Rob Guy [Guy - Harry Watt Bounty Hunter

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H arry Watts office was at the intersection of Dumaine and Bourbon Street, on the first floor above the casino, and across from the strip club in the heart of the French Quarter in New New Orleans. Any faded private eye pulp novel from the last two hundred years would have contained an office like Harrys. It was small and dark, and would occasionally creak and vibrate as the hover-trains flew through, or when events got a little heated down below. He had made repeated requests to his landlord to undergo repairs, but such matters tended to get lost in translation. Mandarin was not Harrys chosen language, neither, one could argue, was English.

Born to an English father and French mother, Harry had spent all of his childhood in New New Orleans, watching the place become increasingly lawless. He was nineteen when his father was gunned down and killed for the sake of twenty credits. Shortly thereafter he left the family business and applied to join the Bureau, where he served for twelve years, mostly with distinction, until his suspension and subsequent resignation.

When he first began as a Bailsman, Harry would listen intently to what his clients had to say. His hand would scribble away, (he hated the digital graphene tablets), taking notes and questioning every other remark, just so he had the complete picture. In these latter days however, complacency was his enemy. He had heard every story, every wrong doing that people did to each other, continually it seemed. He would listen for maybe a minute before his brown eyes started glazing over.

Harry hated the term Bailsman. Though the job description had changed a great deal over the last century or so, it was still a weak, insipid title to him. Bounty Hunter, thats what he was. An iron willed, square jawed no excuses kinda guy who took no shit from anybody, someone who got the job done, a maverick, and yes, even a desperado at times. It read Fugitive Recovery Agent on his door, which was slightly better than Bailsman, but not by much. Yes it left little doubt as to his occupation, but it was just so run-of-the-mill. Bounty Hunter. Mention that to anyone and it conjured up a certain mystique, certain ne'er-do-wellness. Plus it had gotten him laid numerous times.

And so here he was, three years and one divorce down the track, sat in his office, waiting for life to start again.

It was Tuesday. Harry hated Tuesdays. Only one thing he hated more than Tuesdays was a wet Tuesday, like this one. They were filled with grey skies and grey people. Take his latest client, back again. Grey suit, grey eyes, grey hair, grey teeth. The Honorable Judge Joseph Belmont Headlock III Junior stood at the window, looking out at the grey and damp world, relaying all the usual bullshit, trying to make the trite sound interesting.

I want this guy back in custody by the end of the month, understand? the Judge was saying, tapping one hand onto the other behind his back.

End of the month, check, Harry replied, leaning back to stretch his athletic, eighty odd kilogram body.

God this place is filthy, Headlock remarked, shifting his gaze to inspect the plasti-glass.

Behind him, Harry pulled a face, and drew a hand through wavy, brown hair before yawning, and clacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. The Judge continued to yabber on about something, but Harrys mind was already shifting to more important matters. He opened a drawer in the desk to check his gun, a custom made Smith & Wesson .45 semi-automatic, an exact replica of a model manufactured over a century before, circa 2030. It nestled snugly in a beautifully crafted walnut and velvet box beside a silencer and five magazines of ammunition. It took a thirteen round clip, and was fitted with a laser sight, palm print ident grip, flashlight, the works. Yep, still there, still ready and loaded. He pictured it up against the Judges skull, the look on his face right before he pulled the trigger.

Harry had a major mistrust of most things modern, weaponry included, and had no time for the latter day excuses for guns, all that silly compressed air pellet nonsense. He was a bounty hunter after all, and a bounty hunter required an appropriate weapon, one that sounded like Hells fury, not a high pitched fart.

Are you listening to me, Watt?

What?

I said are you listening? The Judge had turned round, staring at him with an expression that would sour milk.

Harry grimaced and closed the drawer. I heard you. End of the week, like you said.

Month, you dumb ass! End of the month.

Bang!

Even you cant get to Mars and find this guy in a week, though I admit that would be impressive. Once you have him back here, you take him to Tyrells on Burgundy first. Okay?

Harry frowned. Tyrell? What does he want with him? Isnt this a federal case?

He owes him for dry cleaning. How the hell should I know? Just make sure he sees him first before you bring him back to the courthouse. Understand?

I understand.

Good. Questions?

Just one if I may. According to the last press release youre only looking for one man. But its really two isnt it?

Headlock narrowed his eyes. Who told you that?

I have a source.

A source eh? This source wouldnt happen to speak with an Irish accent would it?

Is it true?

Even if it were Im not giving you any more information than you need.

Fair enough.

Very well. The State will pay the usual fee plus expenses. And in answer to your earlier query, the Feds have given me autonomy on this one.

Really?

Cut out the inquisitor crap, Watt, youre not with the Bureau anymore.

Harry moved his lips but didnt say anything.

Would that I were, smartass.

Headlock paused in preparation for his next sentence. And theres another fifty once Tyrells finished with him.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Fifty? Something tells me this isnt no ordinary criminal.

A double negative. Stop trying to sound like a gangster, it doesnt become you.

Harry shuffled in his chair and coughed.

Gangster, eh?

He pictured the .45 pushed into the Judges mouth, his damn grey eyes pleading for mercy.

Too late, Judge, you had your chance to apologize, now its clover pushing time.

Daisheys.

Bang!

Is there likely to be anything left after Tyrells finished with him? Harry asked. I wont get paid if I drop a stiff on the courthouse steps.

Thered better be, said Headlock. That bastard owes me too. So dont you go breaking anything either.

Wouldnt dream of it, Judge. Harry appeared wistful. Fifty huh? What did he do?

He broke the law then jumped bail! What else do you need to know?

Nothing. Just the fifty thats all. Youve never paid me anyway near that much before. Must be important.