were selling T-shirts you couldn't fit on my hand. It was very unsettling. Elise lost a cool grand on the tables, and some Danny DeVito look-alike kicked me in the shins for accidentally sitting on his wife at the slots. What am I gonna do? Hit him back?" He pulled his glasses -- another addition to his life as a forty - three - year - old -- from his shirt pocket, and a Carl's Jr. ketchup fell on the desktop. Mortified, Bear swept the offending packet into the trash can.
Tim's eyes didn't move from the screen. "The salad sous-chef accidentally drop some Carl's Jr. ketchup in your shirt pocket?"
"It's from last week. Anyways, me and Elise had a miserable time, haven't talked since we've been back." Bear exhaled theatrically. "Shit, I think you grabbed the last good one off the market, Rack. I'm never getting married."
"Do you want to get married?"
Bear chewed his lip, breathing hard. "Nah. I prefer to direct all my hatred at myself." The photo of a skinny kid popped up on the monitor, and Bear pointed at it, his ham hand blocking the screen. "So there he is. The fifth Reggie Rondell."
"The fifth?"
"Five Reggie Rondells in the greater Los Angeles area, believe it or not. That includes Reginalds and Reginas, just to be safe. Reginald Rondell Jr. is a crusty white guy from Orange, moved to Philly in January, hasn't traveled west since, at least by plane. Regina Rondell, age seventy-five, God rest her soul, kicked in June. Our third Reggie Rondell is enrolled at Marquez Elementary School in the Palisades. I got the parole officer of the fourth on the phone about ten minutes ago -- homie had a dealing problem, was on the inside two months ago. Which leaves us with the fifth Reggie Rondell."
Tim checked the identifiers -- five-seven, 135 pounds, hazel eyes, brown hair, twenty-three years old. Reggie had no outstanding traffic tickets, and he didn't legally drive a motorcycle or commercial truck.
Tim pointed to the listed address. "Let's go."
"It's not that easy, my simple friend. The driver's license is two years old, and the only current info falsely lists him as an inpatient at a Santa Barbara nuthouse."
Tim noted Bear's pleased little smirk. "Oh, no," he said flatly. "Whatever are we to do?"
A proud finger shot up. "Have no fear. I called my hook at the IRS, turns out RestWell Motel in Culver City filed a W2 for a Reginald Rondell. RestWell central payroll in Bakersfield -- believe that shit? -- confirmed he's a current employee. His shift started" -- Bear consulted his watch dramatically -- "twenty minutes ago."
All this in the hour since Tim had called to fill him in from the road. On Arrest Response Team raids, Tim was the number one on a door-kick entry stack, Bear at his back. During intense fugitive roundups, they sometimes hit as many as fifteen dwellings a day. Trigger time like that went a long way toward fire-forging a friendship.
Tim rested a hand on Bear's shoulder. "It's good to be back."
Bear studied him, his face shifting into a smile.
They rose to go, Tim readjusting the .357 in his waistband, Bear humming the theme to Baretta as they passed through both security doors into the tiled corridor outside. The wall abutting Cell Block hid a foot of concrete and reinforced steel.
The snickering approach of a few deputies soured Tim's mood. A prisoner between them, Thomas and Freed eyed Tim as they stopped to slide their weapons into the gun lockers outside the Cell Block entrance.
"Hey, Rack?" Thomas's voice was edged and nasty. "I seem to have misplaced my Charles Bronson video. Maybe you've seen it. It's --"
"I know," Tim said. "Death Wish. Why don't you two go sit in Isolation Three and see if you can work up some fresh material?"
Their prisoner, a heavyset Latino in wrist and ankle cuffs, sniggered as the court security officer buzzed them through. Thomas mumbled something to Freed as they steered the suspect brusquely through the door.
Tim and Bear continued down the hall in silence. Bear
Tim's eyes didn't move from the screen. "The salad sous-chef accidentally drop some Carl's Jr. ketchup in your shirt pocket?"
"It's from last week. Anyways, me and Elise had a miserable time, haven't talked since we've been back." Bear exhaled theatrically. "Shit, I think you grabbed the last good one off the market, Rack. I'm never getting married."
"Do you want to get married?"
Bear chewed his lip, breathing hard. "Nah. I prefer to direct all my hatred at myself." The photo of a skinny kid popped up on the monitor, and Bear pointed at it, his ham hand blocking the screen. "So there he is. The fifth Reggie Rondell."
"The fifth?"
"Five Reggie Rondells in the greater Los Angeles area, believe it or not. That includes Reginalds and Reginas, just to be safe. Reginald Rondell Jr. is a crusty white guy from Orange, moved to Philly in January, hasn't traveled west since, at least by plane. Regina Rondell, age seventy-five, God rest her soul, kicked in June. Our third Reggie Rondell is enrolled at Marquez Elementary School in the Palisades. I got the parole officer of the fourth on the phone about ten minutes ago -- homie had a dealing problem, was on the inside two months ago. Which leaves us with the fifth Reggie Rondell."
Tim checked the identifiers -- five-seven, 135 pounds, hazel eyes, brown hair, twenty-three years old. Reggie had no outstanding traffic tickets, and he didn't legally drive a motorcycle or commercial truck.
Tim pointed to the listed address. "Let's go."
"It's not that easy, my simple friend. The driver's license is two years old, and the only current info falsely lists him as an inpatient at a Santa Barbara nuthouse."
Tim noted Bear's pleased little smirk. "Oh, no," he said flatly. "Whatever are we to do?"
A proud finger shot up. "Have no fear. I called my hook at the IRS, turns out RestWell Motel in Culver City filed a W2 for a Reginald Rondell. RestWell central payroll in Bakersfield -- believe that shit? -- confirmed he's a current employee. His shift started" -- Bear consulted his watch dramatically -- "twenty minutes ago."
All this in the hour since Tim had called to fill him in from the road. On Arrest Response Team raids, Tim was the number one on a door-kick entry stack, Bear at his back. During intense fugitive roundups, they sometimes hit as many as fifteen dwellings a day. Trigger time like that went a long way toward fire-forging a friendship.
Tim rested a hand on Bear's shoulder. "It's good to be back."
Bear studied him, his face shifting into a smile.
They rose to go, Tim readjusting the .357 in his waistband, Bear humming the theme to Baretta as they passed through both security doors into the tiled corridor outside. The wall abutting Cell Block hid a foot of concrete and reinforced steel.
The snickering approach of a few deputies soured Tim's mood. A prisoner between them, Thomas and Freed eyed Tim as they stopped to slide their weapons into the gun lockers outside the Cell Block entrance.
"Hey, Rack?" Thomas's voice was edged and nasty. "I seem to have misplaced my Charles Bronson video. Maybe you've seen it. It's --"
"I know," Tim said. "Death Wish. Why don't you two go sit in Isolation Three and see if you can work up some fresh material?"
Their prisoner, a heavyset Latino in wrist and ankle cuffs, sniggered as the court security officer buzzed them through. Thomas mumbled something to Freed as they steered the suspect brusquely through the door.
Tim and Bear continued down the hall in silence. Bear
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