Bakersfield

By Steve Stroble

Wayne Sundowner's life unravels after his mother abandons him at the police station and only his Grandma Cathy agrees to take custody of him. Stuck in Bakersfield, Wayne learns details of his past that anger him even more.
An acquaintance, Rex Lafyte, tries to mentor Wayne. But Rex has problems of his own, including owing a lot of money to unseemly characters.
And why is a federal agent after Rex?
Bakersfield is Book 1 in the Americana series, which takes a look at America during different phases of its history. Each book in the series can be read as a stand alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Stroble
• Release date: Nov 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370299843

Steve Stroble

Steve Stroble grew up as a military brat, which took him from South Dakota to South Carolina to Germany to Ohio to Southern California to Alabama to the Philippines to Northern California. Drafted into the Army, he returned to Germany.His stories classified as historical fiction often weave historical events, people, and data into them.His science fiction stories try to present feasible even if not yet known technology.His dystopian and futuristic stories feature ordinary heroes and heroines placed into extraordinary situations and ordinary villains who drain the life out of others' souls (their minds, wills, and emotions) by any means available.

Book preview

1

Not until Wayne Sundowner’s sixth beer did he wonder whether his best friend was dead.

Hey, Larry, what’s wrong? Wayne shook the chubby boy, whose shirt and the sand on which he lay reeked of vomit. Wayne rubbed some of the gooey mess from his hands onto his pants.

Dizziness and rhythmic waves hitting Redondo Beach pulled him downward onto the sand. A half hour later, a police officer’s flashlight opened his eyes.

It’s sunrise already? Wow, is Mom going to be mad. Wayne sat up. A powerful hand lifted him to his feet as another pointed the flashlight’s beam at his friend.

Help me lift your buddy up off the ground.

Wayne obeyed.

Then he and the cop dragged Larry to a black Ford Crown Victoria police cruiser, its rooftop lights flashing a hypnotic rhythm. The stench of Larry’s vomit filled the policeman’s car and nostrils. He radioed his dispatcher.

This is unit one five. I have two publicly intoxicated white males and am en-route to the station with them.

Thick shatter proof glass protected the cop from those he transported. The missing door handles and window controls in the backseat compartment protected any who rode in it from themselves.

* * *

The desk sergeant shook his head and handed Larry’s driver’s license to an assistant. This one’s eighteen. Go ahead and process him.

A black police officer helped Larry to his feet. You want to stop off at the restroom to wash up a little bit?

You sure look beautiful, Larry said. Can we go out on a date? It’s on me. What’s your name?

Let’s go. She supported him as he caromed off walls along the hallway. If I went on a date with you then my boyfriend would probably beat you up and I’d have to arrest him.

The sergeant tapped Wayne’s license on his desk. Since you’re only seventeen, I can release you into a parent’s or guardian’s custody.

Wayne pulled his phone from his torn shirt. I’ll call my mom.

* * *

As Sandra Sundowner entered the front entrance of the police station, she decided to gamble, more from weariness and desperation than hope, which she claimed had abandoned her long ago. Stone faced, she ignored her son and walked straight to the desk sergeant.

I give up. I’ve done everything that I can think of to get Wayne to grow up. You’re going to have to keep him. Maybe that will finally straighten him out. She shrugged. I’m sorry if that sounds like I’m copping out to you.

She turned to avoid Wayne’s stunned expression. Somehow, Sandra kept her tears hidden until she was back outside in a Southern California breeze blowing in from the Pacific. Halfway to her car, she turned around and began walking back to the police station. Ten feet from its door, the one-way conversation between another mother and her daughter as they exited the building stopped Sandra.

Just wait until your father finds out, young lady, the mother said.

Sandra sighed and did another about face to return to her car and then home. She remembered when her husband had cut the umbilical cord that had fed Wayne for nine months. Now, it felt as if some kind of psychic umbilical cord, one that had linked their souls since his conception, had been severed forever between her and Wayne.

Maybe Wayne’s father was right that it would have been better if Wayne had never been born. That thought added guilt to the mother’s pain.

Inside the station, scenes of movies with juvenile delinquents being sentenced into a system of no return spun in Wayne’s mind. Maintaining his who cares expression now seemed irrelevant. The desk sergeant interrupted his thoughts.

Look kid, I don’t want you to go from just another dumb punk to troublemaker to some statistic in the criminal justice system. I probably shouldn’t do this, but isn’t there someone else you can call?

2

Grandma Cathy Helm’s phone rang sixteen times before she answered it in her kitchen because she knew calls this time of night too often meant drama, most often the kind that comes with having generations to watch over. Waking up and waiting for a neighbor to serve as her driver took a quarter hour. Traveling the 238-mile round trip to fetch the grandson she had not seen in years would last more than four hours.

Lord, help me to keep quiet, Grandma Cathy prayed silently as Wayne sat down in her car and rested his head on the rear seat’s headrest.

An hour later, he still pretended to sleep as they descended from the 4,144 foot elevation of the Tejon Pass to the Central Valley. As a child, he had enjoyed Bakersfield and relatives such as Grandma Cathy. But after being told it was inhabited by Republicans, white supremacists, survivalist preppers, and domestic terrorists, Wayne had severed his connections to the city.

It was 2:32 a.m. by the time the three returned to Grandma Cathy’s wood framed home.

Going over the Grape Vine twice in one night is two times too many for my old bones, said Grandma Cathy as she shuffled up a cracked sidewalk to her front door. Good night, boys. Don’t stay out here too late.

I’ll be there in a minute, Grandma, Wayne said. He turned to the yawning neighbor. Thanks, Tony, for driving Grandma all the way down to L.A. to pick me up. I owe you since you kept me out of juvenile hall or wherever it is they send you off to nowadays just because you like to party a little bit.

"No problem, hombre. I drive her around a lot at night because she can’t see too well once it gets dark. Well, guess I should be…"

Tony’s widened eyes and interrupted sentence jerked Wayne’s head sideways to see a slowing yellow Chevy Impala, built when such vehicles were called muscle cars. Its passenger’s sneer and the weapon pointed at him drained the strength from Wayne’s knees and thighs. A high pitched squeal escaped from his throat.

Gunfire and Wayne’s sudden sensation of falling face down on the lawn convinced him that he had been shot.

He wondered why Tony lay on top of him, whether he was dead or mortally wounded. Wayne tried to push Tony’s 164 pounds off of him.

Stay down, dude! Tony resisted Wayne’s shoves.

Are you hit? Are you hit? I think I am.

Just stay down.

When the car rolled to a stop a half block from them, Tony rose to his hands and knees. Run! Come on.

As he pulled Wayne to his feet, the slamming screen door on Grandma Cathy’s front porch turned their heads. The first shot from her 12-guage home security shotgun froze Wayne. Tony scrambled behind the front yard’s lone tree, a dogwood. Over here, Wayne. Hurry up.

The two who had exited the Impala stopped their march toward their target.

That first one was just a warning shot, Grandma Cathy yelled at them. The next ones are all aimed at your heads. She lowered her weapon’s barrel half a foot.

The invaders into her neighborhood cursed in Spanish and ran for their customized car. Its doors slammed shut and the low rider’s engine roared, but before the four narrow tires spun smoke, another warning shot of buckshot shattered its right rear taillight. Grandma Cathy muttered as she walked from the sidewalk to her front porch. You can come on out now, boys.

Tony emerged from hiding first. Good shooting. They won’t be back, at least not tonight, he yelled to Grandma Cathy. He turned to Wayne, whose arms trembled as he tried to remove dust and wrinkles from sweat soaked clothing. "Welcome to Bakersfield, esse."

"Are you a Sureno or Norteno? Is that why those guys just tried to –" Tony’s glare caused Wayne’s thighs to weaken again and question to end.

"Just because Bakersfield is the boundary line between the Sureno and Norteno gangs doesn’t automatically mean I belong to either one of them."

"Sorry, man. I mean, if you’re in the Mexican Mafia or Nuestra Familia or Latin Kings instead, I…uh…didn’t mean no disrespect." Wayne stared at the tattoo on Tony’s forearm, a coiled rattlesnake made lifelike by dozens of tiny, three dimensional appearing shiny scales and long sharp fangs dripping with blood and venom. Its rattles seemed to undulate, even in the faint glow of a streetlight. The reptile looked anxious to inject poison into any venturing too close to its owner.

Tony shook his head. "And just because my skin is brown does not mean I automatically belong to a gang. Comprende, Senor?"

Uh, I was wondering about your tattoo, not the color of your skin, dude. I thought it showed which gang that you belong to, that’s all.

Tony laughed. That? I just got it put on to impress girls. Tony sang as he walked next door to his home:

Por ti sere, por ti sere, por ti sere

Bamba, bamba

Bamba, bamba

Bamba, bamba

At his doorstep, Tony yelled a translation to Wayne:

For you I will be, for you I will be, for you I will be

Bamba, bamba

Bamba, bamba

Bamba, bamba

* * *

Terrified neighbors dialing 911 brought two police cruisers to the crime scene within eight minutes.

The two officers nodded to each other and went about their job of trying to piece together what had happened by distilling accounts from any witnesses who cooperated. The first one on scene questioned Grandma Cathy. The second one hunted for evidence, her search narrowed by a pointing Wayne Sundowner.

The police officer marking, photographing, and then bagging shell casings walked over to Wayne. Thank you for your help. Now I just have a few questions.

Sure.

Was anyone with you when they fired their weapon or weapons at you? We won’t know how many guns were fired until the lab takes a look at these. She held up the envelope containing the five shells she had found.

Uh, does it matter if I was alone or not? Wayne fidgeted.

Yes. It will help us to possibly get a lead on what motivated the shooters.

Wayne stared at his worn out running shoes.

Look, I could be calling for a body bag for you right now. How about helping us out here so maybe we can arrest the bad guys before somebody really does end up dead and in a body bag?

All right. My grandma’s neighbor was standing out here with me when those gang bangers drove by and tried to kill us.

Which house does the neighbor live in?

Wayne pointed at the yellow stuccoed house. He thought he saw one of its curtains wiggle as the officer thanked him and walked toward it.

She had to wait two minutes before a yawning girl answered its front door. Hello, I’m Officer Tanger. We have a witness out here that says someone in this house was standing with him when shots were fired at them.

The girl shrugged. "Sorry. He must be mistaken.