Standing there naked, she broke down in tears. After allowing herself a good cry, she found her way to her bed and curled up in her fluffy blue robe. She needed to get started, she knew. But she’d allow herself a few hours to indulge in her new pillow-top mattress and soft sheets. Before first light, she would be on the road.
She would be a fugitive.
* * * * *
Five more minutes. Then Nate would have to decide how he wanted to play this.
He scanned the room again while he sat at the bar, his attention focused on the front door and one of the bright-red booths in the back. The place was considered upscale, with a bar that was polished to a bright gleam and modern art on the walls that seemed to be a giant step up from the typical paint-by-numbers or neon-sign fare of other establishments. The clientele dressed and smelled better than a lot of the dives Nate had cased too. Still, even with shinier packaging, the place was what it was—a place for folks to unwind, escape from their lives, or hook up with other lonely souls looking to unwind or escape from their lives.
He’d been told the woman he sought stopped in at the Red Apple Lounge every weeknight at six, and she sat in the same booth. Even better, the woman he was truly after sometimes met her there. But that would be too much to hope for, the way his luck had been running. This was strictly a fact-finding mission, the kind that either netted feast or famine and typically the latter. Questioning friends, relatives and known associates of a bond jumper often earned him hostility, denial and bullshit, but sometimes he managed to find someone the jumper had pissed off along their road to crime. They were all too happy to spill whatever they could in order to get even. On the other hand, those who’d been fucked over had often been cut out of the loop, so their information was not always up to date.
Which type this Valerie Ariman would turn out to be was anyone’s guess.
A grizzled voice cut into his thoughts. “Nate? Nature fucking Antillean. I don’t believe it.”
Nate turned and saw Benny Shatofski grinning his trademark grin. “Last I checked, my middle name was Jason, not Fucking.” Nate stuck out his hand in greeting.
Benny shook the offered hand. “Then I guess times have changed, stud. Too bad.”
Benny wasn’t much taller standing up than Nate was sitting down, but to be fair, Nate was currently boosted up on a bar stool. Benny’s wiry hair was grayer and his leathery skin more wrinkled than the last time Nate had seen him, but he still had the same hawk eyes and the gold tooth in front, a memento after a skip had knocked his out.
“How’s it hanging, Benny?”
“Long and strong, same as always.” Benny plopped onto the stool beside Nate, a move that effectively cutoff his view of the rear booth. “I was just talking to Joe about you the other day.”
Nate glanced at the door again. Three minutes. “And saying nothing good, I suppose.”
“I was saying I hadn’t seen Nate the Crate in ages. Heard you left the game.”
Nate met the older man’s eyes. “You heard right.”
“Yeah? So why does my gut tell me you’re working right now? Or do old habits just die hard?”
“Some old habits can get people killed.”
“The way I heard it, what happened wasn’t your fault.”
Already, the conversation was twisting his gut. He took a sip of his beer to settle it. “I’m sure that was a great comfort to the victim’s family.”
Benny ordered a long neck and pulled off his black leather gloves. “We don’t exactly sell daisies at the airport, you know. You ask me, all the pretty names they use for us these days are a bunch of shit. Bond enforcement, surety agents, bail fugitive investigators.” He snorted. “It all sounds so professional, doesn’t it? When you and I both know the truth.”
“Which is?”
“You can’t sugar coat what we do. We’re bounty hunters. We collar bad guys for money. Oh, it might not be quite the same as the Old West with six-shooters and wanted posters, but we’re not as far off that dusty trail as some like to think.”
“Your point being?”
“In a job like this, shit happens. Someone’s eventually going to get hurt. I’m not saying it isn’t fucked and sucked, but it’s a risk we take.”
“The risk I signed up for involved my own neck or maybe the occasional neck of a criminal. Not an innocent bystander.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger. Don’t let that shit eat at you, or you can’t do the job.”
“I’m not doing the job anymore.” In theory.
Benny cocked his head at him. “Okay, fine. You’re not on the job. Then would you mind telling me why you’ve had your radar dialed up to a hundred while you’ve been scanning the joint?”