The Things We Do for Love

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  I read each file and made notes for the report the owner of the agency, Rocky Franklin, had requested. Damage control, he called it. Among other things.

  First up was Samuel Yates, last address a steam grate near Union Station. Sam was heir to $700,000 from his grandfather’s estate. Babcock had contacted him first, costing us our expenses in locating him and our finder’s fee. Pure spite that one, and a total loss.

  Next was Ricky Zingone, whiplash victim and 4-handicap golfer. Babcock had gone with the roll of film immortalizing Ricky’s scintillating 71 at Pine Crest. What form, what follow-through. And only a week after the accident. Ricky was now in a brace and a wheelchair. Dominion Insurance terminated their contract with us immediately. I recommended to Rocky that we reopen negotiations with them on a trial basis in six months. Their damage-control report would be deeply filed by then and they might be able to remember our previous track record for them.

  Then there was Beverly Grimes. She was no longer leaving eighteen-month-old Rodney alone at night so she could go looking for love in all the wrong places. Her history said that she wouldn’t be able to keep that up for more than three weeks. I recommended continuing the surveillance at our expense, and made a note to call Rodney’s father first thing in the morning.

  Dr. Ahmed Naboukian was the fourth of Babcock’s going-away presents. He had taken a sudden vacation to Brazil. Closed the office, kissed the wife, and poof!, he turned into the toad he really was. The bastard wouldn’t be doing any more gynecological exams with his one-eyed viper, not in the States anyway. Brazil was going to be a big problem though, since it has no extradition treaty with the United States. Ahmed must have read that in the travel brochure when he was looking for a new swamp to jump into. I suggested assembling our clients and introducing them to Mrs. Mona Naboukian. Perhaps that would convince her to help lure his toadhood out of Brazil to a locale where he could be boxed up and returned to face charges. If not, then I recommended moving immediately to file charges and attempt to freeze his assets before she could assist him in liquidating them and funneling them into a Brazilian bank.

  Last there was Jack Carruthers, wanted for snatching his daughter Crystal, age four, from her mother. Jack felt unjustly constrained by the “absurd” court order requiring supervised visitation. He claimed that he was “liberating” Crystal from her “brainwashing” mother. All that aside, Jack did not also have a good explanation for the video he’d sold Charlie of him sodomizing little Crystal. We got lucky with Jack and didn’t lose him when he suddenly broke cover and hopped a plane to Atlanta. I called Crystal’s mother to explain what had happened and that we still had her husband under surveillance. She slammed the phone down so hard that when I called back I was told it was out of service. An hour later, her lawyer called to tell me that Hagberg & Associates were now handling the case and that if I sent any bill at all to Ms. Toomey, he’d add three zeroes to the damages on the lawsuit he was preparing. I respectfully advised Rocky that we eat shit on this case and politely ask for seconds.

  Our lawyers had good news and bad news for us. The good news was that we could sue Babcock for breach of contract. The bad news was that the people he’d informed would have to testify against him to prove that he’d betrayed us. I told Rocky that I thought we’d have more luck opening up an ACLU office in Tehran.

  I further noted that we should file a grievance with the state licensing board and the local investigators’ associations. I had already met privately with colleagues and standing just this side of slander had pissed into every watering hole he might visit.

  I scanned the report one last time and closed by tendering my resignation.

  It looked like old Charlie was going to get away with it. This time, anyway. He’d hurt us and our clients a lot worse than we could hurt him. But someday, somewhere, our paths would cross again. At least I hoped so.

  I locked my desk and turned off the lights. The files and report I put in my secretary’s IN box. I was almost out the door when the phone rang. I reached across the receptionist’s desk to pick it up.

  “Hello.”

  “Leo, what are you doing in the office?” It was Samantha, claimed by all who know me to be my better half.

  “Cleaning up after Charlie Babcock, that’s what. Where are you?”

  “Home. I couldn’t take another minute in New York. I felt battered the entire time I was there.” She sighed. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s me. New York used to be exciting and glamorous. This time it felt like a feeding frenzy, people just flaying each other. It felt raw. Raw and awful. A gigantic boiling stew of desperation.”

  “Did anything happen to you?”

  “No. I was insulated from all that. Chauffered limos, maitre’d’s and bellboys between me and the city. Like some kind of reverse zoo, where the ones behind bars are the lucky ones. But I felt like I had no skin at all, no boundaries, everything just went right through me.”

  This didn’t surprise me. Lately Sam had been chronically moody. Unfortunately her range only went from the merely cranky to the totally crazed. I thought it was because her writing wasn’t going well, but she refused to discuss that with me. I kept a low profile these days, figuring that it would pass, as all storms do, and hoping that part of the aftermath would be some understanding for both of us.

  “When will you be home?” she asked.

  “Not for a while.”

  “Do you have more work to do?” A trace of whine set in.

  “No. I’ve done what I can about Charlie Babcock. I have a meeting with Arnie tonight.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Annoyed now.

  “No, it can’t. I’m helping him with a job.” Equally annoyed, I sank to the occasion.

  “What kind of job?”

  “A bounty-hunting job.”

  “Why are you doing that? You said you weren’t going to be working the streets anymore. Why not let the police back him up?”

  I closed my eyes. I hated to visualize Samantha when she sounded like this. Wearily, I started with the simplest question, “Because the police won’t help him. It pisses them off that he gets the money he does for doing the same job they do, bringing in the bad guys. Besides that, he’s embarrassed them a couple of times. They’d love to see him take a fall.”

  “So, let somebody from the agency do it. Assign somebody. Isn’t that your job?”

  Well, fuck you too. “Yes, it is. But you know Arnie. He doesn’t trust anyone but me.”

  “So, what does that mean? When we’re on our honeymoon, if Arnie calls, I get to finish by myself?”

  “Whoa, whoa, what’s the big deal here? I’ll be out for”—I checked my watch—“another couple of hours, maybe three at the most. Then I’m home.”

  “Leo, I really want you to come home now. It’s important. There are things we have to talk about.”

  “Fine. So let’s talk. What is it?” I knew I was being an asshole.

  “Not over the phone.”

  “Why not?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The way she’d been acting recently, I couldn’t envision good news.

  “I can’t believe I have to explain myself to you. I said it’s important, Leo, isn’t that enough?”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Sam. Most of the time you don’t. But tonight, I told Arnie that I’d back him up and he’s counting on me.” Nothing. “Sam, he’s my friend.”

  “And what does that make me?” she asked, hanging up before I could reply, although truth be known, I wasn’t sure what I would have said.

  2

  Arnie and I parked two blocks away from the address he had for Harold “Warthog” Snipes. Arnie had disconnected the car’s interior lights, so I used a flashlight to read the file on Snipes. Single; twenty years old; no fixed address; no visible means of support; driver’s license suspended; only nearby relative was his mother, Hilda Snipes; dropped out of the tenth grade. I skimmed the juvenile history of increasingly serious offenses met by increasingly futile sanctions. At sevente
en, Harold had joined the Fourth Reich, where he now held the rank of Uberschutzmann, which was probably pidgin German for doltschmuck.

  I flipped to the picture and description. The biggest mistake a bounty hunter can make is to bring in the wrong man. Then you’re just a kidnapper. Last year Arnie had pissed off the cops big time when he brought in the right Burgess twin. Seems they hadn’t taken the time to read the twins’ medical records and check for scars. Bringing in the wrong twin might not have been considered negligence except that the lawyer subpoenaed Arnie to explain how he managed to get it right. The settlement was for the legendary “undisclosed amount.” The result for Arnie was that he was on an unofficial blacklist. There was no police backup for him at any time.

  I slipped the picture out for a closer look. Snipes’s egg-shaped head was completely shaved. In the center of his forehead he had commissioned a work of art: a swastika. No going back now, Harold. His complexion was pale and pockmarked on the cheeks. Between his blue-gray eyes, his snout was broad and upturned. The dark, round nostrils were like the twin barrels of a shotgun and just as pleasant to look up. His smile was a thing to behold and the obvious source of his nickname. The jutting underlip and the wide gap between his canines made them look just like tusks.

  All of this beauty was perched upon a six foot three, 317-pound walking landfill that favored steel-toed boots, blue jeans and suspenders, and white T-shirts. In addition to his hood ornament he had the twin lightning bolts and skull of the S.S. on the outside of each bicep and wore large rings on each finger, creating legal brass knuckles.

  “How’d you find this monstrosity?” I asked.

  Arnie smiled. “Passed some money around. A couple of people have met Harold and not been charmed.”

  “What are we bringing him in for?”

  “He was the wheelman for that drive-by killing in Georgetown, when they hit that rabbi last fall.”

  “Yeah, right after Yom Kippur services let out.”

  “You got it.”

  “What’s the price on him?”

  “Bail was two hundred thousand. I get ten percent plus expenses. The synagogue has tacked on a twenty-five thousand reward, another fifty for the shooter.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think they liked it when Harold said ‘What’s the beef? He was in season.’”

  “How long did it take you to find him?”

  “Not long. A couple of weeks. Snipes is a creature of habit, a real ‘gashhound.’ Just had to find his current honey and watch her. Why do you ask?”

  “I sent Rocky Franklin my resignation tonight.”

  “Over the Babcock thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you think that was a little extreme?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think I can assume that he’ll want me to stay on after this fiasco.”

  “So it’s vote of confidence time?”

  “Right. And if it’s a no, then I need a fallback position. Maybe bounty hunting is it.”

  “We’ve come full circle, haven’t we, Leo?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I guess we have.”

  “How long did I work for you?”

  “I don’t know that it was for me, I always thought it was with me. Ten years, I guess.”

  “Well, if Rocky dumps you, which would surprise me, you can fall back to this. I’m getting much bigger jobs than you could command right away. Besides it’d be fun, you and me working together again.”

  “Thanks, Arnie. Part of me hopes that Rocky does can me. And if he does, this’ll beat the hell out of unemployment. Maybe Sam’ll see it that way when I talk to her.”

  “Check the papers on Snipes, would you, Leo? I want to be able to dump him tonight.”

  “Right.” I made sure that we had copies of the letter of employment from the bail bondsman, the bail agreement, the notice of forfeiture, and the bench warrant. Together they constituted our legal right to act as the jailers of Harold Snipes wherever he might be found.

  “Everything’s there.”

  “You ready to go, Leo?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  We pulled up a couple of blocks until we were catty-corner to Snipes’s hideout.

  “When his honey goes to work, we’ll make our move.”

  “What does she do?” I asked. “Going to work at this time.”

  “She dances bottomless at a club on Georgia Avenue.”

  About twenty minutes later the girl trotted down the stairs, got into a car, and drove off. Arnie rolled forward across the intersection, past the alley behind the house, and made a right turn at the next corner. When we were directly behind the house, Arnie slowed a bit and I jumped out and ran between the houses toward the alley and Snipes’s backyard.

  Arnie continued up to the end of the block and turned right. I saw him paralleling me as I crossed the alley. If our timing was right, he’d glide silently in front of the house ten seconds after I had finished with the back steps.

  I ran in a crouch across the backyard and squatted next to the stairs leading down from the back porch. I didn’t feature the “Warthog” vaulting any railings, not at 317 pounds. So if he went out the back, he’d have to go down the stairs. I wrapped the 130-pound fishing line around one upright, taped it into place, and ran it across to the other post. When it was secured, I checked the tension. It should hit him mid-shin. Face up or face down, he wouldn’t be hard to find.

  I scuttled alongside the building to the bushes at the front left corner. Arnie pulled up in front of the house. He had coasted down with the engine off. Braking to a halt, he slid out of the driver’s side and ran toward the front door. He was dressed like me, entirely in black, and when he moved he was just a ripple in the night.

  On the front porch, we pulled out our guns. We were using light loads because the house was a duplex. The last thing we wanted were slugs going through the walls and hitting the neighbors.

  I pulled out my flashlight and held it high and away from my body. Arnie would go in first.

  The house plans we’d reviewed showed a kitchen door in the back left side and a bathroom under the head of the staircase going up the right wall.

  Fortunately there wasn’t a screen door. Arnie looked at me. I nodded. The door opened on the left. I crossed to the left side and kept the flashlight in my right hand. Arnie crouched down to the level of the knob. He turned it slowly. It was unlocked and he pushed it open. Snipes should go in for being criminally stupid. I flashed the light around the room, hitting the doors and the top of the stairs, then turned it off. In that instant Arnie crossed into the room and stood against the left wall. I crossed behind him, reached back with my left elbow, and pushed the door closed. I nudged it with my ass until the lock clicked.

  The bathroom was first. Arnie and I crossed to the door and repeated our synchronized flash-and-move sequence. Nothing. When Arnie closed the door, I put a strip of black tape across the edge. If Snipes got behind us and hid in a room we’d already checked, he’d dislodge the tape and give himself away. At least that’s the theory.

  The kitchen was empty. I taped the door and we moved to the staircase. Going up a staircase after a jumper is like making Pickett’s charge knowing how it turned out.

  According to the plans, the second floor had a bathroom door at the top of the stairs and two bedrooms on the left side of the hall. Each bedroom had a closet and the bathroom tub probably had a shower curtain. Six more doors. I took a deep breath and nodded at Arnie. It would be like this until we found Snipes. Coiling in readiness outside each doorway, riding the waves of adrenalin that rolled through, then making our move just before excitement crested and fell into fear.

  We went up the stairs. My jaws ached and my eyes were dry and scratchy. Halfway up the stairs, I swung in an arc toward the bedroom doors. Arnie stood outside the bathroom door. There was no way that I could give him any light and cover his back. He was on his own. Both bedroom doors were closed. Arnie squatted down and pushed the ba
throom door open. He went through. Silence. I imagined him pulling back the shower curtain. Hello Norman Bates. Blessed silence.

  Arnie came back out. I climbed the rest of the stairs and taped the door. Four left. Arnie put his ear to the first door and shook his head. We went to the second door. This time Arnie signaled uncertainty. If he was right, we were done, if not, Snipes would be alerted and behind us. I shook my head no. We backed away from the door.

  Then it came upon us. A combination snore and whistle, chased by a shudder. Arnie and I grinned and tiptoed back to the front bedroom. Had to be the “Warthog” dreaming of a romp on the veldt.

  I stood behind Arnie, squatting with his hand on the knob. I had my flashlight ready and tapped him on the head with my gun hand. At the silent count of three, he opened the door. Flash and move and we were in.

  There, on a mattress on the floor, was Harold Snipes. Face down, his blubbery lips flapped with each snore. One huge arm hung off the mattress onto the floor. Fortunately, he was fully dressed. All we had to do was wake him up and wrap him to go.

  I scanned the room. The closet was open. Arnie kept his gun on Snipes. I backed out and went to check the other bedroom. It was empty. When I returned, Arnie took a position at Snipes’s feet. I stood by his outstretched arm. That way there wouldn’t be any chance of an accidental crossfire if Snipes did something suicidal. I shone the light in his eyes as Arnie kicked him in the leg.

  Snipes threw his arm up in front of his eyes and rolled onto his side. “What the fuck?” he snarled.

  He put his arm down and stopped blinking. His eyes jumped back and forth between our guns. “Oh shit. Who are you guys? What do you want?”

  “Shut up, lardass,” I snapped, and asked Arnie, “Is he the one?”

  “I don’t know. He sure looks like him, though. What’s your name, Fats?”

  Snipes was silent.

  Arnie shook his head. “You’re pissing me off, Fats. I don’t get paid if I kill the wrong guy, but I might just do you for the practice.”