Chapter one of Miami 1-der

CHAPTER 1

Ooooo, I hate that Dog the Bounty Hunter! Oh, and that Ranger fellow, Stephanie Plum's friend! I hate ‘em! I hate ‘em! I hate ‘em!

Sorry for ranting. It makes me so mad when everyone compares me to those guys when I'm trying to bring in a fugitive. Not all bounty hunters have to be lean, tall, and have a head of nice hair. Right?

Just because I’m 5’7" and weigh around 250 pounds, have my uncle’s head of hair, or lack thereof, and have a near-constant sunburn because of my pale skin, doesn’t mean I can’t be a badass bounty hunter too does it?

I wear a black windbreaker that says “Fugitive Apprehension” on it like the professionals. Just because I prefer to wear bright Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts, and flip-flops doesn’t mean I’m not professional as well. Does it? I didn’t think so!

What started this rant? I’m glad you asked.

I was trying to apprehend Jamal Williams Washington, AKA Willie, an FTA, Failure to Appear in bounty hunter lingo, for burglary.

The skinny black teenager kept laughing at me while running around inside his filthy apartment.

Trying to get his breath back from laughing so hard, he spat out, "You? A bounty hunter? You kiddin' me? You look mo' like a beach bum waiting fo' his next Mimosa drink! That Dawg the Bounty Hunter, now he look like he can kick some ass!"

At that moment, he tripped over a coffee table in the living room and did a face-plant. Yes! Just the luck I needed－and usually got－while bringing in bad boys like him.

If it wasn't for my good luck, I probably wouldn’t capture any of them. If I had to depend on skill and street smarts－well, I'd be out of a job in no time at all.

As he lay dazed and bleeding profusely from the nose, I got him into handcuffs, then up and walking to the front door.

He wasn't laughing now. That'll teach him.

Okay, I realize that Ranger or Dog the Bounty Hunter would have finessed the situation a bit differently. But, hey, I got him into handcuffs and on the way to my car, all without the skills possessed by those two show-offs.

After I got him through the front door and onto the front step, I turned to close and lock the door. I didn't want someone to come and rob the place while he was in jail, even if that’s exactly what this guy was being charged with.

With my back turned, he started running. Just what I needed, another long-legged runner to chase down.

Just then, one of his neighbors opened her door ‌and a huge Rottweiler came out. The dog looked around and the first thing it saw was my FTA running flat out in front of its yard, so that's what it chased.

I ran after the two of them, although quite a bit more slowly. I'm no sprinter with my short legs... so I had only passed the first two yards, or what would be considered yards in other neighborhoods.

In that part of Miami, they were just weeds poking out of hard-packed dirt with trash lying in piles where the wind had blown the debris against the buildings. The tenants of these neighborhoods didn't spend much time on yard decor or lawn maintenance.

This was a neighborhood of the downtrodden part of society, and only a few blocks away from being in the really bad neighborhood where only drug addicts and their type stayed.

The dog made a lunge at my FTA and grabbed a bite of his ass, at least where his ass would have been if he hadn't been wearing his jeans so low off his hips. I never understood the appeal. It slows you down while you’re running from bounty hunters like me, as well as bloodthirsty canines, as was the case here. So the kid that was currently my FTA avoided having half of his ass eaten by the big dog, but it couldn’t avoid what happened next.

The two of them, Willie in his jeans－which were down to his knees－and the ninety-pound Rottweiler, were suddenly flung head over heels, cartwheeling down the road.

Willie did a pretty decent tuck and roll considering his hands were still cuffed, so I heard an umphh from him when he landed on the ground, followed by a muffled yipe from the dog, since its mouth was still attached to the jeans.

After a couple of somersaults and umphh, yipe, umphh, yipe, they came to a stop. They landed in a pile of lanky legs－half-clad in jeans, half in boxer shorts－dog legs－still clawing at mid-air－and a mouth tugging at jeans that were eerily close to the kid's face.

As I arrived on the scene, the dog’s owner came up behind me with a pitcher of water, throwing it on the wriggling mass.

The dog immediately released its hold on the jeans, jumped up, and shook itself, spraying dirty water all over each of us. Willie just lay on his back, huffing and puffing. He finally shouted, "What the hell?"

I tried not to laugh as I peered down at him. He looked like a scarecrow that had fallen to the ground after a rainstorm. The kid was skin and bones, long and lean, and drenched from head to foot, with his jeans wrapped around his knees. He was wearing blue and white striped boxers, with his shirt pulled up to his armpits.

"Is that dog part of your gang, white boy?" the kid asked me.

"No, but it has given me the idea of adding a dog as part of my recovery team," I said. "That worked out pretty well, I thought."

"Yeah, well, who's going to pay for these jeans with the ass bitten out?" he asked.

"You'll have to talk to my boss about that," I replied.

As I helped him get up off the ground, Willie looked warily over at the dog, which stood next to the lady. It let out a deep-chested growl and looked at the kid like it wanted to have him for its next meal.

I led Willie to my car, a 25-year-old Volvo station wagon that got me from point A to point B, but not in any hurry, nor any style of fashion.

As I started the car, after stuffing Willie into the back seat with the child-proof door locks engaged in case he thought about making a run for it, again, my dad called.

I didn't want to take the call, because my dad has never been exactly enthusiastic about my career choice. He's an attorney and has always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I had barely scraped by in school, so trying to make it through law school just wasn’t something I even wanted to try.

We come from a long line of attorneys, or solicitors, as they were called in the Old Country. I know my dad looks at my bond enforcement job like most cops do－it's a necessary evil, but something to be tolerated with as little contact as possible.

I answered my flip phone, yes I still use a flip phone. To me, a phone is for making phone calls, not taking pictures, looking up silly stuff online like cat videos, and whatever else they can do with the new ‘smartphones’.

"Hey Dad, what's up?" I answered after I put him on speakerphone so I could keep both hands on the wheel.

"You tell me, Phillip. What are you doing now?" He still calls me Phillip, refusing to call me PK, the nickname I've had since I was a kid. At least he doesn't call me by the middle name that he passed on to me... Hammersley. Yes, I am Phillip Hammersley Kincaid III. I didn't choose it, but it's what I've got to work with, so I tell everyone to call me PK. Almost everybody else does, but not my dad. To him, I will always be Phillip.

"Well, if you must know, I'm bringing in an FTA as we speak."

"Really? And how did you catch this one? Did he break his leg while running away from you like the last guy? Or maybe he fell into a sewer hole with the lid missing like the one before that?"

My dad is amazed that I'm able to bring in FTAs at all, and he's appalled that I depend on luck to get the job done. He'd prefer that I had some type of skills, but I for one refuse to look a gift horse in the mouth. I use the one tool I have when accosting those running from the law－Lady Luck. It's what I have, and it's what I use.

"I really can't talk right now Dad, I'm driving. I'll call you back later." That's always a good way to get him off the phone－tell him that I'm driving. He's a stickler for obeying the laws of not talking or texting while driving. And it lets me off the hook of having to tell him in front of the FTA that it was pure luck again that allowed me to make this collar. I've learned how to use his peculiarities to fend off the awkward situations until later.

"Say what?" Willie spoke up from the back after I hung up the phone.."You mean the last guy broke his leg when you were trying to catch him?"

"Yep. He tried to jump off a fire escape ladder."

The rest of the story was that he jumped, but there was a huge rat right where he was going to land. He adjusted his fall but broke his leg when he landed wrong. He was squirming on the ground at the bottom of the ladder when I finally made my way there by going out the front door and around the apartment building.

Willie and I arrived at the backside of the Miami police station. The front of the building was a nice modern design, but the back was simply utilitarian. Nothing fancy, just cement blocks and heavy-duty, fireproof utility doors.

Someone finally buzzed us in after waiting five minutes in the sweltering heat of the sun, because why provide a nice shaded area in the back for the likes of us?

If we were some of the beautiful people being arrested and brought in with pomp and circumstance, we would have been up in the front with its nicer, covered entrance.

And if it had been Miami Beach PD. Well. It’s even nicer with curving architecture and reflective glass. In case they need to house any of the ultra-rich constituents who live in huge McMansions near the ocean.

The ultra-rich were called constituents while the rest of us were just people, or in Willie’s case, perps.

Finally, they allowed us into the air-conditioned inner sanctum, but only after I had completely soaked my Magnum P.I.-style Hawaiian shirt. To add insult to injury, I also had colored splotches all over the front of my shirt and pants from the dog earlier. Wasn’t that nice?

Of course, the kid didn't look any better. His shirt was even more soaked and spattered than mine. His jeans once again only covered half his ass, but there was a big hole in the seat. I thought he looked pretty ridiculous, but I wasn't there as a fashion consultant, so I didn't say a word.

Officer Camilla Lopez, the beautiful, sexy officer who usually dealt with me when bringing in FTAs－and used to be my girlfriend by the way－didn't have the same self-control as me. As soon as she came around the corner and began walking toward us, she was already looking Jamal up and down.

"Well, well, look what the cat drug in today," she said, stopping in front of us. "You two been having some fun before coming here? Whoa! From the hole in his jeans, I'm wondering what kind of fun you two were having without me," she continued, leering at me.

"I'll be sure to include you the next time I decide to have an FTA get into a tussle with a big Rottweiler," I joked

"You do that, big boy, although I'm not sure I want to include the dog" she said, as she smiled and swiveled away, dragging my FTA along with her.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open, wishing I could take back what I had just said. She turned back towards me, winked, and asked, “You coming?” as she continued to walk towards the processing desk with a very nice swing to her hips.

That woman had curves like the Miami Grand Prix, and I watched them move away in a wonderful swaying motion.

I shook my head, reminding myself of the reason she was my ex. She was crazy! And she was crazy jealous.

Then again…