by Greg Herren
“Basically, he’s been living on his credit cards.” Paige got up and refilled her coffee cup without offering to do the same for me. She sat back down. “So, I’m sure if they offered him money, he jumped at it.”
“How come you know so much about Paul’s financial situation?” And I don’t?
“Because, honey, I talk to him. About what’s going on in his life.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Paul’s my friend.”
I didn’t like where this was going. “And just what is he to me?”
“Chanse, I know you love him—I’m not saying you don’t.” She shrugged. “What do you guys talk about?”
“I don’t know. Just stuff.”
“But apparently, never anything important.”
“Why didn’t he ever say anything to me about this?” I didn’t understand. I was his boyfriend, for God’s sake.
“Maybe he was embarrassed, I don’t know.” Paige stubbed out the cigarette, dug into her purse and produced her compact. She stared into the mirror for a bit, then freshened her lipstick. “For whatever reason, he didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with you. Maybe he was afraid you’d be judgmental, or something.”
My mind was reeling. “I mean, if he was having trouble with the rent or something, he could have just—“ I stopped for a moment, then went on. “He could have moved in here.”
She started laughing. “Oh, that’s rich, Chanse, it really is.”
She was really starting to get on my nerves. “I’m serious!” I protested.
Paige reached over and patted me on the hand. “I know you are, honey, and I think it’s great. But do you really think you’re ready to live with him? I mean, come on, you didn’t know about his money problems, you didn’t know he’d modeled—“
“I didn’t know he’d made wrestling porn videos.” I folded my arms and gave her a satisfied smile. I’m sure he hadn’t told her about that.
“Paul made wrestling videos?” She said after a few beats. She frowned, “Are these videos like a form of fetish porn?” I could see her mind working. “But what’s wrong with that?”
Now it was my turn to stare at her. I’d heard her go off on numerous rampages against the porn industry and how it degrades women. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” Paige tilted her head to one side. “It does make sense in a kind of way—if he was really desperate of course he would turn to his looks to make some money. Just be glad he didn’t become an escort or something.”
“How do I know he didn’t?” I snapped.
She inhaled with a hiss. “I guess you should ask him. But these videos—I mean, was it just wrestling, like the WWF stuff, or was it actually wrestling sex?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know—I haven’t seen one.” I didn’t tell her I’d ordered some. “But the website described Paul, or Cody Dallas, as one of the ‘superstars of the industry.’”
She whistled. “No surprise there.” She laughed. “Paul’s a hot guy, Chanse. If he made videos, people would buy them.”
“What I don’t understand is why I am just finding all this out NOW.” I stubbed out my cigarette. “Would he have ever told me about this secret life of his? It’s like I don’t even know him, Paige.”
“Relax, Chanse.” Paige closed the box of donuts and pushed it away from her. “The most important thing right now is Paul beating this murder rap—we can sort all this other shit out later.”
“Easier said than done.” I said.
“I know it’s hard, but try not to be a complete jackass here, okay?” She leaned forward. “I know you’re in shock—who wouldn’t be? Do you really think Paul killed this Mark Williams guy? I mean, put aside your own feelings. I get it—you’ve found out some things about Paul you didn’t know. But just because he kept some things from you—and be fair, have you told him about your past completely?—now you think he might be a killer? Christ, Chanse, are you that big of an asshole?”
“Hey!” That was a bit unfair, I thought.
“Remove yourself from this situation—pretend that you didn’t know Paul from Adam, this was a case Loren dropped into your lap. What would your initial impression be?”
I thought for a minute. “His story stinks, Paige. It’s kind of hard to believe.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction.”
“If I didn’t know Paul at all, after hearing his story, I’d think he’s an idiot.”
“Chanse—“ she took a deep breath. “Hello? People are stupid. You were a cop. How many times have you seen people do stupid things? Mess up crime scenes? Isn’t it entirely possible it could have happened the way Paul says it did?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t convict him because your feelings are hurt.” She stood up. “I’ve got to get to work—I’ll see what I can find out. What are you going to do today?”
“Well, his arraignment is this morning. Loren’s pretty sure he can get him out on bail.” I sighed.
“His arraignment is this morning?” Her eyes narrowed. “My God in heaven, Chanse. Why the hell aren’t you down there?”
“There’s nothing I can do until they set his bail.”
“Chanse MacLeod!” She stood up. Her hands were trembling. “You are blowing this big time, bud. Paul’s just spent the night in jail—not a pleasant experience under any circumstance—and he’s going in front of a judge today. It might have been nice for him to see you in the courtroom.”
“Court doesn’t even open until 9:30.” I looked at the clock on the VCR. It was just past 8:00.
“Okay.” She reached over and took my hands. “Look, Chanse, you know as well as I do Paul couldn’t have killed this guy. Get your butt down there—be there for him.”
“I am going to post his bail.” I replied.
“Well, of course you are.” She dropped my hands and together we walked over to the door. “I guess I’d better get to work. You give him my love, okay? And tell him to call me, day or night, if he needs anything.” She paused at the door, and reached up to kiss my cheek. “And remember—innocent until proven guilty, ok?”
I nodded. She smiled and walked down my front steps.
I walked back into the kitchen and got another cup of coffee before I got dressed. The whole time, everything Paige said kept running through my mind. Paul was broke. Paul needed money. And I’d been completely oblivious to what was going on with my boyfriend. I imagined Paul being led into the courtroom, looking around for my face and not finding it and wondering if I’d written him off. We’d had an argument, after all, and now he was accused of murder. Considering the kind of boyfriend I’d been so far, it wasn’t a reach for him to imagine I’d abandoned him. Man oh man oh man, this so sucked.
Yeah, I was a complete failure as a boyfriend. Paul probably hated me.
I was checking my email after I got dressed when my phone rang. It was Loren. “Chanse, bail’s been set. Can you come up with the cash for the bond?”
“How much it it?” I closed my eyes, thinking about the money in my savings account. There was almost seventy grand in there.
“The judge set it at two hundred thousand, so you need to come up with twenty.”
I closed my eyes. Twenty grand was a lot of money, and you don’t get it back. You pay it to a bail bondsman, they put up a bond for the full amount, and you kiss your cash goodbye. Of course, the bondsman is taking a big risk. They have to come up with the full amount if the accused jumps bail, and they are dealing with accused criminals.
It was a little past ten when I walked out to my car. I climbed in and started it. “Come on, baby, run right today.” I wasn’t completely sure what was wrong with it, but I knew the problem was transmission related, and it usually started when I was out on the highway. Whenever I slowed down to exit; when the car got down to about 20 miles per hour— the gears wouldn’t downshift and it would start lurching. Sometimes I could slip it into neutral and it wouldn’t stall. Sometimes that didn’t work, and I’d have to restart the
car, gun the engine for a while, then shift into drive and hope it wouldn’t stall again. Today wasn’t a day I needed to deal with that. Fortunately, I wasn’t going to have to drive very far or very fast.
The courthouse was on Broad Street, so the easiest way for me to get there was to head up Poydras. There was a Whitney Bank on St. Charles only a couple of blocks from my house. I parked, waited in line for a teller, and withdrew the money from my savings account. Hang on, Paul, I’m coming, I thought to myself as I pulled back into traffic and headed down St. Charles to Poydras..
Broad Street is an area most tourists only see if they’re really unlucky. It’s not New Orleans at its finest. The area around the courthouse is a curious mixture of convenience stores, gas stations, fast food restaurants, pawn shops, and bail bondsmen. There are very few trees or bushes— just unrelenting concrete. The gutters are full of trash—Quarter Pounder wrappers, empty beer cans, cigarette butts. I pulled into a small parking lot just past Loyola Street. There was a huge yellow sign outlined in yellow light bulbs with those black letters that come on clear plastic squares: LEGUME AND MERCEREAUX—BAIL BONDS. The building looked like a Quonset hut on stilts with an unfinished wood staircase leading to the door. All the windows had bars on them. The only car in the parking lot was a battered blue Toyota Celica that had seen better days, nevertheless it had a Club attached to its steering wheel.
A bell rang when I opened the door. A black woman in her early 40s, wearing a pair of jeans and a yellow cardigan, looked up at me from a file she was glancing through. She was seated at one of five desks, all of which overflowed with file folders and papers. There was a water cooler in a corner, almost empty, and the sleeve for paper cups was empty. “What can I do for you?” she asked. A nameplate on her desk read MAXI LEGUME.
I sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair in front of her desk. “I, um, need to bail someone out.”
She closed the folder. “How much is bail?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
She whistled. “I can write that bond. What’s the charge, murder?”
I nodded. She opened a drawer and passed me a form with a clipboard and a pen. I started filling it out. It was like a credit card application, with requests for six character references as well. “What’s the name of the accused?” She started typing on her computer.
“Paul Maxwell.” I said.
“Arraigned this morning?”
“Yes.” I went back to my form while she typed away at her keyboard.
She stopped, and looked at me as I tried to remember addresses and phone numbers for my references. “You know I can’t take a check for the ten percent, right? Cash or credit card.”
I put down the clipboard and balanced it on the edge of her desk while I pulled my wallet out of my pocket. I counted out the money and handed it over to her. She didn’t recount it, she simply took it and walked into the next room.
I was finished with the form when she came back to hand me a receipt. “Okay, I’ve called over there. They should be bringing him down in a bit. Do you know where to go meet him—you are going to go meet him, right?” She took the form from me, and began typing again.
“Yes.”
“Get back on Broad and go back to the courthouse. There’s a little frontage road right off Broad—you can’t miss it, there are police cars parked everywhere—and then you’re going to have to go right. You can’t do anything else—but after you make that right turn, keep going straight. You can also go to the left, but that’ll take you back to Poydras. The street you want is Perdido.” She laughed. “Kind of appropriate, actually. Perdido means ‘lost’ in Spanish. Anyway, there’s a parking lot right there— park there, and it’s the building right behind the parking lot. Just go in the front door and you’ll be in a waiting area—there’s a place where there’s a window, and you go tell the person there who you’re coming for, and at some point, they’ll bring him down.”
“At some point?” I didn’t like the sound of that.
“The best advice I can give you Mr. MacLeod, is not to piss off the person at the window.” She leaned back in her chair. “They are in no hurry to let people out, and if you do or say anything to rile them, they’ll make you wait all day.”
“Can they do that?” This was outrageous.
“They can do whatever the fuck they want to.” She gave me a sad look. “I hope you brought a book or something to do.”
“Well, no.”
She shrugged. “Best of luck to you then.”
Her directions were perfect—to a point. I found the parking lot on Perdido all right, but then I got a little confused. There was a building right behind the parking lot, but there was no entrance to it right there. I walked up Perdido Street, and finally found it. Two uniforms were sharing a cigarette outside, and I asked if this was where you went to bail someone out. Both nodded. I walked inside, and there was the waiting room. There were hard wood benches and plastic chairs from the 1950’s—everything was orange, yellow and red. There were several people sitting at various places throughout the waiting room. The Sharon Osbourne Show played on an old television set sitting on a ledge just below the ceiling. The lighting was all yellow fluorescent and gave everything a sickly look. The floor was a green tile with white streaks in it. I walked over to the window.
The woman sitting on the other side wore a police uniform. She had to weigh 300 pounds. She was paging through a tired-looking copy of People magazine. An open can of Coke sat next to a partially eaten bag of barbecue potato chips. Her gray-streaked brown hair looked greasy, and was pulled back from her moon face. I stood there for a moment, watching her read about Brad and Jennifer, and finally cleared my throat.
She didn’t respond.
“Um, excuse me?” I asked.
With a very deliberate, slow motion she closed the magazine and turned her head to look up at me. The expression on her face was sullen hostility. She said nothing— just stared at me for a few seconds, then she reached over and pulled a chip out of the bag, put it into her mouth and chewed it at the same slow, deliberate pace.
“Um, I just posted bail for someone.” I said.
She kept looking at me in silence..
Remembering Maxi Legume’s advice, I suppressed my rising anger. Don’t piss her off, Chanse, she’s already got a serious attitude problem, she’s just looking for someone to take it out on, don’t let it be Paul.
“Can you help me?” I injected a note of pleading in my voice.
“Name?” She reached for a clipboard.
“His name is Paul Maxwell.”
She made a great show of looking at the list. “Name’s not on here.”
“Well, I just posted bail, so—“
“Have a seat and wait.” She put away the clipboard, and went back to the chips.
I swallowed my anger and forced myself to walk away. But I didn’t have a seat. I went back outside and lit a cigarette. At this point, I seriously doubted Paul would give a rat’s ass about my smoking.
I checked back again in an hour, but Paul’s name still wasn’t on the list. I sat down and watched television. I was hungry, but I was afraid to leave in case they released him while I was gone. The morning ticked away. The Young and the Restless, All My Children, One Life to Live. Every half hour I went back outside and smoked. Every hour I went back and checked to see if Paul’s name was on the magic list.
General Hospital was starting when I went back to check again. At this point, I was ready to blow up at the fat bitch, so I was a little taken aback to see a pretty young black woman sitting there instead.
“Oh, Paul Maxwell?” She checked the list and smiled at me. “He’s on his way down. Shouldn’t be more than two minutes.”
I almost collapsed in relief. Finally.
Chapter Seven
Paul walked through the door as it buzzed. He was rubbing his upper arms with his hands as though he were trying to get warmer. He was in the same clothes he’d been wearing when
I’d run into him in the Quarter, only now he looked more rumpled. His blue eyes were completely bloodshot. Stubble sprouted on his cheeks, chin and upper lip. His curls were flattened on one side, and stood out at weird angles from his head on the other side. His face looked bloodless and shiny in the sickly light from the florescent tubes overhead. “Oh, thank God.” He said. His voice was low and his eyes constantly blinked. He bit his lower lip. “Can you please get me out of here?”
He walked like he’d been kicked in the balls as we passed through the electric doors into the sunshine. His shoulders were hunched and his head was down.
“That was horrible.” He said. He glanced over at me then cast his eyes back down towards the sidewalk as we walked to the parking lot. “They shackled me, Chanse.” He shuddered and stopped walking. He started shaking, and put his head down and his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He made gagging noises. Not knowing what to do, I reached out and patted him between the shoulder blades.
A police car cruised by slowly, , the driver watched us from behind mirrored sunglasses. Paul turned his head away. I nodded in acknowledgement, and the cop turned his gaze back to the road.
“Come on, honey.” I said. “Let’s go home. Are you hungry?”
He nodded. “A little bit. I didn’t have dinner—“ he broke off. “And this morning I couldn’t eat the breakfast they gave us…oh God.” He shuddered again.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We headed over to where I’d parked my little red Cavalier. Just when we reached the car, he stopped, threw his arms around me and gripped me with all his strength. At first I just stood there as my ribs were crushed, and then I put my arms around him. His body shook. He’s crying, I realized with a start. I squeezed him tight and stroked his hair. Poor guy. I do love him, I thought. I said, “It’s okay, baby. Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see. Everything’s gonna work out..”
He pushed away from me, wiped his eyes and forced a shaky smile. “It’ll have to be, won’t it? I can’t go back to jail. I’d rather die.” He shuddered again. “I’d rather die, Chanse.”
