There was a door at the end of the Plexiglas wall and again someone buzzed him through. He walked past scattered desks, mostly empty, three of them occupied by two men and one woman, all in their twenties, wearing company T-shirts and Dickies slacks. One of the men nodded at Ornazian as he continued on to a glassed-in office. There behind a desk sat Thaddeus Ward, late sixties, barrel-chested, and hard to hurt. He was snaggletoothed and sported a neat gray mustache.
Ward stood, came to Ornazian with a brisk, square-shouldered step, and shook his hand.
“Been a while,” said Ward. “You could visit.”
“It’s not like I’m out here too often. When you had your offices in D.C., I saw you more.”
“Ain’t no bail-bond business in D.C. anymore. Only skips. Criminals got that nonfinancial-release option there. I had to come out to P.G.”
“I know it.”
“You only come by when you need something,” said Ward.
“Didn’t realize you were so sensitive, Thaddeus. You want a hug or something?”
“If I wanted to touch you, I’d bend you over my desk.”
“Don’t be so butch.”
“Glad you called me, though. I could use a little extra. Got too many people on my payroll right now and not enough work.”
“Then lay some of them off.”
“Can’t do that. They’re veterans.”
“See? You are sensitive.”
“Fuck you, man.” Ward went back behind his desk. “Let me just call Sharon and tell her I’ll be out tonight.”
As Ward picked up his cell and speed-dialed his daughter, Ornazian examined a wall where many cheaply framed photographs hung. There were several of Ward and his buddies, standing and seated around their hooches in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. They looked like kids, and many were. Ward himself had told a lie and enlisted when he was seventeen years old. In another photo, Ward cradled an M-60 machine gun and posed next to a photographic collage of topless women, images cut from magazines and glued to a large piece of cardboard. Other photographs showed Ward in his Metropolitan Police Department uniform, in plainclothes, accepting commendations from a senior officer in a white shirt. Ward shaking hands with Jesse Jackson. Ward with Darrell Green. Art Monk. And one incongruous photograph of a champion heavyweight boxer standing next to a nearly identical younger man who had to be his son. The boxer was wearing the champ belt over his suit pants. The son, also a former boxer but with an undistinguished career in the ring, had his hand on his father’s shoulder.
Ward had finished his call and came up on Ornazian.
“What’s up with that?” said Ornazian, nodding at the father-and-son photo.
“When I was working Vice, long time ago, I busted this massage parlor on Fourteenth and R. Found this photograph, a glossy signed to the establishment by the champ’s son. Not to cast aspersions...”
“You’ve got it hanging on your wall of fame. It must mean something to you.”
“It just makes me smile,” said Ward. “But really, it reminds me of those Wild West times. I drove down Fourteenth Street recently. You know what that massage-parlor building is now? A flower store.”
“So? That’s a good thing, right?”
“Sure, a positive thing. But when it was wide open out there, we had fun. There was this other dude, back in the seventies, was a real gunslinger. Street name was Red Fury. Had a girlfriend named Coco, a pimpette who ran a whorehouse on that same stretch of Fourteenth. You heard of Red?”
“Before my time.”
“I could tell you some things.”
“We’re going to be spending hours together tonight. Tell me then.”
They walked to the outer office, where Ward introduced Ornazian to the three employees who were seated at their desks. None of them looked very busy now. One of the men, Jake, stacked shoulders and neck, barely made eye contact with Ornazian. The other, who said his name was Esteban, was courteous and shook Ornazian’s hand firmly. The woman, Genesis, had the most intelligent, alert eyes of the group. She wore a ball cap and a ring with a very small diamond on her finger.
“Just one a’ y’all mind the phones tonight,” said Ward. “Don’t care who. Decide amongst yourselves. I’ll be checking in.”
By the time they exited the offices, night had fallen. Behind the building, Ward kept three black cars: two Lincoln Marks and an old but cherry Crown Victoria. Ward had expanded his business beyond bail bonds and skip traces. He now provided security for events and drivers/bodyguards for celebrities, dignitaries, and quasi-celebrities who came into D.C.
As they walked toward the cars, Ornazian said, “What’s the quiet one’s story?”
“Jake did a combat tour in Iraq and re-upped for a second tour in Afghanistan. He’s on so many meds I can’t use him on the street. I keep him in the office to answer the phones and process clients. He’s a house cat.”
“What about the other dude?”
“Esteban. That’s Spanish for Stephen.”
“No kidding.”
“I’m just sayin. Marine Corps. Follows orders real good and aims to please.”
“And the woman?”
“National Guard, but don’t let that fool you. She ran security with convoys. Went into hot pockets when the soldiers and Marines got pinned down. I talked to her CO and he told me that girl was fierce. But I won’t have her for long. Genesis is finishing college on the VA tit. Wants to go to law school.”
“Good for her.”
“What I should have done, too, if I had any sense. But I didn’t. Not a lick.” Ward pointed to the Crown Vic. “Let’s take my UC. It’s all loaded up.”
As they cruised out of the lot, Ward nodded at his sign. “Changed the name of my business, you notice that? Used to be Ward Bail Bonds, but now it’s just Ward Bonds. It’s clever, don’t you think?”
“Why is it clever?”
“Ward Bond. The actor?”
“Not familiar with him. Is he from the silent era or something?”
“Funny. He’s that big dude, character actor. Played in all of them movies with John Wayne.”
“I’ve heard of Lil Wayne,” said Ornazian.
“Now you’re being stupid,” said Ward.
For years, several hotels and motels had been clustered around the busy intersection of New York Avenue and Bladensburg Road near the National Arboretum and the city’s largest animal shelter. These establishments had been homes to folks on public assistance, drug addicts, thrifty adulterers, down-and-outers, death-wish drinkers, and unknowing foreign tourists who had purchased cheap lodging online that promised easy bus access to the monuments, museums, and downtown D.C. The motels had also been notorious venues for prostitutes and pimps, but that activity had been curtailed. The rooms were now mostly occupied by homeless families who had been placed here by the District government. Private, armed security guards roamed the parking lots, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the residents.
Adjoining one of the motels was a Chinese restaurant with a large dining room. Its grim location and lack of ambience prevented it from becoming a destination for discerning Washingtonians, but it was a secret spot for foodies who didn’t mind the traffic congestion and the enduring blight of the NYA corridor.
Ornazian and Ward sat at a four-top, eating and strategizing. The proprietors specialized in Szechuan cooking of the northern Shaanxi region. The food was righteous.
“Pass me those scallion pancakes, man,” said Ward.
Ornazian pushed the plate within reaching distance of Ward. Also on the table were platters with dwindling portions of rou jia mo, which was the Chinese version of a hamburger, cumin lamb on sticks, spicy vermicelli, and dumplings with hot sauce. They were having a feast.