Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

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 flipped The Boss a business card.

Mr. Chase began the proceedings, “There appears to have been an unfortunate legal occurrence at your establishment, one mobile home community known as Broken Heart Park.”  Mr. Chase opened his tattered briefcase and handed papers to Christos, as he spoke.  “Some renegade Kachinga Indians have concocted a scheme of governance to conflict upon you the writs of legalized diminishment.  Fortuitously, I foresaw the possibilities of litigious irregularities connected with such special regulation, and, for the small fee propositioned by Miss Gato here, I shall promote the period of legal tenancy established in this document for up to fourteen months and perhaps precariously longer.”

To make sure there was no doubt what he meant, Mr. Chase pointed to the papers, adding, “I forthwith reference the documents in your hand.”

The Boss placed a pair of reading glasses on the end of his large fat nose and began to scrutinize the papers.

Christos frowned.  Maggie smiled.  The Kartone Boys smoked and played cards.  Little Billy pulled out various file drawers.  I had that damned “I Love Lucy” song going round and round in my head.

In a move that made my heart skip, The Boss crushed the legal papers on his hip.  “You can fire dat shyster lawyer, dere ain’t no Broken Heart Park no more, it’s kaput.  RobbinsYUZ is closing us down to cut costs.”  Christos clutched his left man breast, “And it tears my heart out!”

The Boss wiped his runny nose and tear-drenched eyes on his shirtsleeve, and handed the crumpled papers back to Mr. Chase.  He snatched a folder away from Little Billy, causing its contents of $10 and $20 bills to fall on the floor.  Christos scooped up the cash and stuffed it back in the folder and slammed it in the file cabinet.  He turned his chair away from us, and without too much groaning rose up and walked over to a window, while massaging his belly.  He heaved a long, deep sigh, “I haven’t got two shekels to rub together.  What else, what else?”

From behind the Army blanket came the honey-dripped yowl of Doll-Face in heat, “Umm-umm-MMMMMM!  Frank, ya got the authorities come to pay you a visit.  If he don’t take you away, can I go?”

Throwing the tattered blanket aside, in stepped Deputy Sheriff Whitey.  His uniform stretched tight across his hard body.  He removed his Deputy’s hat, revealing a thatch of thick coppery hair, “Excuse me, folks,” he gave a general nod to the room, “but I come here looking for a Miss Margarita Gato.”

“Me?”  Maggie sounded surprised.  “What do you want me for?”

Whitey flashed a boyish grin, “During the investigation of Ol’ Jack Philpot’s room we came across a letter that said if any harm should come to him that we should talk to you.  Sheriff Big Bud would like you to come downtown.”

Maggie roared, “So what?  Everyone knows Joe Plato killed Philpot.  Deputy, you go talk to that damn Silver Ghost nutcase.  I’m not the one going down for murder.”

“Technically, ma’am, Mr. Philpot’s death wasn’t murder, it was self-defense.”  Whitey’s violet eyes lit the room.  “Big Bud wants to talk to you about the murder of that little weirdo, the Minister’s Son.”

Maggie pointed, “I didn’t shoot the Minister’s Son—he did!”