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One of Dugan’s arms came up and he did a little finger wave. “I’m okay,” he said. “Sort of.”
The crowd dispersed after the wave and message from Dugan, but Lula and I stayed. The woman who had shouted up to Dugan approached the outer rim of the first responders, hung there for a couple minutes, and left.
The paramedics finally lifted Dugan onto the stretcher and rolled him off to the ambulance. I knew one of the men. Jerry Fisher.
“Where are you taking him?” I yelled to Jerry.
He turned and waved at me. “The medical center.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, and Lula and I walked down the street to my car.
I dropped Lula off at the bail bonds office on Hamilton Avenue and drove a couple more blocks to the hospital. The ambulance was parked in the ER drive-thru. I bypassed the drive-thru and went to the parking garage.
The bail bonds office and the medical center are on the fringe of the Burg. I grew up in the Burg and my parents still live there. It’s a residential chunk of South Trenton clinging to Hamilton Avenue, Chambers Street, and Liberty Street. Houses and yards are small. Televisions are large. Secrets are nonexistent. A few people cheat on their taxes but it’s okay because they’re grandfathered into the mob.
I checked in at the desk in the ER, showed them my papers for Dugan, certifying that I had the right to capture him, and took a seat in the waiting room. After an hour I was told Dugan was in surgery. Three hours later, he was out of surgery and in the ICU, hooked up to a bunch of machines. I talked my way into the ICU and approached Dugan. “Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay,” Dugan said, his voice barely a whisper.
“It looks like they have you all fixed up. I bet you’ll be as good as new in no time.”
Dugan blinked.
“You probably want to rest,” I said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He wasn’t in any shape to flee, so I went back to the office.
“I was just closing up for the day,” Connie said. “Lula told me about Dugan. How’s he doing?”
“He’s in the ICU. I didn’t get a chance to talk to a doctor. His condition was listed as stable. He got lucky. His fall was broken by the café awning.”
Connie Rosolli is a couple years older than me. She’s the office manager, the guard dog for Vinnie’s private office, and like Vinnie, she’s certified to write a bond. She has a lot of black hair, thinks there’s no such thing as too much mascara, and likes bright red lipstick and polka dots. She wears heels to work but keeps a pair of running shoes in her bottom drawer next to her Glock nine. She can shoot the eyes out of a grasshopper a quarter mile away.
She took two folders out of her top drawer and handed them to me. “Two new FTAs came in today. Nothing exciting. Both are low bonds. A repeat shoplifter. Gloria Stitch. And a low-level drug dealer. Hooter Brown.”
I slipped the files into the messenger bag I used as purse and mobile office. “These two FTAs aren’t going to pay my rent.”
Being a bond enforcement agent has its highs and lows. One of the lows is that I don’t get a salary. I get a percentage of the original bond when I make a capture. If I don’t make enough captures, I’m forced to mooch food off my parents and moonlight for rent money.
Connie took a business card off her desk. “This might help. A man came in about an hour ago, looking for you. He said he had a job that required your special skills.”
I took the card from her. “I don’t have any special skills.”
“He asked me if you were good at finding people, and I said you were our best skip tracer.”
“I’m youronlyskip tracer.” I looked at the name on the card. “Martin Plover. He owns Plover’s Jewelry, right? That’s the store Duncan Dugan got caught robbing.”
“Yeah, small world,” Connie said. “Plover told me he’d be in the store until eight o’clock if you were interested. He also left his cell number on the back of the card.”
I dropped the card into my messenger bag.
“Are you going to talk to him?” Connie asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “Probably.”
I left the bonds office, got into my Jeep Cherokee, and drove downtown to Plover’s Jewelry. I parked across the street and watched the store for a couple minutes. The “special skills” thing had me worried. I hoped it didn’t involve anything kinky. I needed money, but not that bad.
I crossed the street and entered the store. It was five o’clock and there were no customers in Plover’s. A nicely dressed man who looked to be in his late sixties to early seventies was seated at a writing desk. He stood when I walked in.
