Page 47 of Two Kinds of Stranger

Richard Reynolds got out of his Mercedes and opened his shop at seven in the morning, hauling up the graffiti-covered rolling shutters and letting himself in to the office.

I waited in my Mustang, watching him through his shop window. He switched on the office lights, took off his coat, went in back. Probably to make some coffee. I waited for six minutes, the average time it takes for a cheap machine to brew a pot,picked a gym bag off the passenger seat beside me, locked up the Mustang and crossed the street to Richard’s place. As I did, I passed Richard’s Mercedes. It was registered to him, personally. One of three cars. The second was a brown ten-year-old Ford, which he used for chasing down his wayward customers, and the third was a Bentley Continental.

Richard, like a lot of guys who suddenly find themselves making a lot of dough illegally, was terrible at hiding money.

The sign above the window saidRichard Reynolds, Bail Bondsin white lettering on a red board. Below it was his phone number and below that–BONDS 4 U.

He hadn’t locked the front door, and I pushed it open. Heard thetingof an electronic bell to tell Richard a customer had come in.

Richard Reynolds was in his early fifties with a full head of silver-blond hair, a jaw that looked like the engine block from a Chevy Chevelle and a moustache that might have been the same color as his hair at some point, but which was now much darker either with age, coffee or an inability to match it with the dye he used on what remained of his hair. He was a big man. He’d been into bodybuilding semi-professionally for years. Even though his tan suit had been made for him, it didn’t quite fit. It was still too tight around the shoulders, which either spoke to the lack of talent on the part of the tailor who cut the suit, or Richard had been through a bulking phase since he’d bought it.

‘We’re not open,’ he said, coming out of the back office, a cup of coffee in his hand. There was one desk in front of him, with two chairs, a phone and a laptop on it. The rest of the shop was a waiting area with cheap plastic office chairs that looked like they’d been accumulated over many years from several different fire-damage sales.

‘My name is Eddie Flynn,’ I said.

He paused.

‘I know you. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you in court.’

Richard was now interested. He smiled, offered me a chair. I could almost see the dollar signs rolling around his eyes like they were in a slot machine.

I slipped the gym bag off my shoulder and let it hit the floor as I sat down.

‘How’s that coffee?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like one? Fair warning, it’s an old machine and it’s not great.’

‘Sold,’ I said.

He smiled, put his coffee down and disappeared in back to fetch me a cup. He returned with hot coffee for me in his best branded mug–Reynolds Bonds, white lettering on red.

‘Do you have a client who needs a bond?’ he asked. ‘I do a lot of white-collar crime. No problem.’

‘Have you heard of the TikTok murders? It’s all over the news,’ I said.

‘Sure, sure, I heard about it. Elly Parker, right? I heard Busken set bail at a one-mil bond and a million in cash. I can help with the bond, that’s no problem, but the premium will cost her. . .’

He opened a desk drawer on his left, brought out a folder, opened it and began to shuffle through blank forms.

‘Payment isn’t going to be a problem,’ I said, taking out my bill fold from my pants pocket. ‘I’ll pay her premium in full, right now.’

Richard watched me peel off a single bill from the fold, put it on the table and slide it toward him.

He stared at the bill. Looked at me.

‘One dollar?’ he asked.

I nodded.

He laughed, said, ‘Eddie, you know my premium fees are set by law as a percentage of the bond. Ten per cent of the first threegrand of the bond, eight percent from three to ten grand, and then I charge six percent of any amount over ten thousand. For your client, you’re talking about sixty thousand dollars.’

‘Don’t ever try to lecture a lawyer about the law. Those are themaximumfees. There’s no minimum. Is that what you tell your customers, that your fees are set down in law and youhaveto charge them that rate? Things aren’t looking good for you.’

‘My charges are fair. I got no complaints. . .’ He didn’t quite finish his sentence. He’d fired back without taking in every word I’d said. Now it was beginning to sink in.

‘What do you mean, things aren’t looking good for me?’

‘You’re about to have thirty plaintiffs in a class action lawsuit set your ass on fire. Right now, I’m not going to ask you to work for me for free. A buck seems about fair considering what you’ve been up to these past few years. You see, I know you,Richard. I know what your clients call you–Tricky Dicky. I know about the overcharging for copies of court records. I know about busting your own clients’ bail so they get hauled back to court and the bond increased. I know about the overcharging for hours, for incidentals. I know all of it. . .’