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juvenile hall; they had escaped over the fence a few days later. Of all the criminals that Diesel knew, Troy was the only one whose ambition was to be an outlaw. “I’m no heir,” he once said, “and I’m not going to be cipher in the horde.” “What’s a cipher?” Diesel asked, and Troy had laughed loudly and embraced his friend. Remembering it, Diesel felt a surge of affection. He would do most anything for Troy, and much of the reason for this trip was knowing it was what Troy wanted him to do.
    The daily rain of the green Northwest began to fall as he neared Grants Pass, Oregon. The wet road slowed him so it was nighttime as he neared Portland. The Dexamyl spansules had worn off and he had started to doze at the wheel. He stopped and put the convertible top down. The cold air would keep him awake. As long as the car continued moving, the windshield kept the rain from wetting him.
    In Portland, the traffic signs and stop lights made him put the top back up. What should he do now? Bail bondsmen stayed open twenty-four hours a day, but he was too tired to take care of business. Ahead of him appeared the green neon of a Travelodge. He turned into its driveway.
    In his room, he sat on the bed and removed his shoes; then fell back and closed his eyes, intending a small nap before looking in the Yellow Pages for Bail Bonds. Sleep pulled him down, fully clothed. Within a minute his snores could be heard through the door.
    When Diesel opened his eyes, coming instantly alert like a forest predator, he saw black sky through the window and thought it was night. Damn. Had he slept through the whole day?
    His wristwatch said 6:50. It was running. He went to the window. The sky was solid with clouds and the city was wet, although no rain was falling at the moment.
    He tore the listing for Bail Bonds out from the Yellow Pages and went to the telephone. The first listing, A.A.A. Bail Bonds, 24 hours a day, proved to be an answering service. They wanted a number to call back.
    The next one was Byron’s Bail Bonds, State, Federal, County, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year Byron will bail you.
    Diesel dialed. It rang once. “Byron’s Bail, Byron speaking. What can I do for you?”
    “All right, man,” said Diesel. “I wanna bail out a buddy of mine. He’s busted here in Portland.”
    “What’s the charge?”
    “I’m not sure, something with credit cards.”
    “Could be a misdemeanor or a felony.”
    “I’d guess it’s a felony.”
    “Have you got money?”
    “I’ve got a gold Citibank Visa card.”
    “That’s money. What’s your buddy’s name?”
    “Uhhh, McCain.”
    “First name?”
    “I … uh … don’t know it.”
    “He’s a buddy and you don’t know his first name?”
    “I just know a nickname,” Diesel said, adding to himself, I’m not going to tell you it’s “Mad Dog.”
    “McCain’s enough, I guess. It’s not that common. Do you know what jail he’s in?”
    “Nope.”
    “I can find that out. When was he arrested?”
    “I’m pretty sure it was Friday.”
    “You’re coming down here with the money?”
    “Sure. Except I don’t know how to get there. I don’t know shit about Portland.”
    “Where are you?”
    “I’m at a Travelodge you can see from I-Five.”
    “Good. Get back on I-Five and cross the bridge going north. Get off at the first off ramp …” Byron continued with directions; it was easy. One turn after the off ramp.
    He checked out of the motel and started driving. It was Sunday and traffic was light in the dismal weather. As he turned onto the street of two-story brick buildings, the rain started coming down. His headlights illuminated an XJS Jaguar parked ahead of him. Through rain-blurred windshield and storefront window, he saw the small neon sign: Byron’s Bail Bonds.
    As he hurried toward the door, he noted the Jag’s license plate said BAIL BND. The expensive car gleamed under the street lamp in the rain. The bail bond business was a money-maker, no