?”
“That the way you want to wake me up,” Hector said, taking a haul, “this’ll stop us having words about it.”
Now it was Cesar’s turn to take a few breaths to calm down, listening to Hector threaten him without coming right out and saying it. Now he’d decided to impair himself when there was work needed doing.
“He say anything to you last night?” Cesar asked.
“I didn’t see him, how I wanted it,” Hector said, not looking at him. “You want to go out looking for him?”
“I got the plants we got to put in first.”
“Think he went to the bondsman? Started believing he was a Marshal?”
“No telling what goes through that kid’s head.”
“I was doing some thinking last night,” Hector said, taking another drag from the joint. He held in his breath, said, “Why don’t we just call the bondsman, see what he’s about? Can ask him if he’s got Huey too. See how he’s with the TV star.” He let the breath o
ut of his lungs. “Since we ain’t got but the one car now.”
And with that, he smiled.
DEPUTY US MARSHAL CARTER GRANT was only doing a half day. The only reason he came in at all was because the new guy forgot to file the paperwork on a prisoner transport from last week. It was Hawes who was responsible for it, the new guy that came straight from the Army Rangers, said the paperwork got lost in transit, but the guy had a memory made of fog. Most likely he got excited and forgot.
So that’s how Carter was at the office pecking away at his keyboard. That’s when he turned his cell phone off, ready to spend a few days with some college buddies getting drunk and fishing. He was two minutes away from leaving when the phone on his desk rang. That’s when the person on the other end of the line said, “Nice to see you got the card changed.”
Carter’s thoughts went to Deacon, the last person he gave a card to. But this didn’t sound like him. And Carter didn’t have two different cards, so he said, “I was just on my way out.”
“Going to see Huey?” the voice asked.
He wanted to tell this guy he had the wrong number, but instead he said, “You can’t find him?”
“Banging away at his cell all morning. Boy’s not answering. Figure he might be upset. Might be out telling tales.”
“You know Huey,” Carter said, playing along, wanting to see where this went.
“I know Huey,” the voice said. “Also know you been rattling his cage, making the boy upset. As his friend, I don’t like seeing him in that state.”
“Sounds like a problem.”
“Not the only one.”
Carter let silence fill the line between them. He figured it was redneck justice, not something to get excited about. A drunken fight over a girl probably.
“I’m figuring we got some things we should talk about,” the voice said.
“Why would I want to do that?” Carter looked at the clock, thinking he should be in his car right now, headed home. His stuff was already packed, all he had to do was throw it in the car and be on his way. Have some beers with his buddies while fishing on a boat.
“You ever see that movie American Psycho? Batman’s in it before he was Batman.”
“Old one right?”
“Nineties flick. Pretty solid. They got this one scene, they’re all around a table passing out business cards, Batman passes his out and says the color is bone. They got the sound of a sword coming out of the thing each time they show the card. You know that sound? Every damn movie they take a sword out you hear it, don’t matter if it’s steel on leather, they still play that sound.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” Carter said.
“You know who I am. Anyways, your boy comes up to me, giving me your card thinking you’ll be his muscle, it’s that scene comes to me every time. Heard the sword sound and everything.”
“Which boy is this?” Carter asked. His thoughts were back to Deacon, the last one to take a card.
“You starting to piss me off now with how dumb you’re playing. I figure we got some talking to do.”
“I figure we don’t.”
“How much you out?” the voice asked. “Ten if I remember correctly. You want a chance at getting it back, I think you’re going to want a conversation.”
“It was the TV guy who gave you the card?”
“I’m curious what you promised him.”
It was Deacon. Carter wondered why he would go about it this way, not just tell him he was in trouble. Carter would have to go fishing another time.
“I’m up in Florence. Take me awhile to get there.”
“Of course you are. With the other Marshals,” the voice said. It was sarcastic. Carter was curious why the guy would call a Deputy Marshal and not believe he was talking to one.
“Tell me where you want me to go.”
UNITED STATES MARSHAL CARTER GRANT wasn’t a Marshal at all, nor was he named Carter Grant. His real name was Colton Brant and when he first decided to become a bondsman, he named his business ‘Brant’s Bonds,’ thinking it was clever having the two ‘B’s like that. He thought he’d become known as ‘BB’s for short. But it didn’t turn out that way.
His office was in Florence, that much was true, but he was on the other side of town, away from the Marshals office. He was ashamed to say he got into the bounty hunter business because of the show ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’ he saw on television. It just came at a point in his life where he needed direction. He was unemployed and had no marketable skills. He saw the show and thought it was exciting, could see himself doing that. Kicking in doors and chasing people through the streets. What he wouldn’t do though is pray with the runners when he caught them.
But most people didn’t run. He went and did all the research, went and took some courses, loaded himself up with pepper-spray, a club, handcuffs, zip-ties, GPS, and even went and got himself a Glock 40, the same ones the Marshals use. He never got to use them though because most people didn’t run. Most people would get bailed out and he’d expect them to run, but they’d show up for their court dates or if they didn’t, he’d show up at their house to see them watching TV. “Shit, I thought that was tomorrow,” or “That’s next week,” they’d say. He’d give them the paper and tell them to show up at the postponement hearing.
Hardly glamorous. And hardly worth the overhead he was paying. Shelled out money for the computers and the skip-trace software and all his gear and on advertising and that office in Florence he was paying monthly on. Colton would get ten percent of the bail, so in the case of Randy who went for ten thousand, Colton got a grand. And that was a bigger one. There weren’t million dollar bonds out here, and there was rarely anything approaching north of fifty-grand. When there was, they went to the other bondsmen in the area.
It was one runner he had that gave him the idea to steal the Marshal’s name and start going by Carter Grant. It was a five thousand dollar bond, so Carter would only see five hundred bucks. But if the guy ran, Colton was on the hook for the full five grand. So Colton chased him and tracked him down at an Aunt’s house where he had grown up, chilling out with his boyhood friends. The guy wasn’t going to go, so Colton figured he had his chance to go Dog on them, get a little rough and show them who was in charge. They ended up beating the shit out of Colton, put him in the hospital for a week after cracking his skull. Used his own club on him too.
The police caught the guy so Colton went to the courthouse in Florence to testify against him. The same courthouse that had the Marshals office. He was waiting outside the courtroom, ready to be called in, when he saw the Marshals walking by. They were relaxed, dressed casually enough, but he could tell they were respected. Colton called it an ‘easy authority’ they had. It got him to thinking.
People don’t want to talk to a bondsman, especially if they’re hiding a relative that doesn’t want to go to jail. But they’d talk to a Marshal. A Federal Police Officer, that was enough to make your balls shrivel up into your guts. So Colton did some research and came across the name Carter Grant, which wasn’t too far off his name. He needed the name in case someone decided to look him up, they’d see the name right there on the website. A lie was always best when it stood beside the truth.
So that’s how Colton Brant became Carter Grant, a bondsman masquerading as a Federal Marshal, sitting in a motel in Rounders Bend, trying to figure out how he was not going to be out ten thousand dollars.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE days Brooke didn’t want to face. She laid on the bed, afraid to open her eyes. To open her eyes would be to have reality storm in on her. It reminded her of when she was married, when the marriage went bad. She’d lie in bed until she felt strong enough to face the day, the world she was stuck in.
Not that it was a single moment where it went bad. It just did. Days blended into each other until one day it was different. Everyday you see your reflection in the mirror and look the same. Until one day you don’t. One day you don’t recognize th
e person staring back at you.
At that point, she was already out of the marriage in her head. It was just a matter of taking those steps to get out physically. She took those steps and now she was completely out other than the show. The movers should have her stuff gone from the loft they once shared. But then they had to go and share a bed last night.
It was just sex. Something they needed, she was sure Deacon knew that. She felt him wanting a connection, clamoring for it. She didn’t fight it. It just wasn’t there. She knew the marriage was over and she knew they were past it. Now her worry was what he thought. She didn’t want to break his heart all over again by telling him it didn’t mean anything. Last night just cemented it. There was nothing there.
So she opened her eyes and found relief that he was gone. They’d still have to talk about it, but at least it wasn’t right now. She had time to steel up her nerves.
She grabbed her phone and headed out to the balcony to have a cigarette. There was a text from Marty telling Brooke she didn’t want to know what was going on, just letting her know they had to go to Upstate New York in a few days. Also, Dave would talk to her about the contract when the season was over.
It didn’t matter now what Dave had to say. She was going to walk. When she first filed for the divorce, she thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t have to pretend they were married anymore, but Dave wouldn’t allow it. She thought she could have her freedom, it would be like any other job. Dave wanted to drag his feet, thinking how to keep an audience rather than the people who gave him that audience. In a way she was glad Dave put it off. Brooke was sure she wouldn’t find herself while she was still part of the show. She would’ve been tied to more years of pretending.
The phone buzzed in her hand. It was Deacon.
“Glad to see you’re up,” he said.
“Marty says we’re going to Upstate New York in a few days.”
“You want a coffee?”
“You throw a splash of bourbon in there?” she asked, leaning on the railing as she blew out the smoke, looking down, seeing Deacon with a guy in a lime green tank-top. “Is that Harvey?”
