Free When Old Men Die by Bill Crider Page A

around they'd be somewhere warmer than the street.   There was no need to try The Island Retreat because obviously Ro-Jo had lied to me about Harry's hide-outs, just as he'd lied to someone else.   There were plenty of other places Harry could be, but I couldn't look in every vacant building in Galveston.
    So after a few passes along the back alleys, I went home and read Look Homeward, Angel and listened to my CDs while Nameless slept in my bed.   I was at a dead end unless someone came up with something to help me out, and I couldn't figure out who that someone might be.
    I couldn't just forget about Harry, however.   I was worried about him and what might happen to him.   This was all Dino's fault, and even after pulling out my billfold and counting the money Dino had forced on me, I wasn't happy about having taken on the job.   If Harry got killed, I was going to feel guilty for a long time, and tomorrow I had to go in and work for Wally Zintner's bail bond service.   I didn't think Wally would be sympathetic if I asked for time off to do a job for someone else.   And Eugene Gant thought he had problems.   I would've traded places with him in a New York minute.
    That night I dreamed I was running in a race.   It was an unusual race, since it seemed to have no beginning and no end.   I ran all night long, and when I woke up, I was as tired as if the race had been real.
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    T he little building where I worked was only a couple of blocks from the police department.   Although the owner's name is Wally Zintner , the place is called AAA Bail Bonds on the theory that most people generally call the first place they see in the Yellow Pages.   A bonding agency named Zintner's wouldn't stand a chance.
    The outside of the building doesn't look like much.   The sign is faded, one of the windows has a long crack that's been patched up with duct tape.   The tape's been there for so long that it's tearing along the crack in a place or two.
    The inside isn't any better.   The walls are cheap paneling, there's no pad under the carpet, which is frayed and stained where people have spilled soft drinks on it, and all the desks have ashtrays that look as if they haven't been emptied in weeks.   The smell of smoke is stronger than in the police department.   The furnishings consist of four desks and a Coke machine.
    There were clerks at three of the four desks.   The fourth one was shared between me and Dale Becker, Zintner's bounty hunter.   We also shared the office computer, though as far as I knew Becker never used it.  
    The clerks -- Betsy Carver, Ronnie Slane , Nancy Lamb -- were all smoking.   There was already a thin gray cloud gathering near the ceiling.   Only Nancy had a client; the others were on the phones.   The client, who was also smoking, didn't look happy, but then that wasn't unusual.   Hardly any of our clients ever looked happy.   Neither would you if you were in the clutches of Wally Zintner .
    I waved to Nancy and went back into Zintner's office, which was really nothing more than a small area set off from the rest of the big main room by a couple of beaverboard partitions.   It didn't even have a ceiling.   There was room inside for Zintner , his chair, a very small desk, and a visitor's chair.   There was also room for me if I slid along the beaverboard.
    "Hey, Smith," Zintner said when I entered.   I didn't have to knock.   There wasn't a door.   "What happened to your face?"
    I was already getting tired of that question.   "I cut myself when I was shaving," I said.
    "I hate it when that happens.   What's going on with you lately?"
    He already knew, of course.   He always knew what was going on almost as soon as Dino did.   Sometimes he knew sooner.
    "Why don't you tell me?" I said.
    He grinned.   He was one of the skinniest men I knew, probably wore a size 24 belt.   He always wore tight blue jeans, a