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shadows.
    He drove around in the rain for another fifteen minutes and came back. He cruised slowly past. No parking places at the curb.
    About fifty yards from the entrance, he found a space at a fire hydrant. That was okay. He wasn’t leaving the car. He would move if a fire truck appeared. He could see the jail door.
    He turned on the radio and ran through the dial, seeking an oldies but goodies station but stopping when he heard a sporting event. Basketball … It sounded like the Trailblazers. He turned the dial again. Natalie Cole. He’d go for that. He drew the station in clear and sat back to look out at the rain.
    The jail seemed a crackerbox. Maybe it was super-maximum security from inside, but from out here it looked weak. No doubt it had some hard lockups somewhere down in its bowels. Even minimum-security institutions had a maximum-custody lockup somewhere, but for the average sucker, the security here looked light. Any jail where you could get at an outside window was asking for it. Anything could come in, anything go out. Cut a bar and a body would go through.
    Headlights struck the Mustang from the rear. The glare filled the car and a bus went by and turned in, a jail bus with wired windows and faint splashes of white as faces stared out. “Poor suckers,” Diesel muttered, and then added, “better you than me.”
    Soon a Jaguar pulled up and double-parked outside the lighted entrance. Quickly the driver got out and ran through the rain toward the entrance. Diesel exited the Mustang and hurried along the sidewalk. “Byron! Hey, Byron!”
    The entrance gate buzzed and Byron entered. Diesel continued up the walkway and stopped next to the door. Should he wait here? The overhang kept away most of the rain. Then he saw the closed circuit camera. As soon as he looked at it, a voice came from a speaker, someone obviously watching on a monitor. “State your business, sir.”
    “I’m waiting for a bail bondsman. He just went in.”
    “Sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait on the sidewalk. Nobody is allowed to loiter where you are.”
    “Okay, you got it.” Diesel grinned his biggest Irish grin and touched his forehead in a loose salute. He went back to his car and lowered the window to better see the entrance.
    A minute later, a couple of deputies came out and got into a car parked closer to the walkway. Diesel pulled up to their space. When Byron came out, Diesel flashed his headlights, then got out and went over. “There you are,” Byron said. “Your buddy’s coming out in a little while. I talked to him and told him you’d be waiting.”
    “You did great,” Diesel said. “Thanks.”
    “I told him, but I’ll tell you, too. The court appearance is on Thursday, Division Two. Remind him … if you want the money back.”
    “I’ll remind him,” Diesel said.
    “Gotta get outta this rain,” Byron said. “Good luck.”
    “You, too.”
    They shook hands and Byron hurried toward his car. The Jaguar engine had a powerful, humming roar as it pulled away, taillights blazing as it braked for the stop sign on the corner. Then it turned and disappeared.
    Half an hour later, men started coming out of the jail every couple of minutes. To Diesel it was obvious, as the first two walked by, that they were being released—one of them wore a tank-top undershirt in the rain.
    Half a dozen more came out before Diesel recognized Mad Dog McCain. It was too dark and distant to see the face, but Diesel knew the body language of the walk. He flicked on the headlights and opened the door. “Hey, punk!” he yelled. “Here’s your man waiting for you.” He hoped the jailhouse banter would soothe residual hostility from their last meeting. As the bony little figure came over and got in, Diesel tried to read the face for attitude. He wanted a toothy grin. Instead he got a tight smile. “Let’s blow quick before they change their minds,” Mad Dog said. “How ya doin’?”
    “Kickin’ ass and takin’ names.”
    When