Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

89 - THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW

Down here in Broken Heart Park, inevitability is an iffy thing.

I was overcome with a feeling as fuzzy as the dice hanging from the Fine Lady’s rearview mirror.  Owen and Babbs grew smaller and smaller in the far, dusty distance.  The racket of various pipes hanging from the back of Owen’s camper faded as they dragged down the highway.  Sight and sound of the happy couple totally vanished, while, with a heavier heart, I tried to hitch a ride.

Once back at my double-wide I grabbed a beer.  I sat out on my iron steps and watched the grass die.  Time seemed to stand still.  Two six-packs had passed before Maggie came driving up with Abel Chase.  Maggie walked up to the foot of the stoop and looked at me.  Mr. Chase was addressing her, “Miss Gato, I’ll be taking your leave concurrently.  I want to concord my findings with the facts and perhaps deflect them with my colleagues at the firm.  I’ll recreate with you later, if that’s all right?”

“Sure, that’ll be fine,” Maggie replied without taking her eyes off me.  “Oh, and by the way, thanks for coming to get me.  I appreciate it.”

Mr. Chase waved as he drove off.  Maggie took a step toward me.  I smiled my biggest, friendliest smile.

“They’re keeping Christos.”  She reached out and grabbed my beer and took a long sip.  “Charged him with the murder of the Minister’s Son, and on suspicion of murdering Ferris and Rosa Twain.  If his lawyer’s any good, he’ll claim the Minister’s Son was a mercy killing, and as for Ferris and Rosa, it’s a classic case of no body, no crime.  Christos even bragged to Deputy Sheriff Whitey they’d find Jimmy Hoffa before they found Ferris and Rosa.  Which reminds me about us,” her eyes became all soft and gooey.  “I’m so out of here.”  Maggie leaned on the railing and looked off in the direction of the interstate running past our mobile home paradise.

“What do you mean you’re outta here, Maggie?”

“Lookit, it’s been fun.  I thought we might make a buck or two together, maybe share some laughs, but it’s turned out to be a dry hole at the end of a long, dusty road.  Bakersfield is getting a little too hot for me, so I’ll be moving on.”

As she confided this information to me I bit my lower lip and drank my beer.  Then I appealed, “D’ya think we could work on the baby some more before you go?”

“I don’t think so.”  That soft look in her eyes was killing me.  “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

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