King of the Corner by Loren D. Estleman Read Free Book Online

you were.”
    “You never heard of me.”
    “Hockey’s my game. But a baseball player with a record has got to be some kind of celebrity, and a celebrity ex-con takes twice the risk getting tied up in shit like this. You’re lucky Battle got the squeal and not some squirt looking to get up in the department through the Six O’clock News. You’d be on your way to County right now, booked as a material witness.”
    “I’m not that well known.”
    “Save it.” Ance coughed again and lowered his window two inches. Doc saw the shower of sparks the discarded cigarette made in the side mirror. The window went back up. “Trying to quit. You handled yourself okay with the cops. I was afraid you might freak.”
    “When I get in a jam like that I imagine I’m coming to the mound with the bases loaded and only one out.”
    “Why one out?”
    “I need it to keep from freaking.”
    The bail bondsman didn’t laugh. “How’d you like to go to work for me?”
    “As a driver?”
    “That too. I never had a lesson. Taber’s getting unreliable. You’re an athlete, so I’m guessing you can take care of yourself when it gets heavy. The job pays five bills a week.”
    Almost twice what he was getting at the dealership. “I’d better not.”
    “Why not?”
    “It pays too much to be on the square.”
    “Hey, if that’s all that’s bothering you I’ll make it two-fifty.” Ance sat back on the springs. “Seriously, I’m licensed. As long as these scroats are in my custody, the law says I can bring ’em back in a shoebox if they’ll fit and I punch a few holes in the lid. I don’t even have to do that more man a dozen times a year; if I weren’t any better judge of character than that I’d be broke. My tax bill last year was forty thousand. Most of the time you’ll just be driving me around.”
    “For five hundred a week.”
    “I said most of the time.”
    They were entering Taylor. “I don’t think so. But thanks.”
    “You’re too wasted to decide. Hell, maybe I’m too wasted to make any offers. Let’s sleep on it. Maybe we’ll both change our minds.”
    The bail bondsman’s house was a deep white frame saltbox on Empire with a small front yard and one of those novelty lawn ornaments where a little wooden man sawed furiously at a log whenever the wind blew. The windows were dark. Doc stopped the car and looked back at his passenger. “You paid forty thousand in taxes last year?”
    “I’ve got four ex-wives. You figure it out.” He slid four crisp fifties out of his wallet and passed them over the back of the seat. “You’ve got my card. Call me.” He got out.
    The electric clock in Neal’s kitchen read 1:28 when Doc came in and threw his keys on the kitchen table. His brother was seated there in his bathrobe smoking a cigarette. “Anybody hurt?” he asked.
    “Hurt?” Doc leaned against the counter.
    “In the accident.”
    “I had an involved fare. I thought you gave that up.”
    Neal looked down at the cigarette as if someone had just put it there and punched it out in a bronze ashtray Doc recognized as one that had belonged to their father. “When’s Spence getting back from California?”
    “Day after tomorrow.”
    “Good.”
    The clock was clogged with cooking grime. It buzzed and moved ahead in jerks.
    “Better sleep fast,” Neal said. “You got about four hours.”
    Doc said, “I quit.”

GRANNY AT THE BAT
    By Leon “Bud” Arsenault
    (continued)
    The Great Depression was especially hard on Detroiters. People who owned cars were making repairs and making do, and those who did not rode the trolley. Horace MacGryff was just one of thousands of workers laid off indefinitely from the stagnant auto industry.
    Bad times were a double blow to his wife, who although she cheerfully offered her services as cook and housekeeper to residents in the more well-to-do neighborhoods to help keep her young family solvent, dearly missed her frequent trips to what was now called Briggs Stadium.