translating jargon.”
“Well, if you want to keep with it, do you know what I’d do?”
“Inasmuch as you haven’t told me, I don’t. I am, however, open to suggestions.”
“I’d get the help of a pro, that’s what I’d do.”
Miss Withers, her pride wounded, was instantly on her dignity. She gave Al the full effect of a frigid look of pedagogic severity. “Young man, I may not be an official member of any police force, but I assure you that experience gives me some claim to professional standing. Moreover, this is a case requiring the utmost discretion. It is better handled privately. I was specifically informed on that point by my old friend Inspector Oscar Piper.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the fuzz—the police. I was thinking of a bounty hunter.”
“Bounty hunter? Is this more jargon?”
“Well, you’ve heard of the bounty hunters of the old days in the West, haven’t you? Guys that made a gig out of tracking down outlaws for the rewards that had been put on their heads? They’re just the same now, except they don’t track down outlaws. They track down hippies.”
“Are you saying that there are men who make a job of this sort of thing?”
“Sure. That’s what I said. A gig. Lots of kids run away from home nowadays to come out here to LA or San Francisco to join the hippies, just like this chick we’re looking for. The old folks at home get uptight about the whole thing, naturally, and sometimes they’ll hire one of these bounty hunters to find the kid for them. Sometimes he lets them know, but sometimes, if the hippie’s got any bread, he works both ends and doubles the take by agreeing to keep what he knows to himself.”
“I’ve never before heard of anything so despicable. How does one go about contacting a bounty hunter?”
“They don’t advertise, you know. You can see why. They’re in a kind of a sensitive position, I mean. Undercover. They’re not hippies, but they fake it because there’s a lot more to be learned inside than outside. It would be rough if anyone got hep to them. I mean, hippies are all for love and peace and all that, but some of them might lose their cool if they found an informer in the nest. Besides, there are the motorcycle clubs like Hell’s Angels to look out for. Those cats don’t object to any violence, not at all, and they’ve taken the hippies to raise.”
“Well, I have no intention of running about to evil-smelling and depressing places asking perfect strangers with long hair and beards if they happen to be bounty hunters, or if they could please direct me to one. I’ve had quite enough of that sort of thing. If the bounty hunter can’t advertise, there is no reason why I can’t. The problem is, I am committed to discretion. How does one advertise without attracting the publicity we wish to avoid?”
“You might try the Free Press . It circulates mainly among the beats and the hippies and people like that. The straights and the squares hardly know it exists, and they wouldn’t read it if they did.”
“It sounds a disgraceful sort of newspaper, if you ask me. However, in a matter of this kind, it will probably suit our purpose exactly. As a precaution, I shall try to be deceptive. My advertisement must avoid proper names, and it must be couched in terms which will make it fully understood only by someone with reason to understand.”
“I don’t dig.”
“Never mind. You’ll dig in a moment.”
Miss Withers got up and left the kitchen, returning shortly with paper and pencil. Meanwhile, Al had cut his third slice of cake and poured his second glass of milk. Miss Withers sat down, nibbled the eraser of her pencil in concentration, and then wrote rapidly and briefly.
“There,” she said, reversing the paper and pushing it across the table toward Al. “That should do nicely.”
Al leaned forward to read: Wanted — 1967 blue Volkswagen sedan decorated with daffodils. Urgent. Will pay well. This message was followed by