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“Who posted Waggle’s bond?”
“A guy named Leonard Skoogie. It was a high bond, and it looks like it was secured with cash.”
“Do we have an address for Skoogie?”
“Suite twelve in the Hamilton Building on State Street.”
I was familiar with the Hamilton Building. It was one block from Stark Street. Seven floors. Built in the fifties. It had a mix of legitimate, semi-legitimate, and not nearly legitimate tenants.
“Now what?” Lula asked. “Do we need to talk to Mr. Skoogie?”
“Yes. Skoogie laid out serious money for Waggle. He should be anxious to have him returned to the court.”
I found on-street parking not far from Skoogie’s office. I parallel-parked behind a Rollswagon that had seen better days, and Lula and I strolled into the lobby. Suite twelve was on the second floor at the end of the hall.
I opened the door to the suite and looked inside at a woman seated at a desk.
“Knock, knock,” I said. “I’m looking for Leonard Skoogie.”
“He isn’t here,” she said. “He’s in L.A. for the rest of the week.”
Photographs and posters covered almost every inch of wall space in the small room. There was a door off to one side which I assumed led to Skoogie’s private office. The woman’s desk was heaped with clutter, including an open box of Dunkin’ Donuts.
“No,” I said to Lula. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Hunh,” Lula said.
“I’m actually looking for Victor Waggle,” I said to the woman. “Perhaps you know him.”
“Of course,” she said. “Are you a fan? Would you like a signed photograph? We have them available for ten dollars.”
“We already got a photograph,” Lula said. “It got taken at the police station.”
“Ours would be much nicer,” the woman said. She pointed to the wall. “We have pictures of the band too.”
Lula and I went to the wall and looked at the photographs.
“This sucker is in a band,” Lula said. “I could recognize him by the snake tattoo. The other idiots in the band got spiders on their foreheads.”
“Lead singer in Rockin’ Armpits,” the woman said. “Mr. Skoogie has high hopes for Victor.”
“Yeah, us too,” Lula said. “You know where we can find him?”
“They perform at the Snake Pit every Thursday and Friday.”
“I guess that makes sense for someone that’s got a snake tattooed on his neck,” Lula said. “Where’s it at?”
“Stark Street,” the woman said. “It’s easy to find. They always light the building with searchlights when the band is performing.”
“I bet,” Lula said.
“During the day, the building looks a little run-down,” the woman said, “but I’m told it’s very festive at night.”
“It’s only Tuesday,” Lula said. “Suppose we want to find Victor before Thursday?”
“I’m afraid we’re not allowed to release personal information on our clients,” the woman said.
I gave her my business card. “Victor is in violation of his bond agreement,” I said. “He missed his court appearance. We need to find him and get him rescheduled.”
