Diego’s never met my parents, and the short time we were together, I never mentioned them. To him, it probably seems like we’re not close. I’m grateful I never brought him home to meet them.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you in a couple days.”
“Alright. Just be careful.”
“You know I will.”
We hang up, and I drop my phone by my hip at the same time I suck in a deep breath.
Diego’s taken so much from me. More than he probably realizes. He deserves to rot in prison for the rest of his stinking life.
I can’t wait for this to be over, so I can get back to my life.
JW
“STOP STRUGGLING, YOU OLD bastard,” I grunt to Cliff, keeping my grip light on his frail bicep so I don’t bruise him.
“Then lemme go. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” he whines.
“Dorothy wouldn’t agree with you.”
He spits on the sidewalk, almost falling over as he does so. I grab his shoulder and steady him.
“That old biddy don’t know shit. She needs to keep her damn leaves on her property.”
“Cliff, it’s a fuckin’ tree. She can’t help the wind from blowing the leaves into your yard.”
He grumbles and clumsily stumbles up the steps to the sheriff’s office. This is the second time I’ve had to bring Cliff in this week for dumping leaves from his yard into Dorothy’s. Next week we’ll do this all over again. She has a tree close to their property line and he has a fit when the leaves fall into his yard. This only happens when he’s drunk. Unfortunately, that’s far too often. When he’s sober, he’s a completely different person. Nice and sane. His attitude toward Dorothy is flirtatious. The old man likes her, but he doesn’t want to admit it, especially when he’s drunk. He lost his wife of fifty years, six years ago. He didn’t take the loss very well, and I suspect he hates himself for caring about another woman.
I happened to come across Cliff yelling at Dorothy while I was driving by. The little old lady had her broom in her hand, trying her best to smack Cliff with it as he dumped a pile of leaves in her yard. The transformation between the two elderly people is amazing when Cliff hasn’t been drinking. Tomorrow, Cliff will go over to Dorothy’s house, apologize, and she’ll make him some coffee. They’ll chat, be friendly, and act like nothing ever happened. Until the next time Cliff decides to break out a whiskey bottle.
“Hey, Mr. Levins. How’s it going today?” Rita asks as we approach her desk.
“It’d be better if this fool—” he throws his thumb over his shoulder toward me, “—would let me go so I could go on about my business.”
“Not if your business consists of throwing shit in Dorothy’s yard,” I retort and propel him forward.
“It’s just leaves.”
I chuckle. “Exactly so, which makes me wonder why you’re so insistent on throwing them in her yard. Know what I think?” I don’t give him time to answer. “I think you like riling your neighbor.”
“That’s stupid,” he mutters. “Why’d I want to do that?”
Rounding the corner to where Malus’s only two cells are, Sanchez spots us and gets up to open one.
“That’s only something you can answer Cliff,” I tell him as I march him over to the opened cell and deposit him on the bed, where he slumps. “I suggest you think about it while you’re here for the next few hours. Once you figure it out, I bet you’d spend a lot less time in this cell.”
He lays down and turns his back toward me. “Whatever. Just go and leave me be.”
Two minutes tops and he’ll be sawing logs in his sleep. Cliff hasn’t been officially arrested. It’s just time in the cell to sleep off his drink.
I shake my head as I leave the cell. Sanchez chuckles and resumes his seat at the small desk in the corner.
“One of these days he’ll get a clue and figure out he likes old Mrs. Owens,” he remarks, picking up a straw and puts it between his teeth to chew.
“That day can’t come soon enough.”
“Need me to stick around until he sobers?”