Searches & Seizures (3 page)

Dan Tucker’s in the corridor, a gray and handsome man, taller than the half-dozen bondsmen who circle him, chatting him up, trying to find out what an important corporation counsel like himself is doing in the halls. He sees me and waves.

Dan and I go way back. During the thirties Dan was an ambulance chaser, a divorce man, a writer of wills, a house closer. It was in this very building that it happened, that I took fire. In the thirties they stole bread, they took sweaters in winter and galoshes in the rainy season, pails of fuel. The shoplifters were men—hunters, practically. A gentle age, the Depression. So it was, I forget exactly, but a day in winter, some cold day following some colder one, and there they were: the bread and sweater thieves out in force, or at least their relatives, the bread thieves and sweater swipers and fuel filchers, all that lot of conditional takers, nickers of necessities without a mean bone in their body—if anything the opposite, tender-hearted as raw liver, or their relatives I mean, that sad boatload of the dependent. Old Dan Tucker was there, well dressed as now, dapper in his graduation suit but coming in as much to get warm, you understand, as to round up a client. Who could pay? There wasn’t a retainer between the sorry lot of them, let alone a fee, so Dan was in off the street to chat up a pal probably, though there weren’t even any other lawyers around (that’s how bad times were, so bad that trouble drew no troubleshooters, rotten luck no retinue) and, dapper as he was, a little sad himself, as though if times didn’t change soon he might be busted for grabbing a loaf or an overcoat himself one day, and not many bail-bondsmen there to speak of either, for it’s a trade which follows the ego. Freedom and fraud go hand in hand, I think, liberty and larceny, hope and heists, spirit and spoils. So no bailbondsmen there to speak of, maybe one or two old-timers from the roaring twenties, bewildered now that Prohibition was off and gangland killings were down at par value. And the Phoenician’s angry, plenty mad, and the madder he is the more he needs to make himself an oasis. He’ll have an oasis. Let there be an oasis in this desert of mood, this sandy blandness of meager evil.

“Oyez, oyez,” he shouts, erupts. “Make a circle, oyez. The pregnant here and the orphaned there, small orphans closer to the radiators, hold those smaller orphans’ hands, you taller orphans, be gloves to them, that’s it, that’s right. Now the feverish on that side and the coughers on this. Let’s get some order here. Where are my old people, my widowed mothers and my gassed dads? All right, all right, perfect the circle. Now the rest of you form according to your mood, despair to anger like the do re mi. The innocent next, the falsely accused, all those cases of mistaken identity and people whose alibis will stand up in court. Oyez, oyez. Are you an orphan, boy?”

“Sir, I’m not.”

“Who’s inside for you then?”

“It’s my brother, sir.”

“Stand next to that tall orphan. Oyez, are you formed? Are you arranged, oyez?” They shuffle a bit. “Is your tenuous connection to guilt orchestrated proper? I’ll find you out later but I’ll take your word. Can I have your word? Can I?”

They nod, excited.

“Good. Oyez. In a few minutes the hearings begin. They’ll let your people in, but they won’t let them go. It’s jail for the poor man, crust and water for the down-and-outer. I’m Alexander Main the Bailbondsman and you need me, oyez. See that man? The tall bloke in the stripy suit? Recognize him? Know who he is? Tip of your tongue, right? You know him. A big shot, the biggest. You read his name in the papers before you stuff them inside your clothes to keep the draft off. He goes to the night clubs. His photo’s in the columns. He’s had his picture taken more times than you’ve had hot dinners. His brother’s inside now, the cops have him. They keep him apart from your people, the brave men who steal to feed and clothe you. He’s with them now but he won’t be with them long. The judge will set his bail and I’ll pay it. A guy lucky enough to have work and see how he takes advantage? And
what
work! You know what he does? What this man’s brother does? He’s high up in the Cincinnati Reds and he defrauds the railroads and the club too. Worked out some deal on the fares with certain railroads and pockets the dough for the tickets. It’s very complicated, very tricky. I don’t know, I think the infield and bullpen travel on a child’s ticket. A buck for the line and two for the lining of his pocket. You know what that adds up to in a season? Thousands, oyez, thousands. So what’s
he
doing here, then? Stripy suit? He’s asked me to go his brother’s bond. Fifteen thousand and he could pay it himself, so what does he need me with my Jew’s hard terms and my tricksy vigorish? Because the rich man’s money is tied up is why. Because the rich man’s money is tied up and earns more than the lousy ten percent it would cost him to undo the knots. So his brother—if they
are
brothers; they live together, they
say
they’re brothers—comes to me.

“Do what the rich do, you suckers. Do what the rich men do, my brothers. You, lady, you got a ring there, your wedding band. Should your husband rot in jail while Stripy Suit’s pal goes free? Give me the ring, my brother. I’ll go his bond too. The band for the bond. What have you got? I’ll take real estate, furniture, canned goods. Who’s still got a car? Anybody got a car? Raise your hands you got a car.”

“I have a car. It’s up on blocks. Its tires are flat. There’s no money for gas.”

“I’ll take it. This day your husband will be with you in paradise. I’ll take it. Done, oyez. Who else? Anybody else? Pianos then, a fiddle. An heirloom, maybe, from the good old days. A pile carpet, stamp collections, a rare song your grandmother taught you. Suckers,
brothers,
his lordship here comes because his principal’s tied up. These are your husbands and sons and fathers who are tied up. If this rich bastard won’t touch what is only his principal—they
are
brothers, they must be, in this light suddenly I see the resemblance—surely you won’t touch yours which is flesh and blood. Here’s pen, here’s paper. Write down what you have, make a list of what’s left, what you’ll trade for your sweethearts.”

And they did. These good family people did and I took their possessions. And old Dan Tucker just stood by lookin’. And never raised a protest against a single thing I said. Dan and I go back.

The court is convened and we file in.

Slim pickings today. Basket and Farb have wasted my time and Dan Tucker is there only to have a word with the clerk. I salvage what I can, sign up Farb’s shoplifter and a few punks—maybe two hundred fifty, two hundred seventy-five bucks’ worth of business—then go to my office, call the main switchboard at the University of Cincinnati and give the operator the extension.

“Yes, please?” A secretary.

I wink at my own. “Your opposite number, Mr. Crainpool,” I tell him, my hand over the mouthpiece. “Put the chancellor on, Miss.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s his bailbondsman, Miss.”

“Who?”

“Miss, it’s the chancellor of the University of Cincinnati’s bailbondsman here, Miss.”

“The chancellor is in conference,” she tells me nervously.

“Suits me.”

“Just a minute, please. Is this important?”

“Life and death,” I say, shrugging.

“May I have your name, please?”

“The Phoenician. You tell that schoolteacher the Phoenician bondsman wants a word with him.”

In seconds he’s on the phone. Conference dismissed.

“Yes?”

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“I read about the troubles, Doctor, and I’m calling to see if there’s anything I can do.”

“The troubles?”

“I take the campus paper. I have it delivered special in a taxi-cab. There’s going to be sit-ins, break-ins, rumbles you could read on the Richter scale. The Black Students’ Organization will fire the frat houses and sear the sororities. Weathermen in the meteorology lab, safety pins in the computers, blood on the blackboards. Professors’ notes’ll be burned, they’ll rip the railings in the cafeteria and pour weed-killer on the AstroTurf. What, are you kidding me? Mass arrests are coming. The night school students are spoiling for a fight.”

“The night school students?”

“They want the professors to take naps. They ain’t fresh in the evening classes. They need shaves, they say, their suits ain’t pressed.”

“Listen, who is this?”

“
Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.
If you don’t read your student newspaper, try your Bible. It’s Alexander Main, the Phoenician bailbond salesman. Listen to me, Doctor, the University of Cincinnati is a streetcar college. You don’t know what passion is till you’ve smelled it on the breath of the lower classes. Your kid from the middle class, he’s fucking around, his heart ain’t in it. His heart’s in the jukebox, his deposit’s down on a youth fare to Europe. Think, where does the big-time trouble come from? S.F. State, City College. It’s your greaseballs and Chicanos, Chancellor. I got my ear to the ground. The University of Cincinnati is the biggest municipal university in the country. She’s coming in like an oil well, it’s going to blow. Already I smell smoke. State troopers are coming, the Guard. Fort Benning is keeping the engines warmed. Are you ready for all this, Doctor? Where you gonna be when the lights go out? I’m telling you straight, you heard it here first, I think they got their eye on upwards of twenty-five hundred kids. What’ll your forty-five-grand-a-year job be worth you got twenty-five hundred students in jail who can’t make bond?”

“Where do you get this stuff? I never heard anything like this.”

“No. Sure not. I sit at the blower. All alone by the telephone, waiting for a ring, a ting-a-ling. I thought by now you’d have made your arrangements. But no, every day I come back from lunch I ask my secretary, Mr. Crainpool, ‘The chancellor ring yet, Mr. Crainpool?’ Mr. Crainpool says no. I call the phone company. ‘Is this line in working order?’ They tell me hang up, they’ll call back. The Bells of St. Mary’s, Chancellor! Loud. Clear. Could wake the dead. I know in my heart it’s only the service department of Ohio Bell, but I think no, maybe this time it’s the chancellor of the University of Cincinnati calling to do a deal. I wave Mr. Crainpool aside. ‘I’ll get it, Mr. Crainpool,’ I say, ‘it could be the big one.’ I pick up the phone. ‘This six-seven-eight, five-oh-one-two?’ All hope founders, zing go the strings of my heart. ‘Everything’s A-OK,’ I tell him. ‘Check,’ he says. ‘Roger and out,’ I offer.

“But you know something? I lied, I told a fib to the fucking service department of Ohio Bell. Because it ain’t A-OK.
Pas de doing
with the university. The chancellor is not making his arrangements. You play golf, Doctor? What’s your handicap? Wait, I’ll tell you.
Your handicap is that when this place goes sky-high you won’t know where to turn!
Do the deal, my dear Doctor of Philosophy. Twenty-five hundred kids at an average bond of three hundred dollars. That’s three-quarters of a million dollars, Doc. Who’s going to approve that kind of dough? Your trustees? With
their
politics? ‘Let the bastards rot,’ they’ll say. Right. And from that moment on the world can forget the University of Cincinnati. After all you did. All that work down the drain.

“All right, let’s be serious, let’s be serious business people.
I
can’t take on twenty-five hundred kids by myself. It’s not the money; I could probably raise that. A bondsman has tie-ins with insurance companies, loan associations, sometimes he can even get banks to pick up some of his paper. The sky just could be the limit in certain circumstances. So it ain’t the money. It’s the
number.
How can I keep an eye on two thousand, five hundred crazies? I
can’t.
Humanly impossible. Statistically out of the question. I’m sorry; that’s it, it’s useless to argue. But I’ll tell you what I
will
do. I’ll spring five hundred. It’s asking a lot, but I’ll do it. I’m overextending, but don’t concern yourself. I’ll want a retainer from the university. A buck a head.”

“This is incredible. Are you actually a bondsman?”

“Thirty-eight years in the same location. Centrally located, convenient to all courts and many jails. Look, here’s what I’m doing. I’m having a contract drawn up. Mr. Crainpool will hand-carry it to the university. If you like what you see, sign it. If not don’t, and you haven’t spent a dime. You’ll have the specimen contract inside twenty-four hours. That’s pressing me, but we have to get off our duffs, Chancellor, the sky is falling.”

I hang up, slip the contract I’ve already drawn up out of my desk, sign it, have Mr. Crainpool witness it and tell him to pop it by the university on his way to work tomorrow. Mr. Crainpool lives out that way. A respectful, very soft-sell letter accompanies the document spelling out our mutual undertakings. Chances are nothing will come of it, but in these times who can tell? I
do
take the campus newspaper; something like what I outlined to the chancellor
could
happen. A bright bondsman stays on top of things.

“What’s on, Mr. Crainpool? Anything come up while I was at court?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all? Sometimes the merest inquiry or the most innocuous information can lead to the biggest action.”

“No, sir.”

“Where’s all this fucking crime in the streets I keep hearing about? I sometimes think the people around here aren’t pulling their oar.”

“No, sir.”

“They’re letting us down, Mr. Crainpool.”