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bullshit—if you could bring yourself to bust people and take them to jail. Himself, he could kill a chump, but taking him to jail, that was snitching. It wasn’t snitching if a cop did it, or even a square. That was part of the game. But a bail bondsman was kind of in between, half square, half thug.
    Inside, at a scarred desk five feet behind a bare countertop, Byron was on the telephone while writing on a yellow legal tablet. The desk had baskets of papers and documents.
    Diesel leaned on the counter. He could smell cigars, and sure enough a couple of stubs were in an ashtray on the desk.
    Byron said good-bye and hung the phone up. “You’re …”
    “I called about McCain.”
    “Right … right. I didn’t get your name.”
    “Charles Carson.” Diesel took out his wallet and extracted the gold piece of plastic. It was five grand in hand. Money said all that was necessary.
    “Okay, Mr. Carson. I did some checking. Your buddy is in the Multnomah County Jail on suspicion of violation of Oregon Business and Profession Code, Section One-eight-five-three, subsection A—whatever that is. Credit card something. There’s no bail right now, but the recommended bail is fifteen hundred. I can get the writ signed in half an hour. I already found the judge on call. He’s at home and I talked to his law clerk.”
    “Very good. You’re on your job. What’s the tab for all this?”
    “Three fifty to run the writ, ten percent of the bond as premium, and the security, which you get back when he shows up in court.”
    “Here you go, champ.” Diesel pushed the card forward, then stopped. “One thing, when it gets exonerated, the money comes back to me. Not him. Got it?”
    “No problem.” He took the credit card and went to the phone to call and make sure it was good. “Have a seat,” he said.
    Diesel sat down and picked up a Sports Illustrated with an article on Mike Tyson’s trial for rape. Dumb fuckin’ nigger, Diesel thought, with more feelings of compassion than contempt. Diesel was certain that the “victim” had played the hard-dicked buck like a fish on a line. She’d known exactly what he would do, and what she would do afterward. It made Diesel feel smart. He was ignorant about many things, but he was smart about the games that people play.
    Byron put the phone down and got up. He was a little guy. He made an O signal with thumb and forefinger, and winked again. “Good as gold,” he said, reaching for a raincoat hung on the back of a chair. “I’ll get the writ signed right now. You’ve got a car, right?”
    “Yep.”
    “You’ll pick him up?”
    Diesel nodded. He sure was. He had money to retrieve from Mad Dog. The little maniac wouldn’t have a weapon when he came out of jail, and Diesel would make sure that he couldn’t obtain one until the money was paid. If he doesn’t have it … Diesel stopped his thought right there, not wanting to commit himself to anything even in his own mind.
    Byron checked his watch. “I can get the bond signed and drop in at the jail in about an hour. But they won’t let him out until after they finish booking in the daily catch. Get it? The catch of fish …”
    Diesel grunted and half grinned. It was all the laughter the joke deserved. “So …”
    “So why don’t you be at the jail around ten, or ten-fifteen. That’s when they start the bail releases.”
    “That sounds good. Where is it?”
    Byron winked again, making Diesel want to ask if he had a nervous tick. He brought out a mimeographed street map with a series of arrows showing how to go from “Byron’s Office” to “County Jail.”
    Byron then turned on his answering machine and ushered Diesel to the door.
    Diesel ate at a Denny’s, and vowed never to do so again. A few minutes after ten o’clock, Diesel drove past the Multnomah County Jail. It was a nineteenth-century fortress of granite blocks, reminding him of Folsom. It had bars and frosted-glass windows, behind which he could see moving