Halfway House by Weston Ochse

structure, each walking his or her own complicated path. They moved around him, occasionally brushing against him; still he remained unnoticed.
    Wringing hands, sobbing, swollen eyes, for a second they seemed less like rehabilitated junkies and more like funeral goers. The expressions of desperate longing on their faces sought more than a fix. Their murmuring was a beehive buzz, constant and unintelligible. The only one not moving was a young black man with bling on his wrist, neck and fingers, who stared resolutely into the air, his neck at a forty-five-degree angle.
    Someone grabbed his wrist. “Please. Can you spare a dollar?”
    “Does it look like I can?” Bobby jerked his arm free and staggered away, right into the bosom of a large Mexican woman.
    “Can you help my son? He didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t his fault.” Her heavily accented voice cracked. Her imploring eyes threatened to drag him in.
    Bobby averted his gaze, lowered his head and pushed past her as nervous claustrophobia took hold. He didn’t need their problems. He had enough of his own. He crossed at the light, and then moved to the other side of the street.
    Almost kitty-corner to the halfway house was a bar called The Spot, made famous by San Pedro’s poet laureate , Charles Bukowski. Kanga had one of his books and had tried to get Bobby to read it, but he’d have none of it. He’d seen the movie Barfly , and if Mickey Rourke had played the character with any accuracy, then Bukowski was an asshole.
    Bobby found two wet dollars balled in his right front pocket and exchanged them for two draft beers of questionable heritage. He found a seat outside at a table and stared at the halfway house. After a few sips, he realized he was still drunk. After a few more sips, he realized he was as much an asshole as Bukowski but that he didn’t care. Kanga had hit a nerve and Bobby needed to work it out. Sadly, his social skills began and ended at brooding. His medication was alcohol.
    Doctor, give me another shot, please. And make it a double.
     

 
     
     
     
Chapter 8
     
     
     
     
    Laurie waved goodbye to the guard at the front desk and stepped out into the cool evening. While it was ninety-five in the shade in the valley, the ocean breeze cooled San Pedro down to about seventy-five. She pulled her San Pedro High jacket tight around her shoulders and stood on the top step. She looked left and right, but didn’t see anyone hanging around.
    She wasn’t too worried, just careful. No one really bothered the nurses from the Little Company of Mary Hospital. Most folks were too religious to tempt the anger of Saint Mary. Good news for her, because Third Street was the bad side of town.
    Carol Sholt stepped past her. “See you tomorrow, Laurie.”
    “You, too.”
    Laurie watched her co-worker run for the bus. The bus stopped, the doors sssked open, and her friend hopped aboard.
    Laurie descended the steps and headed for her car. Parking in the hospital lot was nearly impossible, so more often than not, she was forced to park on the street. Today she’d spied a perfect space beneath a magnolia tree two blocks down, and instead of playing parking lot lottery, had swooped in and taken it. She’d been happy at four in the afternoon, but now, at ten minutes past midnight, she’d wished she’d found a closer space.
    In this part of San Pedro the trees grew tall and close together, creating a canopy that blocked out the sky. The thin streets were made thinner by the need to park on each side. All in all, the effect was a little claustrophobic when added to the normal fear one associated with the dark.
    She passed a VW Bug with an empty surf rack and thought of her father. By now the delivery had been made. At first she’d wanted to be there, but after thinking about it, she realized that it wouldn’t have been a good idea. Bobby Boy knew her father better than most and knew the man was going to have problems accepting the gift. He was certain to think