Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

  84 - READY, WILLING AND ABEL I’d never seen a larger gathering around #1 Broken Heart Park.   Kachingas told us we gotta evacuate the premises in a few days.  I wasn’t sure what was hurting worse, my feelings or my ass. Suddenly, a big ol’ cloud of dust rose behind a car racing up the drive.   The beat up Chevy skidded to a halt in front of the official double-wide.   Like a magician stepping out of a puff of smoke, there emerged before us a sweaty little man.   He was dressed in polyester.   His belly hung over a white belt that matched his scuffed-up shoes.   (If the Good Will store had a catalogue, he’d be a featured model.)   I knew I’d seen this man before. “Howdy, folks, Abel Chase at your service.”   He started handing out business cards. Oh, yeah:   Abel Chase, Esquire, Junior Partner of Lynch & Levy, Defenders of the Rights of the Civilly Disadvantaged Since 1978 for Cash.   He was the pesky lawyer who had once disturbed my tranquility trying to get us to go af

  85 - THINK THEY’RE READY FOR US? With Deputy Sheriff Whitey looming over me, I hardly heard Maggie’s sweet voice calling from behind. “Honeypot, my personal stake in this Chinese fire drill has dropped to zero, but I think Christos Kartone should be informed of these developments.   And I want to be there when he is.”   From behind I felt Maggie pulling on my arm.   “Come on,” she urged, “let’s go for a ride.”   Maggie glanced over her shoulder, “Mr. Chase, I think you’re hired.   And as our attorney, why don’t you join us?” “Gladly, yet…” his voice held a trace of hesitation, “...there is still the small matter of my restrainer.   Normally I work on a 30% to 80% contingency in cases of this magnitude.   Fortunately, as it so happens, I am in possession of the normal, standard, prerequisite contractual agreement form.” Mr. Chase reached into his hip pocket and pulled out some crumpled papers, which he handed to Maggie.   She unfolded the creased and stained papers, glanced

  86 - BEARING WITNESS We walked across the street and up the creaky stairs.   I opened the door to the office to let everyone else go in first. Again, Doll-Face sat cross-legged on her perch at the end of the metal desk.   Again Sinatra played in the background.   Glancing up, she gave us the once-over.   She returned to filing her nails and let out a yell in that pack-a-day voice of hers, “Hey, Frank!   It’s your Anti-Christos Tabernacle Choir.” From behind the Army blanket wall came the broken cry of Christos.   “Oy!   Just send dem in.   No doubt dey come to put da end of a broken bottle into my guts.   Well, I’m ready to go.   I want it.   Really.” The four of us silently entered. “So, you brought help dis time to dance on my grave?   Who ’ s dis?” “Please allow me to interject myself,” our legal rep began, “I am Abel Chase, Esquire.”   With a slight bow, Mr. Chase reached into his pocket and, with a showman’s flourish and a smile that could grease a skillet, he flip