Justice, California Style Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Another day, another quake,
and fancy eating on the menue.
TV-Detective, name is Blake,
en route to an accustomed venue.

Fantastic pasta, and good soup,
with dumplings floating near the top,
they usually went as a group,
today, however, a quick stop

to get a proper bite to eat,
he parked the car, while in a rush
a block away, but on the street.
Two inches from the curb, near flush.

A joke passed with the dinner drinks
about the meal that could turn out
to be her last, there was a jinx,
an eerie ghost floating about.

The check was paid and Bob escorted
his homely looking bride of years,
(it's here the story gets distorted) ,
it is alleged she had no fears.

He had forgotten (at his age) ,
his treasured pistol at the place.
Went back to get it and engage
the Maître d', to show his face.

And, after they exchanged some news
he said good-bye, went to the car,
a bit unsteady (from the booze?) ,
but head held high - a movie star.

Slumped over in the seat and still
was his companion, what a shock.
This is LA, where people kill,
where druggies run the streets, amuck.

He did not touch her even once.
Deep sorrow had to stay contained.
A death like this, it surely stuns...
he noticed that the seat was stained.

But, as the famous cop Baretta
he knew that he ought not to touch
the body, and that a vendetta
was common in these parts as such.

Whoever hated him enough
to kill his wife here, in cold blood,
would make it difficult and tough
to backtrack from that silent thud.

So, he just stood there, watched the scene
until the Boys in Blue came flying,
but even then was not too keen
to show his grief or think of crying.

The Chief Detective asked at once
'why did you park here on the street,
and do you always carry guns
when you just have a bite to eat? '

Baretta always used valets
to park his car, it was expected.
To leave the California Haze
of smog and noise, go undetected

by fans and others then inside.
Yet, on that day, with a small frown,
he did things different and his bride,
aware of things now upside down

perhaps was sensing premonition,
as women do when highly stressed.
It seems that Bob was on a mission
but it is doubtful she'd have guessed

that this would be her final day.
And if she did there was no reason
to be afraid or for dismay.
She ordered rack of lamb, in season.

That lamb stayed partially digested,
they searched him at the scene of crime,
and took his gun from, double-breasted,
Italian suit, a shade of lime.

And locked him up, prime suspect now,
took her away to the crime lab,
where they would ascertain just how
she died and who would pay the tab.

The rest is, as they say, a blur.
So many weeks inside the clink.
But in the end they branded her
a victim of a glaring chink

in Southern California life.
Baretta left, a man now free
of accusations (and a wife) .
And after all, he was to be

and join the circus of OJ
and Monkey Weirdo Pop or Bust,
I am the skeptic, here to stay.
The word at home is pure disgust.