Glades Mutual in Miami. It was a grind, but good money if you put in the hours.
The problem was that after representing Glades for the past nineteen years, no complaints either way, the company was now under new management, taken over by guys with organized crime connections. Max was sure of it. They'd even placed an ex-con in his office, Ordell Robbie's friend Louis Gara. "To help out," this thug from Glades Mutual said, a guy who didn't know shit about the business. "Go after some of those big drug-trafficking bonds."
"What those people do," Max told the guy, "is skip as soon as they're bonded."
The guy said, "So what? We got the premium."
"I don't write people who I know are gonna forfeit."
The guy said, "If they don't want to show up in court, that's their business."
"And it's my business who I write," Max told him.
The guy from Glades said, "You got an attitude problem," and gave him Louis to hang around the office, a convicted bank robber just out of prison.
Winston came in while Max was preparing the forms. Winston Willie Powell, a licensed bondsman following a 39 and 10 record as a middleweight. He was light heavy in retirement, short and thick, with a bearded black face so dark it was hard to make out his features. Max watched him, at the other desk now, unlock the right-hand drawer and take out a snub-nosed .38 before he looked over.
"Have to pick up that little Puerto Rican housebreaker thinks he's Zorro. Has the swords on his wall? Man lies to his probation officer, she violates him, we bond him, and then he don't show up for his hearing. I called Delray PD, said I might need some backup, depending how it goes. They say to me, 'He's your problem, man.' They don't want to mess with those women live there. Touch Zorro, they try to scratch your eyes out."
"You want help? Get Louis."
Winston said, "I rather do it myself," shoving the .38 into his waistband and smoothing his ribbed knit T-shirt over it. "Who you writing?"
"Concealed weapon. Ten thousand."
"That's high."
"Not for Beaumont Livingston. They caught him one time with machine guns."
"Beaumont-he's Jamaican he's gone."
"This African-American gent who put up cash says no."
"We know him?"
"Ordell Robbie," Max said and waited.
Winston shook his head. "Where's he live?"
"On Thirty-first right off Greenwood. You know
that neighborhood? It's kept up. People have bars on their windows."
"You want, I'll check him out."
"He knows Louis. They're old buddies."
"Then you know the man's dirty," Winston said.
"Where's Beaumont live?" "Riviera Beach. He's hired help but worth ten grand to Mr. Robbie."
"Wants his man sprung 'fore he gets squeezed and cops to a deal. I can bring him out when I take Zorro."
"I'm going up anyway. I have to deliver Reggie." "Missed his hearing again? They beauties, aren't they?"
"He says it was his mother's birthday, he forgot." "And you believe that shit. I swear, there times you act like these people are no different than anybody else."
"I'm glad we're having this talk," Max said. "Yeah, well, I'm enough irritated the way you act,"
Winston said, "you better not get smart with me. Like nothing bothers you. Like not even Mr. Louis Gara, the way you let him waste your time. Let him smoke his cigarettes in here."
"No, Louis bothers me," Max said.
"Then throw his ass out and lock the door. Then call that crooked insurance company and tell them you're through. You don't, they gonna eat you up or get you in trouble with the state commission, and you know it."
"Right," Max said. He turned to his typewriter.
"Listen to me. All you got to do is stop writing their bonds."
"You mean quit the business."
"For a while. What's wrong with that?"
"If you haven't looked at the books lately," Max said, "we've got close to a million bucks out there."
"It don't mean you have to work. Ride it out. See, then when it's all off the books you start over."
"I got bills to pay, like everybody
The problem was that after representing Glades for the past nineteen years, no complaints either way, the company was now under new management, taken over by guys with organized crime connections. Max was sure of it. They'd even placed an ex-con in his office, Ordell Robbie's friend Louis Gara. "To help out," this thug from Glades Mutual said, a guy who didn't know shit about the business. "Go after some of those big drug-trafficking bonds."
"What those people do," Max told the guy, "is skip as soon as they're bonded."
The guy said, "So what? We got the premium."
"I don't write people who I know are gonna forfeit."
The guy said, "If they don't want to show up in court, that's their business."
"And it's my business who I write," Max told him.
The guy from Glades said, "You got an attitude problem," and gave him Louis to hang around the office, a convicted bank robber just out of prison.
Winston came in while Max was preparing the forms. Winston Willie Powell, a licensed bondsman following a 39 and 10 record as a middleweight. He was light heavy in retirement, short and thick, with a bearded black face so dark it was hard to make out his features. Max watched him, at the other desk now, unlock the right-hand drawer and take out a snub-nosed .38 before he looked over.
"Have to pick up that little Puerto Rican housebreaker thinks he's Zorro. Has the swords on his wall? Man lies to his probation officer, she violates him, we bond him, and then he don't show up for his hearing. I called Delray PD, said I might need some backup, depending how it goes. They say to me, 'He's your problem, man.' They don't want to mess with those women live there. Touch Zorro, they try to scratch your eyes out."
"You want help? Get Louis."
Winston said, "I rather do it myself," shoving the .38 into his waistband and smoothing his ribbed knit T-shirt over it. "Who you writing?"
"Concealed weapon. Ten thousand."
"That's high."
"Not for Beaumont Livingston. They caught him one time with machine guns."
"Beaumont-he's Jamaican he's gone."
"This African-American gent who put up cash says no."
"We know him?"
"Ordell Robbie," Max said and waited.
Winston shook his head. "Where's he live?"
"On Thirty-first right off Greenwood. You know
that neighborhood? It's kept up. People have bars on their windows."
"You want, I'll check him out."
"He knows Louis. They're old buddies."
"Then you know the man's dirty," Winston said.
"Where's Beaumont live?" "Riviera Beach. He's hired help but worth ten grand to Mr. Robbie."
"Wants his man sprung 'fore he gets squeezed and cops to a deal. I can bring him out when I take Zorro."
"I'm going up anyway. I have to deliver Reggie." "Missed his hearing again? They beauties, aren't they?"
"He says it was his mother's birthday, he forgot." "And you believe that shit. I swear, there times you act like these people are no different than anybody else."
"I'm glad we're having this talk," Max said. "Yeah, well, I'm enough irritated the way you act,"
Winston said, "you better not get smart with me. Like nothing bothers you. Like not even Mr. Louis Gara, the way you let him waste your time. Let him smoke his cigarettes in here."
"No, Louis bothers me," Max said.
"Then throw his ass out and lock the door. Then call that crooked insurance company and tell them you're through. You don't, they gonna eat you up or get you in trouble with the state commission, and you know it."
"Right," Max said. He turned to his typewriter.
"Listen to me. All you got to do is stop writing their bonds."
"You mean quit the business."
"For a while. What's wrong with that?"
"If you haven't looked at the books lately," Max said, "we've got close to a million bucks out there."
"It don't mean you have to work. Ride it out. See, then when it's all off the books you start over."
"I got bills to pay, like everybody
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