Bobby hesitated. But he was curious and said, “I do collection for Harry once in a while. Harry, or different shylocks call, they want me to lean on some guy. I was a repo man also and a bounty hunter. I did work for bail bondsmen, went after people who took off, didn’t appear in court when they suppose to.”

“Defendants that jump bond,” Chip said.

“Yeah, I bring them back so the bail bondsman don’t lose the money he put up. The bail bondsman goes after most of the ones himself, but there some others-a guy leaves the country, say he goes back to Haiti or Jamaica? Those the ones I went after.”

“What if you couldn’t find the guy? Or for some reason you weren’t able to bring him back?”

“I went after a guy,” Bobby said, “he was mine. There was no way he didn’t come back with me.”

Chip said, “You mind if I get up?” Raising his hand he said, “Here,” and Bobby took the hand and pulled him up from the lounge. It was okay, not like the guy was telling him what to do. Bobby saw they were about the same height, though Chip Ganz seemed taller because he was so thin, flat in front from his chest down past ribs you could count to the bump in his swimsuit, skinny with round, bony shoulders. The guy looked at the joint, what was left of it, dropped it on the tiles but didn’t step on it, Bobby watching him. Now he started across the patio toward open French doors and what looked like a room in there with white furniture, Bobby following him. When he was almost to the doors, Chip stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“How come, if you were this star at bringing back fugitives, you don’t do it anymore?”

“They have a law now on the books, nine oh three point oh five, a convicted felon isn’t allow to do that kind of work.”

“You’ve done serious time,” Chip said, nodding then, telling Bobby, “That’s what I thought,” before he turned and went in the house.