Deputy Dirk Marin came out with a big son of a bitch in an orange jumpsuit, athletic slides, waist cuffs, and leg chains. The guy was painted from his forehead to the tips of his fingers with white grease paint, though his face was made up like a scary-ass clown.
I couldn’t imagine how one would begin to wash that shit away. What a fucking mess. As I stared, something seemed vaguely familiar about the man, but I couldn’t pinpoint it.
“Uncuff him and let him change, Deputy. We’re paying his bail, and last I knew, you don’t rent out those orange jumpsuits.”
Based on everything I’d witnessed about Dirk Marin, the man was a real prick. I had no idea why he didn’t like those of us who worked for Sparks Bail Bonds, but I’d heard Fitz refer to Marin as Greeley’s reject one time, so maybe there was something there?
The deputy handed Dickie Normous a bag with clothes. “You can change in there. We’re keeping the sheet as evidence for trial.”
Marin pointed to the restroom and released the cuffs and chains before he left the waiting room. Dickie didn’t waste time heading into the john.
Part of me felt terrible for the guy in the sad clown makeup, though I had no idea the extent of his crimes. Aggravated assault was a serious charge.
Maybe the fucker was a psycho? I wasn’t about to become a fucking sap for broad shoulders and muscular forearms.
Dickie had been picked up on Fremont, where he was posing as a clown statue, collecting tips in a fedora. There were a lot of freaks who busked on The Old Strip, so who knew what the guy might have done. Though not many of the performers beat the fuck out of someone else, so that was something to consider.
When Dickie returned from the men’s room, head still hanging, he was wearing basketball shorts and a tank top. He shuffled over to the chairs and sat. Finally, Sparky came into the waiting room. “We ready?”
I sighed. “They seem to be hesitant to process the paperwork for me, like they do for the rest of you. I’m new. I guess they don’t respect me like the other agents.”
Sparky chuckled. “Jagger, respect is earned, my friend. You’re from a job where you scared the fuck out of people because you were a member of the Nevada Highway Patrol. Folks only respected you because they were afraid of you. Well, that stupid flat-brimmed hat probably helped.”
I chuckled. “And, Sparky, respectfully, I say fuck you.”
My boss let loose a surprising guffaw. “Yeah, I’d say the same if I were you.”
Finally, Anita returned with the papers. “Here’s your receipt and a copy of the signed release. Remember to tell Greeley we miss him at Piggy’s.”
I nodded. “How could I forget?”
I stepped over to Dickie Normous, whose head was hanging low. “You ready to go?”
Dickie had pulled his hair back into a ponytail and wiped off a lot of the grease paint while he was in the washroom. When Dickie looked up, he locked those beautiful blue eyes on me. I fought the urge to blink. Surely my mind was playing tricks on me.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Bailey? Is this a joke?”
Sparky touched my shoulder. “Get him out of here before you say anything else. His brother would rather not draw attention to this. He doesn’t want it to hit the papers.”
We escorted Dickie Normous, or as I knew him, Bailey Gregory, the older brother of Governor Thomas Gregory, to the trap truck. Bailey got into the backseat without a word.
I turned to Sparky. “How do you know who he is?”
Sparky chuckled. “Did you think I wouldn’t vet your ass before I took you on? I called the governor, whom you worked for, like any smart employer would do. Not surprisingly, when he needed someone to bail out his brother, he knew he had someone at my shop he trusted.”
Chapter Three
Bailey
“Dickie Normous. Front and center. Your bail was posted.”
What a fucking day! I hoped I never had to repeat the fucker.
After being arrested the previous night, I was beyond ready to get the fuck out of the Clark County Detention Center. How those assholes didn’t figure out my ID was fake—especially since they fingerprinted me—was a goddamn mystery. The judge at my arraignment didn’t even question it.
Hell, LVPD had been more worried about whether I was going to get the grease paint covering my head, face, neck, and arms all over their pristine police SUV. I’d been on The Old Strip looking for fucking Boyd Newton, and I’d found the prick. That was why my ass got arrested.
Glory Hole Studio wasn’t far from The Fremont Street Experience, so I set up shop at South Fourth and Fremont so I could keep an eye on the building. I put a beat-up fedora on amilk crate with a piece of paper that read Tips and stood at the entrance with a red balloon in my hand, looking like that scary-ass clown from the Stephen King movie.
