by Mark Dawson
The billboard was immediately to his right. The rest of the text announced that Baxter’s Bail Bonds had just opened a new office on Bryant Street, in SoMa. Milton remembered the geography of the city from his previous visit and knew that Bryant Street was close, near the Hall of Justice.
The driver behind him sounded his horn. Milton turned back to the road and saw that the traffic was moving again. He held up his hand in apology and pushed down on the gas, sending the GTO ahead. He saw an exit sign up ahead for Ninth Street/Civic Center and, without really thinking about what he was doing, he flicked the indicator and turned off.
3
The newly opened branch of Baxter’s Bail Bonds enjoyed a spectacularly good location. Bryant Street was nothing special, with auto shops and industrial units on one side of the road and cheap cars parked nose-to-tail as their owners conducted their business. The other side of the road, however, was taken up by the vast Thomas J. Cahill Hall of Justice. Police vehicles were slotted amongst the civilian cars that were parked on that side of the road, and clutches of people—many of whom were clearly unhappy that they were here—filtered in and out of the double doors that were set back from the street and accessed by way of flights of concrete stairs.
There were a number of bail businesses opposite the municipal building, and with good reason. The men and women who had just been processed were often unable to find the money that the court had set in order for them to be bailed. The bondsmen up and down this stretch of road would offer that money, often at ten per cent interest. Business was clearly brisk.
Milton parked the GTO a little way down the road from his destination and then walked back toward it. The building was not much more than a storefront that had been erected on the corner of Bryant and Boardman. It was single storey, with white-painted walls and a steeply pitched shingled roof. The signs on the walls announced that it was open twenty-four hours and that Spanish was spoken. The name of the business—Baxter’s Bail Bonds—was arranged so that the three words were stacked on top of one another. The three Bs were drawn so that they were all interlocked.
The office was accessed from the pavement by way of a flight of four steps. Milton climbed them and paused at the door. He hadn’t seen Beau Baxter since he had last been in San Francisco. The old man had introduced him to a mafia family that had helped him to solve part of the problem that Milton had been facing. Their first meeting had been some time before that, when Baxter had been sent over the border to Juárez in an attempt to track down a man named Santa Muerta, the psychotic cartel sicario who had massacred members of that same Italian family. Milton had been impressed with Baxter’s dry sense of humour, his toughness, and his very obvious capability.
Milton was still persuading himself that he should go inside when the decision was made for him.
The door opened and Beau stepped out. The old man saw him and froze. His weathered face, lined and wrinkled through age and a life spent chasing miscreants across inhospitable territory, broke into a wide smile.
“Well, fuck me,” he said. “If it ain’t English.”
4
Beau led the way back into the office. The building appeared to have been split into two. There was a public space for entertaining potential new clients, with a reception desk, a leather sofa with wooden chairs on either side of it, a water cooler and a rack of magazines. There was a closed door behind the desk that looked as if it offered access to a back room where, Milton guessed, the administration of the business was carried out.
“Take the weight off,” Beau said, pointing to the sofa. “Got some coffee brewing in back—want one?”
“Thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
Beau went into the back. Milton heard the sound of low conversation. He looked around. The office looked newly decorated. The paint on the walls was fresh, the magazines were all up to date, and the sofa hadn’t yet been marked with the indentations of the clients who would, no doubt, come to rest on it while they waited for Beau to pronounce whether or not he could help them with the matter of their liberty.
Beau came back out with two cups in his hands. He hooked the toe of his cowboy boot around the door and pulled it closed. He handed Milton one of the cups.
“I’ll be honest, English,” he said. “I didn’t ever think I’d see you again.”
“I have a habit of popping up,” Milton said. “Like a bad penny.”
“You been in San Francisco all this time?”
Milton told Beau what had happened since they had last met. He skipped over the denouement of the events in the city and his involvement in the disgrace of the presidential candidate whose unfortunate extramarital proclivities had been kept out of the public eye by way of a murderous chief of staff, and moved on to provide the briefest sketch of where he had been: Russia, the Australian outback, New Orleans, London, Manila, Rio de Janeiro.
Beau was wise enough not to ask Milton to explain what he had been doing in those places. “So what are you doing back here again?” he asked instead.
“Just passing through.”
“And how’d you find me?”
Milton grinned. “I saw the sign on the freeway.”
“Oh, that.” Beau shook his head and chuckled. “That nonsense ain’t got a thing to do with me.”
“Really?”
“You think making a fuss like that’s the sort of thing I’d do? It was my fool son’s idea.”
“I didn’t know you had children.”
“I never told you. His name’s Chase.” He lowered his voice and nodded at the closed door; Milton guessed that the subject of the conversation was inside the office beyond it. “He’s a good man, honest and hard-working. He was in the military until he got shot in the leg and discharged. He was drifting around aimlessly with not much purpose in life, so I suggested he set up shop as a bondsman.”
“Like you?”
“Not exactly like me.” Beau grinned.
Milton remembered: Beau had decided that he was never going to make his fortune paying the sureties for felons who were just as likely to abscond as make their trial dates, and had taken the commercial decision to search out other forms of employment, including what might once have romantically been described as bounty hunter.
“You’re not sharing the old clientele with him?”
Beau tutted. “This is my boy. It’s got to be as straight as an arrow. Last thing I want is him getting caught up with some of the people I’ve worked for over the years. Anyway—I’m keeping my office in San Diego, least for a while. ‘Frisco? This is all on him.”
The door opened and a tall, younger man stepped through it. He was wearing a chambray shirt with a white undershirt beneath it. He had on a single-breasted jacket with slim peak lapels that worked down to a single button, and a pair of blue jeans with a leather belt. He had a white cowboy hat on his head and was wearing cowboy boots that were the equal of the snakeskin pair that Beau sported. The mix of a sharp suit jacket and cowboy accessories was something of a clash, and Milton was left with the impression that the man was struggling to ape the natural style that Beau had unconsciously adopted over decades.
“Ah,” Beau said. “Speak of the devil. This here’s my boy, Chase. Chase, this is John Smith. John’s an old friend of mine.”
Milton was about to stand, but Chase held up a hand for him to stay where he was. “Good to meet you,” he said, reaching his hand down.
Milton shook it. “Likewise.”
Chase had a strong grip, and he looked Milton in the eye when he spoke.
“We were just talking about that foolish sign you’ve got next to the highway,” Beau said, his tone belying the admonishment.
Chase smiled. “You see it?”
“I did,” Milton said. “Hard to miss.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Chase said, pleased.
“He didn’t mean that in a good way,” Beau said. He leaned back, stretched out his legs and glanced over at Milton. “You see, Chase read
a book about branding, and now he’s an expert. He thinks that a picture of me with my hat on my head is the kind of thing that’ll draw attention to the business—like the tweakers and dopers he’ll end up bailing out will choose us over any of the others on the street because it looks like they’ll be doing business with a good ole boy. I told him most of those dudes are gonna be black, and that’s probably not the image he wants, but he didn’t listen. I was madder than a wet hen when I saw it.”
“But it worked, Pops, didn’t it?” He looked to Milton. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
“I certainly did,” Milton said. “It’s very striking.”
“There you go,” Chase said triumphantly. “Striking.”
“He didn’t mean that in a good way, either.”
Beau gave Milton a theatrical wink and got up. “I was just on my way out,” he said. “Chase had his first skipper last week, didn’t you? Got a kid name of Anwar who was caught with eighty-two wraps of meth, coke and fentanyl down in the Tenderloin. He gets charged and his mom comes in and says that she don’t have the fifteen grand the judge has set for bail. Chase fronts that, Anwar gets out, and the next thing you know”—he clicked his fingers—“poof, he’s gone.”
“There was no way I could’ve known,” Chase protested.
“So Chase gets on the phone to me and asks for my help in finding Anwar so we can deliver him to justice and get the fifteen back again. I make some calls and find out that Anwar has friends in Vegas and that he’s gone there in the optimistic hope that if he lies low for a while, this’ll all blow over. I’ve just booked a ticket to fly over there so I can pick him up. I’ve got a friend on the Metro Police who knows where he’s at.”
Beau leaned back and gave Milton a theatrical wink.
“Come on, Pops,” Chase protested. “Give me a break. I said I’d go get him.”
“I would send Chase to clean up his own mess, but, on the balance of it, his time is better spent here finding more business. So it’s on me.”
The two of them had a nice interplay, Milton noted. He could tell that Chase’s protestations were exaggerated and Beau’s criticism was manufactured. There was a warmth between father and son that was attractive and, not for the first time, Milton regretted the fact that he would never have a relationship like that with anyone, much less a child of his own.
Beau turned back to Milton. “Plus, I love Vegas,” he said, with a grin. “I got a couple of hours before my flight. You wanna grab a bite to eat?”
5
Beau led the way underneath the highway and onto Folsom Street. He pointed to a restaurant on the other side of the road.
“Fondue Cowboy?” Milton said.
“What about it?”
“Fondue?”
“Why are you pulling that face?”
“What is this? The seventies? And what does fondue have to do with cowboys?”
“You coming in, or are you gonna stand outside bitching all day?”
Milton followed Beau across the road and into the restaurant. He was expecting something that would appeal to the San Franciscan hipster, and he wasn’t disappointed. The decor was done out in tones of brown and black, with cowboy paraphernalia positioned around the room. There was a saddle near the kitchen, a lasso strung out across the ceiling, and a set of steer’s horns hung from the wall. Beau led the way to a booth that was furnished with padded leather banquette seats beneath a large portrait of a smouldering Clint Eastwood. A waitress welcomed them and delivered a pair of menus before taking their drink orders—a beer for Beau and a glass of iced water for Milton—and then leaving them to choose their food.
“So you’re going to Vegas?” Milton said.
“That’s right. Why?”
“I’m headed there too.”
“Seriously?” Beau said.
Milton nodded.
“You’re not saying that because you want to help me out again, are you?”
“Not this time.”
“You remember that guy from before?”
Milton did remember. He couldn’t recall the man’s name, but he remembered going into the house and flushing out the skipper. The man had retreated and walked straight into Beau’s stiff right hand.
“Doubt I’ll need you this time. Anwar’s not like Ordell. He’s a hundred pounds dripping wet.”
The waitress came back to take their orders. Beau—without even the barest hint of irony—selected the Rawhide, a fondue that featured Dolce Gorgonzola, Emmental and bacon. Milton, still trying to work out whether Beau was pulling his leg, chose the Traditional with Gruyere, Emmental and nutmeg. The waitress complimented them on their choices, took the menus and said she would be back with their food.
“So, what are you going to be doing in Vegas?” Beau said. “You don’t strike me as the gambling type.”
“I’m not,” Milton said. “A friend of mine is a boxer. He’s on the undercard of the fight at Mandalay Bay.”
“He any good?”
“Very good,” Milton said.
The waitress returned with their food. She set up fondue lamps on the table and then placed small bowls atop them so that the flames could melt the cheese inside. She set out the sides—bread, roasted potatoes, cured meat, sausage, broccoli, pickles, olives, grapes and apples—and left them to their meals.
“You fix the problems that you had in Juárez?” Beau asked.
“I did,” Milton said.
Beau had been there when Michael Pope and his detachment of Group Fifteen operatives had descended upon the cartel mansion in an attempt to bring him back. Milton had escaped with the help of a friendly Mexican police officer; Beau had fought his way out, disappearing in the chaos.
“You ain’t ever gonna tell me what that was all about, are you?”
“I’m afraid not,” Milton said. “If I told you…”
“Yeah, I get it. You’d have to kill me.”
They shared updates as to what they had been doing as they started on the food. Milton had always enjoyed Beau’s company, and today was no different. And to his considerable surprise, and still unsure as to whether this was a joke that his companion was playing on him, he found that the meal was delicious.
When they’d finished, Beau wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at his watch. “I’d better jet,” he said. “I need to get to the airport, and traffic at this time of day can be a pain in the ass.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a card and laid it flat on the table in front of Milton. Milton looked down at it: it was the same garish red as the billboard sign, and there was the same picture of Beau next to a steer.
“I know,” Beau said, wincing. “Branding, right? Chase is taking this all very seriously.”
“It’s a memorable picture,” Milton said.
“Don’t,” Beau said with a grin. “Look—when are you heading to Vegas?”
“I’ve got to go and get my stuff from the hotel,” Milton said. “I was going to leave after that.”
“All I was gonna say was if you want to meet when you get in, then that there’s my number.” He jabbed a finger at the card. “I’ll be in the city for a couple of extra days. I like to play a hand of poker now and again, and they’ve got a decent weekly tournament at the El Cortez. You get a lot of tourists coming to play—these hotshot lawyers and accountants who think they know how to win at hold ’em—then you get the pros turning up and skinning them. It’s fun.”
“You’re one of the pros?”
“I sure as shit ain’t one of the fish.”
“Gambling’s not really my thing,” Milton said. “But thanks.”
Milton took out the roll of notes from his pocket and peeled off three twenties to cover the bill.
“No, no,” Beau said, reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”
“No,” Milton insisted, laying the money on the table and pocketing Beau’s card. “Good luck with bringing your man in. If I get a moment in Vegas, I’ll give you a call.”
/> They both stood. Beau extended his hand and Milton took it, shaking it firmly.
“Good to see you again, English. Stay out of trouble.”
“Always.”
Part II
6
Milton went back to the hotel to check out. He packed his meagre possessions into his bag, settled his bill and went down to the GTO. He slung his bag into the back seat, climbed into the driver’s seat and set off, going back over the Oakland Bridge and heading east. He filled the tank at a Shell gas station just outside San Leandro, then went back to the car and plotted his route: the best way to reach Vegas appeared to be to follow I-5 south to Bakersfield and then continue east. He would pass through Barstow, skirt the northern boundary of the Mojave National Preserve and then turn north to cross the border into Nevada. It was five hundred and sixty miles. He guessed it would take him ten hours, with three stops to refuel. He looked at the long stretches of highway that he was going to have to traverse, and squeezed the leather-trimmed steering wheel, pleased that it would be a decent drive.
He wouldn’t worry too much about the police when he was out in the desert.
This was going to be fun.
The car drove like new across the high desert, gobbling up the highway that cut through the California sand. Milton found The Beach Boys Today! in the box of music, took the cassette out of the case and pushed it into the slot. The introduction to ‘Help Me, Rhonda’ started to play as he pulled out to overtake a truck.
Milton flattened the pedal and watched the speedometer as the needle moved around the dial. The engine purred, easily bringing the car up to a hundred and then a hundred and ten. Milton was almost constitutionally averse to official attention, but there was nothing out here but sand stretching away in both directions; he relished the thought of letting the car stretch its legs a little.
