Nightcap

Wednesday nights at the Watchman used to be busy.  Patrol Cops, coming off the long end of the Monday morning double, drinking Pabst and swapping loud stories of tube topped blonds in low Corvettes.  Or the grizzled Detectives, taking advantage of their free time, before the ramp in homicides that always came with the weekend. Drinking whiskey, huddled over the bar, having already had plenty enough of other humans.  Sometimes even the Captain, still wearing a chest full of brass, there just to buy a round for his boys, to soak up and spread the recent adulation of some job well done: some runaway returned home to his bible thumping mother, or some rapist turned eunuch, on the receiving end of Bakersfield’s country justice.

But this Wednesday night was quiet.  Like every Wednesday in recent memory.  Like every Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  Everyday.  The new cops, they didn’t think of Bakersfield as country.  They dressed hip and smart, driving their fuel efficient muscle cars to be seen bars like The Left End or the Crowbar.  Damn those names sounded gay.  Probably were.  I mean Crowbar, seriously?  Why not call it Ass-less Chaps?  Cut out the ambiguity.  But I guess all chaps were technically ass-less.  

“Another double?”

I nodded.  At least Mickey knew how to name a place.  He was gray now, and stooped, but his trembling hands found their steadiness as soon as soon as he tipped the bottle, and the whiskey poured out smooth and neat.  Just like it always had.  Just like it went down.  Living proof that in some places, old fashioned was a still a complement.  That some things still got better with age.  That there was a proper order to things, and those who didn’t appreciate it could just move along, and leave us to our dimly lit bars, and our whiskey.

“You shouldn’t think too much Robbie...it’s not good for the brain.”  Mickey slid the old TV remote across the bar.  It only had five buttons, but it was big, almost as big as the TV itself, Mickey’s one concession to modern technology.  Actually, modern wasn’t really the right word, since Mickey had grabbed it off the side of the road somewhere, a “Free” sign taped to the screen.  Still worked though.  “I think there might be Blaze game on,” he said.

The Blaze were Bakersfield’s minor league team.  Perennially in the basement but but we never abandoned hope.  Underdogs, the way we liked them.  Maybe this season.  If not, there’s always next year.  Unlike the big cities, we didn’t abandon things just to jump on the newest fad.  We respected tradition here.  Where men still worked their own earth with their own hands.  Broke their backs over their own dirt and green.  Patient, deliberate, old-fashioned.  Just like baseball.  Win or lose, there were no ties.  At the end of the day, there was always a resolution.  A reckoning on exactly were you stood.  

I clicked the TV to channel  44.  Home of the Blaze.  The denim-clad old timer down the bar briefly looked up from his drink.  Last week, when the Blaze were playing the Mudcats, he had offered up some rambling drunken story about a nephew or cousin or something who had once played catcher up in Toledo.  He looked like he might tell it again, but there was no game tonight, and he lowered his head back down to stare into his drink.  Maybe the Blaze were headed up to Toledo.  Maybe they would play tomorrow.  

Maybe a double header.

Tonight it was just some fake bullshit Hollywood cop show.  Some perfectly primped detective with a name like Max Stone shooting his gun like a cowboy every five seconds.  Winking innuendo with his red headed partner slash model, breasts falling out of her shirt.  Punching out suspects with perfectly coifed hair.    All tattoos and goatees and six pack abs. 

Fucking fake.  

I switched the channel.  Another cop show. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ!”

Mickey examined the shirtless and chiseled fake TV cop with a stern frown.  “Everyone is Hollywood is a homosexual these days,” he said.  “I read about it.  They’re trying to turn everyone gay.”

I wasn’t sure that was true, nothing wasn’t gonna turn me that way, but I turned off the TV anyway.  Because fuck Hollywood, and their fake cop shows.  The bar went silent, just the rhythmic clack of the overhead fan, fighting against the hot dog day night that was seeping in through the cracks.  And losing.  Measuring out the silence, as we waited for someone to say something.  The rest in the first beat of a measure, the lull before everything changes.  

Ending with the jingle of the bells at the front door.  

A woman.

The white knuckles of her hand gripping the cast iron door handle, long wavy hair cascading down in front of her face.  Dark trails of eyeliner drawn down her cheeks, then the wobbly first step of her high heel on the green velvet carpet.  

She was in the wrong bar, in the wrong town.  She was too beautiful for Bakersfield.  Too beautiful for words.  In the midst of her tragedy, we were beholden.  Anything she needed, she just had to ask.

Which I’m sure she knew.

Carefully, with her delicate fingers, she eased the door closed, silencing the bells and their obnoxious jingle.  Her hands graced over her cheeks, and she turned back towards us, suddenly composed, smeared eyeliner vanished.  Glowing in her full beauty, all eyes on her, a star on her stage.  A place she had been since she was a teen.  A place she was comfortable.  

But not Mickey and me.  When she stole glances at us, our eyes darted away, desperately searching for something else interesting.  To prove our innocence.  For Mickey, an imaginary spot on the bar that suddenly needed wiping.  For me, a full glass of whiskey, that suddenly needed drinking..

Two boys caught red handed.  

Six long, lithe steps in her heels, and she was at the bar, her hands coming up to gently grasp the brass rail, like she was about to order a drink.  But instead her sultry voice whisper to Mickey, “Can I use your phone?”  An old fashioned request.  Even in Bakersfield, everyone had a cell phone.  

Except her apparently.  And except Mickey, who wordlessly fished around under the bar for a moment before proudly producing an old Ma Bell telephone.  He fished out slack in the old gray line, tugging gently to make sure it was still attached to something.  Satisfied, he placed the phone down in front of her, the old fashioned bell inside jingling as it hit the bar.

“Thank you,” she whispered, before picking up the handset and placing it to her ear.  Then she frowned.  Something was wrong.  With her other hand, she pressed down the buttons set into the cradle.  Two, three, four times.  Like they did in old movies, trying to get a connection.  She squinted at the receiver, fighting tears of frustration that were starting to form, fighting for composure that was threatening to slip away.  She took a deep breath and blew it out her mouth, setting the phone back on the receiver.  

With an embarrassed smile, she told Mickey: “There’s no dial tone.”

Mickey turned the phone back around and placed the handset to his own ear, a look of stern concentration on his face as he listened to the sound of nothing. Then he repeated her technique, repeatedly clicking down the receiver.  Did that ever work?  You either had a dial tone or you didn’t.  Finally Mickey shook his head solemnly, like a doctor about to pronounce time of death.

“You can use my phone,” I said, fumbling it out of my pocket and offering it to her.  Suddenly, her composure returned and she smiled.  I smiled back. I know it was a goofy grin.  But I couldn’t help it.

“Thank you so much,” she said.  She tried to use the phone but the screen was still locked.  

“Oh!  Let me get that for you.” She handed the phone back, and I punched in the unlock code. 4362.  The last four digits of my badge number.  Then I handed it back.  

“Are you okay?”

“Not really,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”   

“Someone mugged me,” she said, embarrassed, her hand instinctively coming up to hide her face.  A common reaction.  Victims often felt guilty.  Felt responsible somehow.  

“I need to call the police,” she said.

“I am the police.”

She hesitated, my phone in her hand, unsure if I was joking, while I frantically fished out my badge and flipped it open.  The stainless and bronze detective’s shield.  Bakersfield PD stamped in gloss navy blue.  

“I’m a detective,” I said.

A look of relief crossed her face.  “Thank god,” she said.  “I need your help.”

“Have a seat.”  I threw a look at Mickey and he nodded, placing a tumbler in front of her and pouring three fingers of whiskey, the cure for everything.  She smiled in thanks and threw it back, coughing twice as a warm glow graced her cheeks.  Marty poured another for me.

“Sergeant Robert Ryan,” I said, “and this is Mickey.” 

“Ashley.”  

I pulled out my notepad and flipped a couple pages till I found an empty one.  

“Tell me what happened,” I said.  The whiskey in me almost added, “Just the facts, ma’am,” in my Joe Friday voice.  Like she would get that.  Like she had ever seen anything in black and white.

“I just moved into town last week,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”  

It was a joke.  She didn’t smile.  Instead, she looked at me, straight into my eyes.  Serious and intense.

“I needed a fresh start,” she said, her voice heavy with gravity and unspoken meaning.  Slowly, she tucked her hair behind her ear.  Her right eye was bruised and swollen.  A classic shiner.

“Oh my god,” I said.  “Did he do that to you?”

She nodded.

“Mickey, get her some ice!”

Mickey’s face was tight and red with rage, like Popeye about to explode.  In his Bakersfield, a man never laid a finger on a woman.  Not if he expected to see the sunrise.  He grabbed a clean towel and buried a hand full of ice cubes in the center, offering it to Ashley.

She tried to politely decline:  “Really, I’m fine.  It doesn’t hurt anymore.  I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”

“We’ll get the son of a bitch,” said Mickey.  

“We’ll get him,” I confirmed, and Mickey’s face finally relaxed.  “Take the ice,” I said. “It’ll make the swelling go down.  You’ll be glad you did when you look in the mirror tomorrow.”

Ashley relented, taking the ice filled towel and gingerly pressing it against her eye.

“Thanks,” she said.

“So where did this happen?”

“I was checking my mail,” she said.  “At the Post Office, just around the block...It’s on Williams, I think.”

“Yeah, we know it.”  

“They leave the doors to the P.O. Boxes open at night.  I thought it would be safe.”  Her eyes looked up at the ceiling, like she might cry again.  “I’m so stupid.”

“No, no you’re not,” I said.  “It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t have any mail anyways.”  She wiped away a single stray tear and managed a semi-smile at the irony.

“Did you get a look at him?”

She nodded.

“It was my husband,” she said.

“Oh.” I saw Mickey raise his eyebrows.  I was thinking the same thing.

“We’re in the process of getting a divorce,” she explained.  “Hence the fresh start.”

“Has he ever hit you before?” 

She nodded again, slowly, filled with the weight of history and tragedy.  Black eyes, broken ribs, split lips.  

Excuses, lies, last chances.

“That’s why I moved to Bakersfield,” she said.

Mickey’s face was red again, like he was holding in a mouthful of molten iron.  “Don’t worry,” I said to both of them.  “We’ll get him.”

“He has my purse,” said Ashley, worried.  “My keys were in there.  And my new address...”

“Where is it?”

“An old farmhouse down on Old Line,” she said.  “A couple miles past the Feed Stop.”

“Pat Cooper’s old place,” said Mickey.

“He was my uncle,” said Ashley.

“He was a good man,” said Mickey, his highest compliment.  “They don’t make em like that anymore.”

“No, they don’t,” she agreed.

“Let me give you a ride home,” I said.  “If your husband is there, he’s definitely gonna regret the day he came to Bakersfield.”

Ashley nodded, looking stronger.  Ready for some country justice.  Mickey was ready too, for this punk interloper to get what was coming to him.  

Ashley handed the towel with ice back to Mickey.  “Thank you for the whiskey.  I owe you.”

“No ma’am, you don’t.”  

The night was hot sticky.  Like every summer night in Bakersfield.  Old timers called it “the clench” -- because it never let go.  The city sat in the trench of the San Joaquin Valley, which funneled countless tons of dustoff fertilizer and cow farts into a heavy blanket, stuck in place until the autumn rains of the Sierra Nevada moved in and brought some relief.  

But boy, did it make the stars twinkle.  Especially tonight.  It’s how the stars must look in heaven.  

I walked Ashley towards my Crown Vic, unmarked, but obviously a police car. Technically, a detective’s cruiser.  So old, the Captain never cared that I drove it home.

“Where’s your car?” I asked her.

She pointed down the block, at a shiny late model import.  Stylish and black, or maybe dark blue.  Hard to tell in the dark.  

“Nice,” I said. 

She shrugged.  “The payments, not so much.”  

“Do you have a spare key?”

“No,” she said, with the regret of hindsight.  

“Don’t worry, I know a locksmith.  I’ll call him tomorrow morning.  It’ll take two minutes.”

“That would be awesome,” she said.  I opened the passenger door so she could get in.  “I get to sit in the front?”  

“Only criminals sit in the back...you’re not a criminal, are you?”

She laughed politely and I closed the door.  As I moved around to the driver’s side, I saw Mickey standing outside his bar, watching us.  Wanting to trade places, no doubt.  But I was the cop, and he was the bartender.  We exchanged a quick wave, before I closed the door on him, and the Watchman.

He was still standing there, tiny in the rear view, when I turned on Williams and the bar vanished out of sight.  

“Let me turn on the AC for you,” I said, rolling up my window.

“Actually...I’m good.”  She rolled down her own window.  “I like the fresh air.”

“You don’t mind the smell?”

“No way,” she said.  “I grew up in London.”

“They have cows in London?”

She laughed.  “London, Ohio.  Population 500.  Well, 499 now.  But the cow population is like a million.  There’s so much methane in the air, it’s illegal to smoke outside during the summer.”

“Wow,” I said, thinking Bakersfield had it bad.  “Really?”

“No.”  She smiled.  “Else they would have thrown me in jail.”

I took out my pack and offered her one.

“Oh my god, thank you,” she said.  “I’ve been dying.  Mine were in my purse.”

I fished out my lighter and she lit hers, cupping her hand around the flame.  She handed me the cigarette then lit another for herself.  Then she took a deep puff and sighed, relaxing into her seat.

“Lucky Strikes, huh?”

“I’m old school,” I said.  

She examined the Lucky Strike emblem on the pack, inhaling deep.  The ember glowed bright red, before it was obscured by a cloud of blue smoke.  

“I like it.”

Silence then, as the moonlit fields passed by the wayside.  Alfalfa probably, and almods, barely caught in the light of a pair of headlights. A lonely road, two people enjoying the simple, timeless pleasure of company alone, on a quiet country night.  Her hair blowing in the breeze, a contented smile on her face.

She held her hand out, feeling the air rush past.  “I wish we could just drive forever,” she said.

Me too. 

But the headlights caught a glimpse of the Feed Station, its huge sign designed to look like a giant ear of corn.  Unmistakable.  That meant we would be at her place soon.  

Too soon.

I think she knew it too, because the smile on her face was evaporating, remembering the reason for this trip in the first place.  To keep her from getting another black eye.  Or worse.  

I turned on her driveway, and the smooth hum of paved road gave way to the noisy crackle of dirt and gravel.  She was rolling up her window, sitting rigid in her seat...on edge.  Her smile gone.

Her house appeared in my high-beams: a simple old, single story white farmhouse, probably renovated a hundred times, to accommodate things like running water and electricity.  But still sturdy.  I pulled to a stop.

“Don’t worry,” I said.

I clicked on the car’s spotlight, and swept it across the yard.  A small barn, probably red at some point.  Besides that, just long dead, long baked weeds and abandoned fields.

“Wait here,” I said.  “Just honk the horn if you see anything.”

She nodded quickly and tightly, like scared people do.

“It’s okay, I’ll be right back.” I said, trying to be reassuring.  She looked at me and tried to fake a reassured smile. I was maybe two steps from the car when I heard the locks clicked closed.  She was scared, but still thinking.  That was good.

I headed towards the barn, cutting through the spotlight, steadying myself against the whiskey, as I watched my shadow crawling up the barn door.  My gun suddenly felt conspicuous in my shoulder holster, like I should pull it. But I didn’t want to scare Ashley anymore.  I’d wait until she couldn’t see. 

The barn door was old redwood, the paint baked under years of sun, and flaking off in splinters.  Flecks of white trims still caught the light, and reflected it, barely, in a sad pastiche that said old and neglected, in a way only an abandoned barn could.  Why they always found their way into prize winning black and white photographs of rural life.  A symbol of a bygone bera. When horses did more than prance and run around in circles.

And men too.   

But at the end of the barn door, a long black line, swallowing the light.  Someone had left it open a crack.  Someone had been inside.  I pulled my gun, keeping it low in front of my body so Ashley wouldn’t see. A heave and the door swung open, squealing against rusty hinges. The spotlight poured in. If it found a person, I would have blasted him. He should have expected it.

This was Bakersfield.

But there was just a stack of hay bales, dried blonde and shiny.  And an old ladder leading up to a hay loft, laying a long shadow of lines across the far wall.  

“Hello?”

Just crickets, and the rustle of a timber mouse probably, minding their own business.  I left them to it. 

The house was next.  Humble, but well cared for.  Two large square windows on either side of  the front door, to let in the sunrise as it came up over the Rockies. A farmer’s alarm clock.  I peaked my flashlight through, around the old drapes that hung in the corners.  A small touch of class, like the side curtains that framed the stage of old fashioned vaudeville theaters.  The light picked out the ghostly silhouettes of hand made furniture:  A kitchen table, a couch, a four post bed.  But no sign of people.  

The front door was unlocked.  Still common in Bakersfield, but becoming less so.  I flicked on the lights, and suddenly the place went from sinister to cozy, even quaint.  A lovingly hand knit blanket draped over the couch, blue and yellow. The colors of summer. An oak and glass tea cupboard, the china inside painted with delicate images of windmills and horse-drawn plows. Old black and white photos on the wall, featuring bare chested, overalled men holding up bushels of alfalfa and barley: the pride of the harvest.  Everything as it should be.  I slipped my gun back into its holster and snapped it closed.

Ashley unlocked the doors as I approached the car. She seemed better. Less edgy.

“You didn’t find anything?” she asked.

“Nope.  No one’s here.  Just you and me.”

“So what now?”

“Well, I need some more information for the official report.  And a picture of your husband if you have it.  Then we can round him up and throw his ass in jail.”

“Good,” said Ashley.  “You want to come inside?”

“Sure.”

I turned off the cruiser’s lights and the stars came out to greet us, suddenly beautiful and everywhere, twinkling like they only do in Bakersfield.  

“It’s beautiful out here at night, isn’t it?” she said.

The same night that had seen her get mugged and assaulted.  Amazing she could still appreciate it.  

He was gonna pay. 

“Yes, it is.”

This time, she locked the front door, and we took a seat at the kitchen table.

“I don’t really have any food, or anything,” she said, apologetically.  “I haven’t really had time to shop. But I have some bourbon.”

“I think that counts.”

She found two thick glasses, probably as old as the house, and filled them.  Then she disappeared into the bedroom.  “I’ll be right back.”  She reappeared a moment later with a small picture in her hand, and put it on the table in front of me.

A wiry blond haired man in combat fatigues, smiling an okie grin.  Behind was a large transport truck, painted sandy beige, parked on a dilapidated desert road in what I figured was the middle of some third world shit hole.

“This is your husband?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s in the army?”

“He was,” she said. “They booted him for smuggling drugs in the caskets of dead soldiers.”

“Sounds like a winner.”

“You have no idea...I was young and stupid.”

“Can you tell me his full name?”

“Chad Aaron Mitchell.”

I spelled it out on my notepad.  We ran over the other relevant details, and soon the page was filled up.  “I think that should do it,” I said.

“You’re leaving?”  A loaded question.  A dam straining to hold back panic.  

“I have to get this report in.”

“What if he comes back?”

It was a good question. How many cops had intervened in domestic disputes, only to return hours later to a murder scene?  I happened all the time.  No one was more dangerous to a woman than her estranged spouse.  Especially one who had been thrown out of the army.  An army that had taught him to kill.

“Do you have any place you can go?”

She shook her head sadly.  “I don’t know anyone around here.”

I looked over at her couch.  It looked comfortable.  She saw me looking.  Her eyes were hoping.

“Actually,” I said, “That couch looks comfortable.”

She smiled, and that was all it took, the arrangement was sealed.  She looked young again.  The way she was meant to look.  

“Thank you so much.” 

“No problem, but first I have to call this in.” I raised the notepad.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”  She was relieved, almost happy.  Black eye and all.  That made me happy.

When I got back from the car, the couch was all made up.  Ashley had changed, out of her dress, into shorts and a t-shirt.  She looked more beautiful than ever.  

But this was work.  

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No, no.  I’m good.”  I took off my holster and put it on the coffee table, the gun thumping down with a reassuring weight.  

“The bathroom’s right there.”  She pointed to an open door down the hall.  

“Okay.”

“Thank you so much Rob.  If there is anything I can do...”

“Absolutely not,” I said.  “My job is to protect and serve.  I can’t let anything happen to Bakersfield’s newest resident.”

She smiled.  Bright and enchanting.  Like a princess.

“You’re the best,” she said.  “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

That made me smile.  “Get some sleep,” I said.  “Tomorrow morning, I’ll call the locksmith and we can go pick up your car.”  

“That sounds perfect.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.” 

The sun came up early, and hot.  Heat that made you want shade.  To find a shadow somewhere, anywhere. But the couch was narrow, the windows large; there was no place to squirm out of the way.  It was today.  No way to avoid it. The hangover starting.  A promise of seasickness and sticky, fermented sweat. Rancid breath and regret.  

I was used to it.  

Just needed an eye opener and I would be fine. Well, maybe fine wasn’t the right word.

Functional.  

There was an empty glass on the table.  It smelled like bourbon.  I found the bottle in a cupboard and poured myself two fingers.  Then another two.  The bottle was close to empty to I just poured the rest.  It burned going down.  I took a few deep breaths and the nausea started to pass.  The things that hurt started to go numb.  A good start to the day.  My hands were steady again. 

I strapped on my holster and waited for Ashley to get up.

But 8am rolled around and there was still no stirring from the bedroom.  So I knocked. And waited. And listened.  Nothing.  I knocked again, louder.  Still nothing.  My mind was spinning red.  Worried.

What the fuck?

I kicked.  The door splintered with the crack of old wood.  Bakersfield PD would pay for it.  I just needed to find her.

But the bedroom was empty.  The old four post bed, still made.  An old faded sunflower quilt, perfectly in place.  Perfectly square.  The room smelled dusty, and mothballed. 

Empty.

I rushed outside.  Just acres of dry dusty fields.  A carcass of an old scarecrow, pointing to weeds.  I checked the barn.  Just stacks of bleached, brittle hay.  And the smell of rust.

Ashley was gone.

The only thing left, heading out towards the highway:  foot prints in the dust.

One pair, or two?  

Chad Aaron Mitchell.

That fucker was going to pay.  

I ground the shit out of the ignition, but it finally turned over, and I gunned it wide open, down Old Line, just rubber and dust.

The Feed Stop.

The sign was a twenty foot fake piece of corn...

So fucking stupid.

Jesus, does anyone know how to drive?

Was that a cruiser in the parking lot?

Maybe someone robbed the Feed Stop.

Hah.

Maybe someone stole some hay,

Bakersfield, 1 mile...

I slammed the cruiser around Main, then down on Mason. 

There was the Post Office, where Ashley was attacked.  Around the corner should be her car...

But it was gone.

Down the street was the Watchman. 

And noise and lights.

Flashing blue.

Police and police cars.  

Must be every cop in Bakersfield.

Except me.

I flashed my badge to one of them: Schmidt, from his badge.  I told him to tell me what the fuck is going on.  He looked nervous.

Fucking rookies.

There was Detective Anderson, slow talking but honest.  

“Robbie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine goddamnit!  Tell me what is going on!”

Anderson waved his hands, like he was telling an orchestra to go slower.  

“Robbie... something happened at the bar last night.”

“No shit!”

He tried to grab me but I shrugged off my jacket and flung myself inside.

There was the green velvet carpet, crushed and faded but still green.  The mahogany bar, polished a million times.  And the old TV, just static.    

And two bodies.  

Swarming with CSI techs.  They looked up in a panic.  Looking at me.

It was Mickey.  Ghost white and dead.  A hole through the forehead.  Stamped in a puddle of red.  

Gone. Long gone.

The other body.  Half zipped in a bodybag. 

Please don’t be Ashley. 

My gut knew it was her.

But it wasn’t her.  It was a man.  A wiry, blonde man, in his late 20s. 

I pulled the picture from my pocket.  A wiry, blonde man, in his 20s, standing in fatigues in the middle of some middle eastern shithole.  

Chad Aaron Mitchell.

“Robbie!”

It was someone shouting behind me.  

The oversize Captain Arroyo, and his baritone voice.  

And his toady escort.  Two bootlicking privates.

They grabbed me by the shoulders.    

“What the fuck!”

Arroyo just stood there, fat and pompous, while he put on nylon gloves.  

Then he grabbed my Colt 1911 out of my holster.  

The gun that had won the west.

With a flick, Arroyo dropped the magazine from the hilt, catching it in his left hand.

On the magazine, there was a line cut straight down, to reveal how many bullets were remaining.  

Six brass .45s.

The clip held nine.

Three were missing.

“Sergeant Ryan, you are under arrest.”