Chapter 6: The West Coast

The next morning, I made my decision about which direction I was going, and it was due west. I left the motel’s parking lot and headed west. The ride proved to be a challenge in many ways. I decided I would spend the winter in Southern California. I gave myself plenty of time and traveled as far south as I could, eventually ending up in San Diego.

The trip occurred during the hottest part of the summer, and often the temperatures were in the triple digits— a miserable time to ride. It was hard on both the bike and the rider. When daytime temperatures reached over 120 degrees, I stopped riding and found places to stay inside. I learned to do my riding at night. This gave the desert time to cool off, making it easier to cross some of the hottest areas in the United States. I took the northern route, then headed down through Las Vegas, Nevada. The hottest part of the trip was through the Mojave Desert, and I broke it up into two nights of travel. On the route between Las Vegas and San Diego, I parked the bike during the day in Barstow and spent the time hanging around where it was air-conditioned. I was able to get a room at a Barstow motel to wait out the heat.

Riding at night was definitely easier on me as a rider, but I had to increase my awareness, as most drivers at night weren’t the most careful. I found myself almost being driven off the road. By the second morning, when I finally reached San Diego, I was extremely tired and thankful to be alive.

The next couple of days, I decided I would spend time looking for a shop to get my bike serviced and then seek employment. I didn’t want to spend money when I didn’t have to, and at the same time, I wanted to rebuild my cash reserves.

When I found a shop where I felt comfortable having my bike serviced, I felt doubly blessed. The owner of the shop appreciated a well-maintained bike and someone who spent a lot of time on a motorcycle. After talking with the shop owner while he personally serviced my bike, I was offered a position selling his inventory of used bikes and services. I also found a place to stay while I was in San Diego. The place was an apartment rented by a mechanic who worked there and needed a roommate to share the rent. It worked out for everyone involved. The shop owner got a knowledgeable salesperson, the mechanic had someone to share the rent, and I had a place to live while in San Diego. It was a win for all.

Whenever possible, I took public transportation to the places I wanted to go. The places I usually went were the library, the grocery store, and the local mall to get supplies. True, it took longer, but it kept me out of San Diego traffic. I still didn’t feel comfortable riding in heavy traffic, and forget about me ever considering splitting lanes on the freeway. There were too many bikes in the back room that had been used for parts from riders who had been involved in accidents while splitting lanes.

Things back East had taken an interesting turn. Bobby, Bill, and Abbie were on trial for second-degree murder, and the shrew—Abbie’s mother—was being tried as an accessory. What caught my eye was that one of the prosecution’s witnesses was Emily Crumm, the serial swinger and gossip.

According to the news story, it was common knowledge among churchgoers that there was something going on between Abbie and Reverend Bobby Bill. Emily claimed that I had taken her into my confidence, saying I suspected the affair and was planning to divorce Abbie. That was news to me, since I had never said any such thing. So far, the strongest evidence for the prosecution was the hotel receipt from Chicago, along with traces of blood on the kitchen knife and the rear tailgate of Bobby Bill’s SUV. Another damning piece of evidence was the prenuptial agreement that Abbie’s dad had insisted we sign before the wedding.

The way the prenup was written, it protected the pre-marriage assets of both the groom and the bride. If we had divorced, we would have essentially walked away with only the assets we each brought into the marriage. It didn’t cover any assets acquired after the wedding. According to the prosecution, if we had divorced, Abbie wouldn’t have had any legal claim to the more recently acquired property or assets.

Abbie and I had never gotten around to updating the agreement to include any future earnings—like those from the business—so the only way she would receive a larger share was if I died. The prosecution claimed this was the motive behind my mysterious disappearance. The state alleged that Abbie and Bobby Bill conspired to cause my death. A bit far-fetched, in my opinion, but still entirely possible.

It was also alleged that Abbie’s mother knew about the plot and helped out when she could, which tied her into the conspiracy to murder me. Abbie would receive more if I were killed than if we divorced.

A separate trial was also going on for the embezzling of church funds. No matter what it didn’t look good for either Abbie or Bobby Bill.

I didn’t feel a single pang of empathy for any of them. They were going to jail for a long time, no matter what. I’ll admit, I had a smile on my face as I made my way out of the library, heading back to the apartment. Gone were any thoughts that I had gotten my revenge. I guess I never really knew the woman I had married—and that left me deeply saddened.

While I was in San Diego, both trials came to an end—though not entirely how I had hoped. Abbie and Bobby Bill were convicted on charges of embezzlement and were awaiting sentencing. The murder trial, however, ended in a mistrial due to technical issues—chiefly, the fact that no trace of a body had ever been found. The defense raised an objection, and the judge ruled it valid, leading to the mistrial. The case was in the process of being retried. In the meantime, both Abbie and Bobby Bill remained confined in the local county jail.

I stayed in San Diego until January before deciding it was time to move on. It was still cold in most parts of the United States, which left my options for where to go next pretty limited. After talking it over with the bike shop owner, he suggested I head to Las Vegas. He thought I wouldn’t have any trouble finding a job at a shop there and even recommended a few places that could probably use someone like me.

The day I left for Las Vegas, I packed up my gear and rode over to the shop to say goodbye to my friends. It wasn’t a long, drawn-out affair—just a couple of handshakes and some man-hugs. Then I climbed onto my KLR and hit the road, heading for Las Vegas.

The daytime temperatures during the two-day ride were in the 70s—a pleasant change from the triple-digit heat that area usually endured the rest of the year. I took a side trip and spent the first night in Blythe, a small desert town. There, I found a reasonably priced motel and a surprisingly good buffet at a local truck stop.

The next morning, I was up early and back on the road to Las Vegas. Daytime temperatures were creeping up, and it was in the upper 80s by the time I reached Las Vegas proper late in the afternoon. The ride had taken longer than I expected because I stopped several times to refuel and grab something to drink. Riding a motorcycle through the desert at speed just sucked the moisture right out of you—and it was surprisingly exhausting. I pulled into the first motel that looked clean and had a decent price for a room. I figured I’d look for a better long-term option once I got more familiar with the area.

After getting settled into the motel for the week, I started looking for a longer-term housing solution. I didn’t plan on staying in town long enough to justify applying for an apartment—and my status as someone not wanting to be found didn’t exactly help that option either. So, my only real alternative was an extended stay inn. There were several in town, so I spent some time riding around Vegas, scoping them out.

I found one I preferred—it was near the Strip and within walking distance of shopping. Just two blocks away, there was a strip mall with a grocery store, a pharmacy, and a hardware store. If needed, there was also an urgent care clinic operated by the same chain that ran the grocery store. The center included several other small businesses, though I doubted I’d ever have much reason to visit most of them.

The motorcycle shop that my former employer in San Diego had recommended didn’t need any help. In fact, the owner was considering closing down, as he didn’t have enough business to stay open. That news definitely put a damper on my plans, so I had to start thinking about other opportunities to support myself—without dipping into the cash reserves I had tucked away in my investment account.

There was a branch library not far from where I was staying, and I decided to spend most of the day there researching alternative plans. It turned into a long day—I even skipped eating so I could stay focused without interruption. By 2 p.m., I was ready to call it quits; staring at the computer screen had given me a headache. But the day wasn’t wasted—I’d come up with several strategies I was eager to try. By the next morning, I’d be ready to put them into action.

The next morning, I rode the motorcycle to a big-box electronics store and purchased a moderately priced laptop and a carrying case. I paid for it using my debit card, drawing funds from the investment account I had set up earlier. After the purchase, I rode back to the motel and set up the computer, using the motel’s sketchy internet connection to begin exploring online investment brokerages and their requirements. I didn’t sign up for any accounts just yet—instead, I used the time to narrow down the platforms that seemed like a good fit and ruled out those that didn’t meet my needs. I also began looking into what investment research and stock information I could access through the motel’s connection that might help me find the kind of returns I was hoping for.

That took up most of the day, so I decided to go out for supper and then explore a couple of the local casinos. One casino I visited had a nice buffet located conveniently close to the slot machines. I spent about an hour eating there, which gave me a chance to observe how many jackpots were hit during that time. It gave me some insight into how the casino had configured their slot machines to control the odds of winning.

Over several nights of watching, I learned something interesting: the casinos seemed to adjust the winning odds based on the number of players. When there were fewer players, more jackpots were hit—likely to attract attention and draw in more people. But once the place filled up, the number of winners noticeably dropped. I checked this pattern at other casinos too, and the same strategy appeared to be in use.

As for the blackjack tables, they were clearly set up to guard against card counters. Each one was under the constant watch of overhead video surveillance. Players suspected of counting cards were quickly identified, quietly escorted out, and strongly encouraged not to return. Those who ignored that warning—well, some of their bodies were found days later, dumped out in the desert.

I also looked into what was available for employment, but I wasn’t finding much. It was becoming clear that I’d have to make things work with the options I had already mapped out.

On my last night at the motel before moving over to the extended stay inn, I decided to go out and try my luck at a few smaller casinos. I stuck with the more popular games of chance, starting with the nickel slot machines. I managed a moderate payout of ten dollars, then moved on to blackjack, where I won more than I lost. I called it an early night, walking away with an extra hundred dollars in my pocket.