Free When Old Men Die by Bill Crider Page B

pressed white shirt, high-heeled boots, and a black bolo tie with a turquoise pull.   Not to mention a belt with a silver buckle in the shape of the state of Texas.   He was always complaining about business, but I knew he'd made a pile of money.
    "Sit down," he said.   "Let's talk over old times."
    I preferred to stand.   Sitting in the visitor's chair made me feel cramped and trapped.   A roach ran out from a hole in the carpet and crossed under the desk.   I didn't bother to try to step on it.   I figured that it would develop bronchitis and die if it hung around long enough.
    "What old times?" I asked.
    "You know.   The old times when Dino's uncles had a free hand and there was a slot machine in every cat house in town."
    "I didn't know you went back that far."
    "Hell, I'm BOI, Smith.   You know that.   I wasn't in business then, but I was old enough to know what was going on."
    "Do you know what's going on now?"
    "I know Braddy Macklin's dead, if that's what you mean."
    "Do you know why?"   It was worth a shot.   He might even tell me.
    "If I did, I'd be over at the cop shop spilling the beans," he said.   "You know us bondsmen.   Always at the service of law and order."
    There were a lot of people who would argue with that.   They want to get rid of bail bonding companies because they see the chance that county courts can be victimized.   A week or so back, there was a mild outcry in Houston when someone found out that a couple of bonding companies were posting bonds against the estimated value of property rather than the assessed value.   Zintner would never do anything like that, or at least I didn't think he would, but he wasn't exactly what I thought of as the police force's best friend.
    I did think, however, that I might as well play along with him.   "I'm glad to hear you're so eager to help out the forces of good.   It makes it easier for me to ask a little favor of you."
    "Uh-oh," he said.   "Here it comes."
    "Here what comes?" Dale Becker asked, looming in the doorway to the cubicle.
    Becker looked like a pro wrestler -- huge and beefy with long blond hair, a gold loop in his right earlobe, and a mean mouth that twisted in a perpetual sneer.   He wore an L. A. Raiders cap that he'd turned backwards so that the bill covered his red neck, and his jeans were so tight that you could count the money in his wallet.   Becker didn't like me, which made us even.   I didn't like him, either.
    "Smith here was just about to ask me a favor," Zintner said.
    Unlike me, Zintner thinks Becker is the greatest thing since tail fins on cars, and even I have to admit that Becker is good at what he does.   He always gets his man, and usually without too much of a struggle.   Of course the fact that he looks as if he could break your back with one hand tied behind him makes things easier.
    "He wants you to let me help him find old Outside Harry," Becker said.   "I bet that's what it is."
    "So you're looking for Harry?" Zintner said.   He didn't sound surprised.   "What the hell for?"
    "Yeah," Becker said.   "What the hell for?"
    "I don't remember inviting you in here," I said.
    Becker laughed.   It came out something like, " Hunh-hunh-hunh ."   Beavis and Butt-head without the charm.
    "You might as well tell us, Tru," Zintner said.   "It'll be all over the Island by noon."
    It seemed as if it were all over the Island already, so I told them.   I didn't mention that Macklin's death might be connected; after all, it might not.
    "I didn't know Dino was into helping out old bums that scrounge in trash cans," Becker said.
    "Dino likes to help his friends," I told him.
    Becker snorted.   "Some friend."
    Zintner went on as if Becker hadn't spoken. "And you want some time off to help out.   Is that it?"
    "You guessed it."
    "What about me?" Becker said.   "I bet I can find him in fifteen minutes."
    "I'm sure you could," I said, not