“You got an appointment, honey?” the fat man said, phone cradled to his ear, slumped back almost horizontal in a worn leather office chair that was testing the limits of its construction. Behind a desk piled high with file folders, loose court papers, fast-food containers, and at least two coffee mugs, in an office with linoleum floors that suggested former laundromat, sat—or lay—Al Lennox, president of Out Now Bail Bonds. What Colleen could see of him, around stacks of papers, was a mound of flesh in a huge wrinkled blue shirt with a yellow tie hanging off to one side like a noose.
“I called yesterday,” she said, not sure how much to divulge since their business wasn’t quite legit.
“You and about a million other people, sweetheart.” The sole of a brown loafer stared her in the face, as the shoe rested on the desk. The chair squeaked.
Several others waited in straight-back wooden chairs around the office, leafing through old magazines or simply looking anxious. One woman told a little boy to shut the fuck up. It was Sunday morning, and Saturday night in San Francisco had generated plenty of fresh business for the courts and its satellites like Out Now Bail Bonds around the Hall of Justice.
“I’m Colleen Hayes,” she said quietly.
“Oh, you’re the one whose old man got popped for the DWN?”
“DWN?”
“Driving while naked.” He laughed. “You bring your court paperwork, honey?”
“I’m a friend of Moran’s.”
The chair squealed mightily as the bulk in it rose up like a whale breaching. Al Lennox came into view, round face red with blood pressure, and scruffy salt-and-pepper hair. An untrimmed mustache complemented the look. The sloppy knot of his tie hung halfway down his shirt.
The chair came to rest.
“I remember now,” he said. He hung the phone up in an unexpectedly delicate motion. “I was on hold anyway.” He leaned forward on his elbows. It seemed an effort for him to get that close to the desk. He managed to fold his pudgy hands.
“You bring the money?”
Colleen glanced around the office. A poster of Hawaii failed to offer much relief. At the other desk, a black man even larger than Al Lennox—but one who had transformed his mass into muscle and wearing thick glasses and suspenders over a short-sleeved white shirt—was helping an elderly woman in a blue hat fill out paperwork. His desk was the polar opposite of Al’s, meaning it was organized and you could see more than half its surface.
“I did,” Colleen said.
Al Lennox raised his eyebrows and held his hands up, as if to say, Well?
Colleen picked up her bag from the floor, retrieved a white envelope that contained twenty-five twenty-dollar bills. She leaned forward, found an empty spot on Al’s side of the desk, tossed the envelope over. She sat back, crossed her legs, smoothing her blue skirt over her knees. This caused Al’s attention to wander for a moment. But he was soon digging through the contents of the envelope, his lips moving as he counted bills.
“And you got the same amount for my contact, right?” he said.
Colleen frowned as she set her bag back down on the floor beside her straight-backed chair. “I don’t believe we discussed that on the phone.”
He nodded and she could see his tongue working underneath his upper lip, moving the push-broom mustache around. “The good news is, it’s a go—the evidence inspection. The bad news is, he’s not gonna do it for the standard amount. Not something like this.”
No one else in the office seemed the slightest bit concerned in their conversation. The only one having a problem with it was Colleen.
“So we’re talking another five hundred?” she said, incredulous.
Al Lennox confirmed with a single nod.
“That’s not right,” she said.
“I’m sorry, honey. But in this line of work, things are variable. If you need to think about it, fine. I’m here, seven days a week.”
What could she do? If she wanted to see Margaret Copeland’s case evidence …
“When do I get to see the—ah—evidence?”
“Today, if you want.”
Today had a lot of appeal. She just didn’t have the money. She had run-around money but, until H&M paid her invoice, or Mr. Copeland sent a check, five hundred dollars might as well be a million.
“I’ll have to write you a check,” she said. “The banks are closed today.”
She saw him squint as he scrutinized her face. Trust her? A decade behind bars could make her hard to read when she chose to.
“Hell, you’re a friend of Moran’s,” Al Lennox said with a smile. “That’s as good as any bank.”
Colleen picked up her handbag again, got out her checkbook.
“Do I make it out to Out Now Bail Bonds?” she said.
“Make it out to me personally.”
“I’ll need a receipt,” she said. “For my expenses.”
“What have you been smoking?” Al Lennox gave a smirk. “My work is guaranteed. I don’t stay in business by shortchanging customers, honey. Not with my kind of clientele.”
As she wrote out the check and deducted the balance in her register, she saw that Hayes Confidential was now running a negative surplus. She’d heard the governor use the phrase on the radio the other day.
She stood up, dropped the check on Al’s side of the desk. She didn’t think she could watch him struggle like a seal trying to get onto a dock for a fish.
Al examined the check, nodded, let it flutter to the desk. “I’ll call the guy now.” He picked up his phone, dialed a number, put the receiver to his ear. After a brief phone call, he gave her an address on Potrero.
“Lenny Coltrane is the man you want to see.” Al consulted his watch, a big shiny gold thing. “He works the day shift.” Al turned to the black man working with the old woman at the desk next to him and said, “Peanut, when you’re done there, how about getting us some burritos?”