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!”