“Jussie don’t like you yellin’, just sayin’.”
“Then stop makin’ me do it.”
Deacon’s cell phone rang and vibrated at the same time. Unknown Number popped up on his screen. He snagged the phone off his desk and put it to his ear. “Deacon Edwards, skip tracer extraordinaire and all around awesome badass.”
He grinned as Judge rolled his green eyes.
“This Justice Bail Bonds?” the male with a heavy accent on the other end asked.
He sat straight up in his chair. “Yeah, it is.”
“This is Anthony Bianchi from Bianchi Bail Bonds...”
“Okay?” Deacon hit the speaker button on his phone and placed his cell on the desk so Judge could listen, too.
“From Philly,” the man finished.
So, that was the accent. Fucking Philly. He hated that city. It was almost like Jersey, but way worse. It was Jersey’s sweaty armpit.
Even so, the guy was acting like they should have heard about Bianchi Bail Bonds. Like they were famous or something.
“Yeah, so...” Deacon prodded.
“Yeah, so got ya numba from anotha bondsman. He said you’re good at trackin’ down these fuckwads when they skip.”
Well, that sounded like a glowing review. His eyes met Judge’s. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“I need betta than good.”
“I’m betta than good,” Deacon repeated with a smirk.
There was a pause on the other end of the call. “You makin’ fun of my accent?”
He nodded while answering, “Nope. So, what d’you need from us?”
“Got a skip that might end up in your area. This guy’s a real piece of work, though. Domestic abuse. Sexual assault. Attempted murder. How tha fucka got bond, who fuckin’ knows. Probably some asshole judge who’s worried about tha man’s reputation ratha than the victim’s right to live without fea.”
Fea? Deacon rolled his eyes. For fuck’s sake, fear.
This dude was worried about victim’s rights? He was making scratch off that “fucka.”
“Also, tha asshole’s got no problem with witness intimidation.”
“So, he’s dangerous,” Deacon concluded.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Anthony said. “He’s been in and out of jail, likes to use and abuse women. Sweet talks ‘em for a while, gets in good with ‘em, then boom, runs up their credit cards, wipes out their bank accounts, and’s got no problem thinkin’ he’s a man by makin’ a woman do what she don’t wanna do. I got two sistas, I don’t got time for that kinda trash, hear what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Deacon muttered. He didn’t have time for that kind of trash, either. Jemma might be his cousin, but she was more like a sister to him and he wouldn’t want a man doing that to her. Or any other woman.
“Anyhow, he’s bad fuckin’ news. That means if you take this job and you see ‘im, you gotta watch yourself. Make sure you got protection. I wouldn’t put it past ‘im to take a shot at ya. I wouldn’t put it past him to take out tha woman. Which is why I’m callin’ ya.” The man hacked a couple of times, not bothering to cover the phone when he did so. “Last woman he fucked up and drained dry is now up near you in Mansfield. Probably tryin’ to hide out ‘til the trial. But now the mothefucka’s probably lookin’ for her to either convince her to drop the charges or make her disappea.”
Like swim with the fishes type of disappearing?
“You notify Mansfield PD?” Deacon asked him.
“Yeah, first call I made.”
“They probably don’t have enough people to sit on her full time.”
“That’s why you were my second call.”
Deacon could hear the unspoken “dumbass” on the end of that. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to get her a damn bodyguard?”
“Prolly, but that ain’t my problem. My problem’s findin’ tha fucka and deliverin’ him to the court and gettin’ my fuckin’ money back. I’m a business, not a babysitta. The victim has to look out for her own ass. It was her fault for gettin’ involved with this putz in tha first place.”
So, Bianchi was saying the victim pretty much deserved what she got. Fucking great.
“She the only victim involved in his current case?”
“Yeah. He did a numba on her, and guess she wasn’t gonna take it lyin’ down.”
“Good for her,” Deacon muttered.
“Not so good for her, if this whacko finds her.”
“He got connections? Like, does he have the assets to take out a hit on her?”
“Nah. He’s just a broke-ass losa. Gets his jollies from breakin’ women, physically and financially.”
“So, what are you askin’ me to do?” Deacon asked, scraping a hand down his beard.
“Snag his ass and hold ‘im for me.”
“You sure he’s comin’ up this way?”
“Nope. But if I can find the victim, so can he.”
“She aware he skipped?”
“Don’t fuckin’ know. Again, not my problem. That’s tha DA’s problem.”
The District Attorney for the City and County of Philadelphia probably had way bigger problems and cases than one domestic abuse incident. Their office was most likely overwhelmed.