The Amargosa Blues – A novel
Lester Biggs looked over his pistol‘s front sight. This is one hell of a shot, but he can do it if his dumb bitch wife would just come out into the kitchen. He lay behind some low bushes on a rise across the road from a small home that sat on a half acre of scrubby sage and creosote bushes, and fenced-in by barbed wire strung between grey wooden posts.
The pistol had a twelve inch long barrel; a Hog Leg is what his daddy called it, the kind Marshal Dillon carried on ‘Gunsmoke.’ Biggs liked it because it had a lot more carry and more accuracy than a shorter barreled one, but still it was a pistol and it had some limitations. He had braced it against a small pile of sand so he could work with the damn thing.
Now he waited for his ex-wife, Maisie to come stand in front of the kitchen window. When she got there, he would shoot out the window and scare the crap outta her, then high-tail it back to his garage.
Wasn’t nothin’ she did exactly, he told himself, other than just bein’ Maisie. She can piss me off just by being around. But then, her not bein’ around pisses me off too, he thought.
He’d never met a woman that got inside his head like her, before or since. Sometimes he wished he’d never met Maisie or married her. If they hadn’t gotten married, they would have never gotten divorced and he wouldn’t be up on this hill feeling like he’d been done to.
The way he saw it, this all belonged to him anyway: his wife, in his place, sitting on his land. Didn’t make no difference what some dumb-shit judge said. He paid for the sumbitch; the alimony, and the mortgage bills, so it was all his. Ol’ Maisie’d just didn‘t go along with his kind of thinking.
Excerpt from “The Amargosa Blues”- due in print Spring 2010