Searches & Seizures

by Stanley Elkin

  “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.”

  “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.”

  “We
ll, 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?”

  “Oohay?”

  I whisper into his ear and remind him of the message Lou said he had for me. I offer a few Phoenician flourishes. Poslosky looks over at Morgan who by this time is almost cuddling his guard.

  “Well, if he’s such a big shot—”

  “Shh.”

  “Well, why’s he so reluctant to leave?”

  I take him aside. “Poslosky, you have an inquiring mind. I like that in a policeman. All we know for sure is that City Hall wants him the hell out of this place. My best guess is that he’s a plant from the Enquirer here to do an exposé on conditions.”

  “The son of a bitch, I’ll exposé his head.”

  “No, that would be playing into his hands. Look, I don’t know any more about it than you. I heard something was up and I’m just putting two and two together from the message Lou tried to pass me. I bet Lou tells us we’re to zip down with the guy in a paddy wagon to Judge Ehrlinger’s chambers, arrange a quick pro forma bond and get him the hell off our backs before his suit dries. They give it a twelve-minute investigation and charges are dropped this afternoon. If he’s held a minute longer than necessary I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

  “All right, we’ll see what Lo
u has to say.” Poslosky tells the guard to hold on to the prisoner and we step outside to speak to Lou.

  Word-for-word, I swear to you. My people haven’t been in this business thousands of years for nothing! Morgan, the wagon, Ehrlinger—Ehrlinger, a hack, is special-duty magistrate this week—everything. Poslosky is electrified. He gets on Lou’s phone and arranges for a wagon and a couple of guards to be waiting when we come out with the prisoner. Inside five minutes we’re on our way. I sit up front with the driver. Poslosky himself helps me into the wagon and closes the door for me. He shakes my hand through the open window.

  “Thanks, Phoenician.”

  I lean out. “Lieutenant,” I tell him coolly, “I’m no goddamn do-gooder. If conditions in this jail are ever exposed, the Bail Commission will be letting everyone but the murderers out on their own recognizance. Those Commission bastards are cutting my throat as it is.”

  “The revolving door,” Poslosky sighs.

  “Too true. We’re goners, Poz, they’re wiping us out. Cops, bondsmen.”

  “The fucking Supreme Court,” Poslosky says, “the fucking Miranda decision.”

  “Yeah, Pus. Gee, kid, I could stick around here talking philosophy with you all day, but we better get that mother downtown before Ehrlinger wets himself.”

  “Yeah. So long, Phoenician.”

  At the courthouse Morgan walks between me and the cop to Ehrlinger’s chambers. I study him closely but can’t tell how much his anger is antagonism to me or appreciation of his situation. “You know,” I tell him amiably, “I’m pretty ashamed of what I did back there. What a temper. I want you to send me the cleaning bill for your suit. I’ll pay.”

  “Shit, if the coffee stains don’t come out, you’ll buy me a new goddamn suit.”

  He knows from nothing. “Sure,” I say, “I promise.”

  A judge’s chambers, even Ehrlinger’s, give me a hard-on of the spirit. All that oak paneling—brown is your color of civilization—dark as bark, those long earthen fillets of wood like a room made out of cellos, the faint oily odor of care (I remember the smell), the deep brass fittings like metals in museums, the lovely heavy leathers adumbrating strap, blood sports—geez, it’s terrific. The desk big as a piano, and the deep, clean ashtrays on its wide top. And the souvenirs. These guys have been officers in wars, served on commissions. Their official surfaces trail a spoor of the public history: a President’s pen ammunitions a marble bore, Nuremberg memorabilia, a political cartoonist’s original caricature framed on the desk in love’s egotistic inversion, the flier’s short snorter aspicked in paperweight; toys, some pal industrialist’s miniature prototype—all respectability’s groovy junk. And cloudy, obscure prints on the walls, deft hunts and European capitals in old centuries, downtown London before the fire, Berlin’s Inns of Court. A fat globe of the world rises like an immense soft-boiled egg in an eggcup, girdled by a wide wooden orbit that catwalks its equatorial waist. Red calf spines of lawbooks glow behind glass. Only the flag distracts—an absurd bouquet drooping from a queer umbrella stand on three claw feet with metallic, undifferentiated toes. The judge’s black robe is snagged on a hatrack.