Bounty Hunter Bob (2) . . .

Despite appearances, Bounty Hunter Bob was, and is, a generous sort, and also the sort who doesn't turn down the chance to have a drink in the middle of the day, or any other time. We ended up going down the street to the Derby, which at the time was owned by a friend and a half of mine. The half-friend was behind the bar, which was good, because that meant we only paid for one round out of two.

If my friend had been there, not only would we have to pay for every drink, he would have put us on the hook for the potato chips, too.

After his second or maybe third beer, Bounty Hunter Bob started telling me his life story. Or one version of it - I found out later the story tends to change depending on which bar he's in.

Hewasn’t really a low-life bounty hunter bum. He was a low-life private detective bum. Somewhere in the dim past he’d been a lawyer and been disbarred. Not for taking money or anything like that: it was a divorce case, he was repping the husband, and ended up sleeping with the wife. Pretty hard to figure, if you ever saw Bob. . . .

Bounty Hunter Bob (1)

I first met Bounty Hunter Bob in a parking lot in Poughkeepsie back when I had less of a temper.

I’d just had lunch with a political hack I knew and was about to get into my car when a dark sedan whipped up from behind, blocking me in. Two guys jumped out. One of them had a very pretty, very large and very shiny magnum revolver in his hand, which he pointed in my direction.

“You keep pointing that fucking gun at my head and somebody’s going to be sorry,” I said.

The odds were very strong that it was going to be me, but I didn’t think adding that would help the situation.

“Easy now,” said Bounty Hunter Bob, coming around the other side. His cheap brown suit wasn’t buttoned, probably to better expose the 9 mm stuck in his belt. “I need to see some ID.”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

Bob got this dumb-shit grin on his face and pulled out his wallet.

“So you’re a private investigator,” I told him. “So what?”

“No fair. You said you’d show me yours.”

I pulled out my wallet. Because a deal’s a deal, and that was still a very pretty cannon his sidekick was aiming at me.

“Just a coincidence, friend,” he said. “Check it out.”

He showed me a police bulletin for a suspected murderer in Wyoming or Utah or some other state I’d never been to at the time. The guy had a car like mine, and was about my height and weight.

“But he’s probably carrying a gun and is an asshole besides,” said Bob, taking the bulletin back. He gestured to his henchman, who got back in the car.

“Who says I’m not?”

Bob laughed.

"So when you buying me a beer?" I asked . . .