That and a little luck, he thought as he parked his truck under the carport.
He drifted inside the house and stripped off his shirt and tie, donning his bathing suit. He wasn’t hungry, rarely did he eat dinner before seven, so he headed outside to the pool. The sun had already made its daily pass over the backyard, the late afternoon looming hot and humid. He plunged into the lukewarm water and began to relax. A few laps back and forth was the extent of his exercise program. He was in good shape. No appreciable health problems, and he was genuinely looking forward to a decade or two of peaceful retirement, living off his savings and the monthlycheck Southern Republic would send to supplement Social Security. He enjoyed the water for a few more minutes, then dried off and stepped into his office. He needed to make a few calls and remind some scatterbrains about their court appearances scheduled next week. The bail bonding business brought in a nice side income, one he’d also be counting on in retirement.
The phone rang.
Which happened at all hours of the day and night. He answered and learned that somebody was looking for bond money.
“What’s the charge?” he asked the caller.
“Got myself arrested for burglary.”
“How much is the bond?”
“Ten thousand.”
Now for the real question. “Got collateral? Land, car, jewelry. Something I can hold to make sure you come back.”
“Thought that’s what the bond was for.”
They all said the same thing. “The bond’s for the court. I don’t plan to pay out ten thousand of my dollars when you decide not to show. I need collateral, so I know you’re serious.”
The caller sighed. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
“Give me your name.”
The caller did.
“You own any land in the county?”
The caller did and told him where.
“You’re also going to need a thousand bucks for my fee. Ten percent, like the law allows.”
“Didn’t know that either.”
“I guess you figured I was going to sign my life away just ’cause you’re a great guy?”
“I’ll call you back later.”
“You do that.”
In anticipation of a possible return call, he reached for the county tax roll. He bought a copy every January from the Woods County tax commissioner. That data allowed instant verification on what land a potential bondee, or their family, owned and towhat degree it was encumbered. He thumbed through and confirmed what the caller said. He owned a half-acre tract near the mill assessed at $8,000, a $4,000 first lien in place to the Woods County State Bank. Now if the man called back there’d be no blind reliance on what was said. He’d know. And he liked knowing the answers before the questions were asked.
He slid the printout back on the plywood shelf.
Glancing down, he noticed the clipboard lying on the counter with the list of numbers. He hadn’t thought about them in a few days, his brain filled with contract negotiations.
What were they?
He’d been snooping in company records for decades. In the old days it was a peek here and there into paper files. Then copy machines made it possible for spies to bring the information to him. Computers made things both easier and more difficult, with their passwords and firewalls. But little within the company network was beyond his scrutiny.
Except these numbers.
The desktop computer dinged for a new email.
He was moderately computer-literate. Ashley had taught him a lot. He appreciated technology, seeing the wisdom in its many uses. He sat before the monitor and saw that the email came from the union member he’d assigned to deal with Paul Zimmerman’s family. When a member died the membership did everything they could to ease the family’s pain and burden. This death was particularly heartbreaking, considering its suddenness and the children. The widow was terrified how she was going to pay the bills and feed her kids. He’d told his man to assure her there would be no problems with either.
The email was an update on what was happening.
