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 . . .