! 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 Bakersfieldʼs country justice.

But this Wednesday night was quiet. Like every Wednesday. Like every Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Everyday. The new cops, they didnʼt 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 didnʼt appreciate it could just move along, and leave us to our dimly lit bars, and our whiskey.

“You shouldnʼt think too much Robbie...itʼs 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, Mickeyʼs one concession to modern technology. Actually, modern wasnʼt 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 Bakersfieldʼs minor league team. Perennially in the basement but but we never abandoned hope. Underdogs, the way we liked them. Maybe this season. If not, thereʼs always next year. Unlike the big cities, we didnʼt 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.

Totally 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. Theyʼre trying to turn everyone gay.”

I wasnʼt sure that was true, nothing wasnʼt 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, I was beholden. Anything she needed, she just had to ask.

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, its 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 phoneʼs 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: “Thereʼs 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 didnʼt. 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 couldnʼt 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.

“Whatʼs 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 detectiveʼs shield. Bakersfield PD stamped in gloss navy blue.

“Iʼm 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.

“Iʼm Rob,” 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, maʼam,” 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.

“Iʼm sorry.”

It was a joke. She didnʼt 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!”

Mickeyʼs 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, Iʼm fine. It doesnʼt hurt anymore. Iʼm sure it looks worse than it is.”

“Weʼll get the son of a bitch,” said Mickey.

“Weʼll get him,” I confirmed, and Mickeyʼs face finally relaxed. “Take the ice,” I said. “Itʼll make the swelling go down. Youʼll 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...Itʼs 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. “Iʼm so stupid.”

“No, no youʼre not,” I said. “Itʼs not your fault.”

“I didnʼt have any mail anyways.” She wiped away a single stray tear and managed a half-hearted 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.

“Weʼre 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, apologies, last chances.

“Thatʼs why I moved to Bakersfield,” she said.

Mickeyʼs face was red again, like he was holding in a mouthful of molten iron. “Donʼt worry,” I said to both of them. “Weʼll 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 Cooperʼs old place,” said Mickey.

“He was my uncle,” said Ashley.

“He was a good man,” said Mickey, his highest compliment. “They donʼt make em like that anymore.”

“No, they donʼt,” she agreed.

“Let me give you a ride home,” I said. “If your husband is there, heʼs 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 maʼam, you donʼt.”

****

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. Itʼs how the stars must look in heaven.

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

“Whereʼs 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.

“Donʼt worry, I know a locksmith. Iʼll call him tomorrow morning. Itʼll 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...youʼre not a criminal, are you?”

She laughed politely and I closed the door. As I moved around to the driverʼs 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, Iʼm good.” She rolled down her own window. “I like the fresh air.”

“You donʼt 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. Thereʼs so much methane in the air, itʼs 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. “Iʼve 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?”

“Iʼm 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 passed by the wayside. Alfalfa probably, and barley. A pair of headlights, a lonely road, and 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, itʼs 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.

“Donʼt worry,” I said.

I clicked on the carʼs 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.

“Itʼs okay, Iʼll 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 didnʼt want to scare Ashley anymore. Iʼd wait until she couldnʼt 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 era. 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 wouldnʼt 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 farmerʼs 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 didnʼt find anything?” she asked.

“Nope. No oneʼs 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 cruiserʼs lights and the stars came out to greet us, suddenly beautiful and everywhere, twinkling like they only do in Bakersfield.

“Itʼs beautiful out here at night, isnʼt it?” she said.

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

Her husband was gonna pay.

“Yes, it is.”

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

“I donʼt really have any food, or anything,” she said, apologetically. “I havenʼt 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. “Iʼll 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.”

“Heʼs 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.

“Youʼre 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 donʼt 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. Iʼm good.” I took off my holster and put it on the coffee table, the gun thumping down with a reassuring weight.

“The bathroomʼs 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 canʼt let anything happen to Bakersfieldʼs newest resident.”

She smiled. Bright and enchanting. Like a princess.

“Youʼre the best,” she said. “I think Iʼm gonna like it here.”

That made me smile. “Get some sleep,” I said. “Tomorrow morning, Iʼll 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 only want shade. 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 start of my hangover. A promise of seasickness and sticky, fermented sweat. Of rancid breath and regret.

I was used to it.

Just needed an eye opener and I would be fine. Well, maybe fine wasnʼt 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. 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. It was a few more loud knocks and shouts through the door before I was worried enough to barge in.

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.

I rushed outside. Just acres of dry dusty fields. I checked the barn. Just stacks of bleached, brittle hay.

Ashley was gone.

My mind rushed through the possibilities, none of them good, always coming back to one conclusion: Chad Aaron Mitchell.

That fucker was going to pay.

The engine of the old Crown Vic roared to life, growling hard, as I slung-shot the car over the gravel and onto Old Line, heading North, back to town. Back to Bakersfield.

!