"More coffee?"
I looked up at the smiling face of the waitress. "Sure, thanks."
As she poured, I checked her name tag, Maren. That's a different one, I thought, she's gotta be in her 40's,so it's not like she was named after a Disney Princess.
I took a shot and asked, "Is Maren a family name?"
"Sorta, after my Grandmother Marian, Mom decided to play with the spelling to 'give it a little pizzazz' as she put it."
I nodded at her grin.
Nice teeth, green eyes, 5'-4", 150, no distinguishing marks or tattoos, obviously not a real blonde, just highlights.
One of these days I'll be able to stop looking at things like a cop. A retired cop. A retired, twice divorced cop. A bored, retired, twice divorced cop.
"Anything else I can get ya?"
I shook my head and picked up the sugar packets on the table.
"Now you know my name, what do I call you?"
"First name is John, but most people call me JB."
"What's the B for?"
"We'd have to be much better acquainted for you to know that." I said with a smile.
"I look forward to it."
I blinked and watched her walk away.
Nice view from both front and rear. Especially the rear.
She stopped, looked back over her shoulder, catching me looking.
"Like?"
For the first time in years, I actually blushed. "Sorry." I mumbled.
"Don't be, it's a free country. Just remember, look but don't grab. I ain't no honky tonk bargirl."
She grinned "Leastwise not no more." She put a bit more hip action into her walk, as she went back to the kitchen.
Middle of the afternoon in the middle of bumfuck Florida.
Why did I move here, off all places? This place is like a steam room with bugs. And the people here just seem to scurry, like bugs, from AC in their trailer to AC in Walmart to a bar or diner with AC.
I looked around the diner, automatically finding the exits, checking for signs of threats and... not a cop anymore.
The internal monologue was driving me crazy, so I opened up the local paper again to check want ads. Again. Not that I needed a job, I needed something to occupy my hands.
Not the waitress, that would not end well. Why is she flirting with me anyway?
Ok, cop, what is my 'description'?
White male, late 40s, 6'0", 200 pounds, dark blond with a bit of silver, slightly receding hairline, glasses, blue eyes. 'Stupid' tattoo of a snarling tiger on left shoulder done during the drunken period after my first divorce.
Yeah, I'm a real catch.
I have gone to the gym. Well, I have walked by gyms. I once chased a perp into a gym.
I shook my head to stop the voices so I could get back to the paper. With glances at Maren.
Right, just work on getting a job.
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After a month of flirtation, peach pie and no work, I was getting stir crazy. My description of Maren had become far more detailed, especially when the AC was going full blast. She chose rather form fitting work outfits, which highlighted her... assets. Usually jeans, no yoga pants.
I really have to find a job. Or get laid. Just not...
Opening the paper, I spotted a bail agent notice, looking for runners.
Runners? Oh right, that's what they call bounty hunters down here. I don't have residency yet, but....
Muttering, I flipped pages until a plate with a piece of peach pie landed in the middle of an ad for an accident lawyer. Seems like every ad in Florida is either about accidents or a new drug.
"You look like you could use something sweet to wipe that scowl off your face."
I looked up into Maren's smile.
"Having a bad day, Bruce?"
I shook my head.
"Not Bruce. "
Each time I came in she guessed at the B. I had promised to be truthful.
She pulled out her pad to cross off another name.
Then, I saw her right eyebrow slowly raise and her smile almost drifted into a leer. "We got a few things around here that could help you cheer up, you know. Buford."
"Not Buford."
And with that, not exactly cryptic comment, she slowly walked back to the counter with a lot of hip action.
She noticed a napkin on the floor, and with a rather exaggerated motion, bent from the waist to pick it up. She glanced back at me, past her hip, straightening up slowly, maintaining eye contact.
A loud bell startled her.
"Maren! Table 12 is up. Shrimp and grits, burger and fries. Move it! I ain't payin' you to flirt."
"Ok, hold your horses, Sal. I got it!"
She scurried back to the kitchen.
Guess it was getting a little obvious. Probably should find another diner to go to. Last thing I need is to piss off the locals and make a bunch of her cousins come looking for me.
But, for the moment, I had coffee and peach pie to deal with.
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As usual, leaving the diner meant walking into the humid space between the door and my truck. My t shirt was completely soaked by the time I was able to get the AC on. Shifting in reverse, I looked up to see Maren at the window, smiling. Ok, kinda creepy. Definitely need to find a diner farther away.
On the road towards Jacksonville, I checked the GPS coordinates that should lead me to the bail bond office that was looking for a person to find bail jumpers for them.
Bounty hunter. Talk about sinking pretty low for a former NYPD homicide detective. But, at least I'm used to dealing with lowlifes. Just have to remember they have real alligators here, not the NYC sewer ones.
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Driving away from the interview, I considered my options.
Skip tracer works for now, until I have residency. I also need to get my headspace back before I go around taking down perps.
Luckily, most of my work as a detective was doing almost exactly what a skip tracer does. The bond agent was quite excited to have an expert who was willing to work for pennies.
On the way back to the trailer park, I pulled into a different diner, ordered dinner with no flirting, and got out with nobody watching me out the windows.
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The next month went by quickly. Learning the system and lingo down here, getting a feel for the personalities, and reestablishing relationships with the NYPD. Many of the bail jumpers had connections in NY it seems.
The computer security left a bit to be desired, the other tracer left her password on a post it next to the screen and the bail agent barely knew how to turn it on. I was suddenly upgraded to 'the IT guy' and given all the access I could ever want.
The office itself was spartan but cluttered. Papers in stacks on desks, old filing cabinets, a water cooler that was always empty and a coffee maker that was always brewing. Ceiling fans moved the air around, the air conditioners tried to cool things off and my computer sucked.
I was told that the regular person who fixed IT issues was 'not available at this time', so I was it. Or rather I was IT.
Three bounty hunters, two tracers, one receptionist and the bond agent.
The receptionist, Becky, gave me a list of do's and don't's on my first day.
Among the don'ts.
Don't give Manuel, the bond agent any more information than necessary. He just wants the facts, think Dragnet.
Don't irritate Stosh. Ever.
Don't mention Alicia in this office, ever.
Among the do's.
Do give all gossip and extraneous information to Antonio. He likes to 'know' things. He claims it gives him insight into the perp's thought process.
Do remember that Becky's favorite candy is butterscotch morsels.
Things like that.
First, I had to learn the names and faces, then put the pieces together.
Second, I had to learn how Florida worked.
Manuel, who owned the place, was a retired cop out of Miami. He never left the building, lived in an apartment on the second floor and had groceries delivered.
Stosh, one of the bounty hunters, actual name Stanislaus Manionus, was a former college football player who wasn't quite good enough for the pros. 35 years old, 6'6", about 325 pounds, bald and scary. Absolutely no sense of humor.
Antonio, number two bounty hunter, otherwise known as The Ant. He was a short, thin, 30 year old Puerto Rican. Always cracking jokes, gossiping and smoking.
Becky, the receptionist, was about as wide as she was tall. Indeterminate age or weight, I was afraid to ask. Friendly, talkative, knew everything and everyone.
The third bounty hunter was Alicia. Nothing. No one ever mentioned her, except to say don't mention her.
The other tracer was a heavyset woman, about 60, magenta hair, who smoked and hid a bottle in her desk.
Out of complete boredom and a prurient curiosity, I had found out what was available about Maren, the more than willing waitress. Easy to look up with that first name. Maren Annabelle Daughtry, 42 years old, divorced. Couple of speeding tickets, one domestic violence charge and a petty larceny.
Annabelle. Gotta keep that in my pocket. Busy little minx. Guess she has a temper to go along with that smile. But the dates put all these over a decade ago, so maybe she grew out of that phase.
Putting that file aside, time to look for the newest perp to run. Sebastian Delgado, Latino male, 26, 5 feet 10 inches, 175 pounds, black hair, brown eyes, tribal tattoo covering right shoulder, scar on left cheek, yada-yada. Out on bail for robbery and assault, two priors.
Unpleasant looking, but oddly familiar. Eh, looks like a thousand other suspects I've seen over the years. Kind of amazed that he actually got bail this time.
"You got Delgado? I remember him as a teenager, he's local. Shouldn't be difficult, used to hang over by the Spotlight, you know that diner by Route 1."
The other tracer, Lucille, offered as she peered over my shoulder.
I had smelled her coming, but I wasn't expecting her to chime in. She tried to cover the cigarettes and bourbon by dousing herself in lavender. The combo was... distinctive.
