Black's Beach Shuffle: A Rolly Waters Mystery

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  The party started at eight. The band arrived at six-thirty. They set up the equipment and ran a quick sound check. Fender stopped by to show them the room where they could change clothes and stash their belongings. The room was empty, except for a closet, three folding chairs, and an aging white carpet. All of the rooms they passed in the long hallway were empty. Fender explained that the house’s lone occupant lived at the other end of the hall, on the second floor, in the room with the balcony overlooking the pool. Rolly thought to himself that it would take him a lifetime to fill up the rooms in the house. If you were living alone, you could just start on a new room every year, trash the one you had been using, lock it up and just forget about it. After all, you still had fifteen rooms or so to go.

  After the band members had changed and hung up their clothes, Bruce and Gordon headed off to find an out-of-the-way corner of the house where they could smoke a joint without being noticed. Moogus followed Fender back to the patio by the pool to check out the food and the beverage situation. He was probably checking out the female situation, as well. Rolly wanted to avoid the bar, so he walked out to the front deck, which overlooked a large yard that ran to a short stone wall and a dusty cliff top with the ocean 300 feet below. They were on top of the cliffs above Black’s Beach, known to locals and tourists alike for its outstanding waves and optional swimwear. To the south, Rolly could see La Jolla Cove and the village. A light breeze blew through his hair as moist ocean air rose up and met the dry desert wind, creating a temporary stalemate in their endless battle for the coastal atmosphere. A thick bank of fog lay a mile offshore.

  "Nice gig," said Moogus, walking out onto the deck towards Rolly. "There’s a lot of serious talent here.”

  Talent was Moogus’ word for attractive young women. Moogus was pushing forty-eight and making maybe twenty-five thousand a year full-time drumming, but he remained convinced that “the talent” was always waiting and ready for a man of his unfettered masculine skills. Rolly had never known a drummer who wasn't continually horny and on the make, or at least talked like he was.

  "Hey, Rolly." It was Fender, following close behind, carrying that slightly off-center gaze he had where he didn’t quite look at you.

  "Hey, Fender."

  "You got a minute? I’d like to introduce you to some of the folks here. There’re important people you should get to know."

  Rolly hated meeting important people he should get to know. It made him nervous. He never knew what to say around people with money and power. It looked like these people had plenty. But he needed to be polite to his patrons. It was good business. He stepped off the deck and followed Fender around the garden path to the pool area. On the patio underneath the balcony next to the pool, a small group of sycophants had gathered around a short, skinny man with blond hair. He looked about fourteen years old to Rolly, wiry, nervous. The man moved his hands a lot as he talked, waving a dark bottle of micro-brewed beer in the air. The group standing with him looked spellbound, holding their bottles of beer or glasses of champagne at their sides, afraid that raising the drinks to their lips might signal a lack of respect. Fender nosed his way in.

  "Ricky, I wanted you to meet Rolly Waters. He’s a good friend of mine and he’s with the band that’s going to be playing tonight. Rolly, this is Ricky Rogers, the man with the vision."

  Ricky Rogers interrupted his talking to grab Rolly's hand and shake it enthusiastically. He had a big blonde freckled head and bright blue eyes that stared straight into yours, then into the back of your head, through your skull, and out beyond to some horizon that only he could see. Rolly wondered if that was why Fender referred to Ricky as “the man with the vision.”

  "Glad to meet you, Rolly. Fender tells me you're quite a musician. That's great. We're glad you could be here, be a part of our family."

  Rolly wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of any more families. He had a hard enough time with his own. He’d read about Ricky in the paper, a beach rat from Orange County who’d made a million dollars in the self-empowerment seminar market, selling recordings of his gung-ho speeches set to the sound of the surf in the background. Now he was running this Internet company. People said he was going to make a hundred times more. The immediate presence of money and power along with the beer Ricky was waving around made Rolly wish he had a drink. But that would only make him feel worse. It always had. How much was this guy going to be worth, a hundred million billion or something?

  "Th-thanks." Rolly stuttered.

  "Hey, that's great. We're glad to have you playing for us." Ricky's voice was bright, a little on the high-pitched side. He was a very "up" personality type.

  Fender jumped in. "Yeah, Ricky, I've known Rolly since high school. We always knew he was going to be a great musician. He’ll get this party rocking!" Fender made it sound as if he had played a critical role in the development of Rolly's musical skills. Fender had always been a little bit of a groupie in the old days, always dropping by during rehearsal, trying to get himself backstage, acting like he was part of the band. But that was just Fender’s way. He seemed to always need a little self-stroking, especially in front of the “important” people, the boss or whoever it was. He was okay when you talked to him all on his own.

  The boss was already moving away from them, reaching out a hand to yet another incoming partygoer who had honed in on him like a stock-option-seeking scud missile. Ricky was a man in constant motion.

  "Yeah, that's great," he said as he left. Ricky seemed to be fond of the word “great.” Maybe everything was great when you were going to be worth as much as Ricky.

  Fender’s smile dropped away for a second as Ricky moved on, then rebounded again as he turned back to Rolly.

  “Ricky’s a great guy.”

  “So I can see,” Rolly said. “What does he do, exactly?”

  “He’s the man with the plan, the visionary. He gets it.”

  “Gets what?”

  “This whole Internet thing, the new economy. He knows how to stay on top of the wave, make opportunities happen.”

  Rolly had enough troubles with the old economy. He’d never be able to handle a new one. Well, maybe Fender was ready for it. He half sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

  “You’re in pretty tight with these guys, huh, Fender?”

  “Yeah, Rolly. I really think this is going to be it.”

  Rolly had given up on whatever “it” was a long time ago, but Fender was still out there chasing “it” down. Rolly was fine with his life as it was now, writing songs and playing guitar, chasing down deadbeat dads and teenage runaways. It wasn’t a bad life. It was his, at least. Every day now that he wasn’t drinking was a success. Somebody else making money was not going to make him jealous, even if it was Fender, who was a nice enough guy, but couldn’t put more than three chords together without screwing them up.

  They walked back to the front deck, overlooking the cliffs. Moogus was gone, but someone much more attractive had taken his place. She was staring out at the view, a cigarette dangling in one hand by the side of her short leather skirt, a glass of champagne in the other. She had on black stockings and suede, high-heeled boots that came up just past the top of her ankles.

  “Hey, Alesis,” Fender said.

  “Hey, Fender,” she said, glancing at both of them before she returned to the view, taking a slow drag on her cigarette. It was a tired voice, whisky deep, with a little bit of Southern slowness to it. She had short black hair, cut in a pageboy with a slash of blonde frosting through the bangs.

  “Have you seen King?” Fender asked.

  “I don’t keep track of him when I’m not at the office.”

  She was tired, perhaps permanently so. And maybe a little pissed off.

  “Just wondering,” said Fender. “I wanted Rolly to meet him. Maybe he’s in the living room. Rolly, you should meet King, too.”

  “I think I’ll just stay out here for awhile, if that’s okay,” Rolly replied. There were too many people a
nd too many kinds of liquor back in the house. It made him nervous to be around either one. Besides, there was a dangerous looking woman out here, all by herself. He hadn’t sworn off of everything that was bad for him. Not yet.

  A Possible Match

  Rolly smiled at Alesis. He still had a smile that made an impression. It was a friendly thing that sometimes helped women forgive him for being a man. Alesis smiled back.

  “Um, yeah, okay,” said Fender, glancing back and forth from Rolly to Alesis, “I’ll catch you later.”

  Fender walked back to the house. Rolly turned and stood next to Alesis, took a look at the side of her face, a quick glance down her blouse. She was older than he’d originally thought, but she still had a lot going for her. Not as much as she used to, but plenty enough. He noticed little lines at the edges of her eyes.

  Alesis continued to stare out at the ocean, as if the long lost ship she was looking for might suddenly appear on the horizon.

  “Ever been to Japan?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. He decided to give her one, anyway.

  “Yeah, once. On a tour.”

  “What kind of tour?”

  “I was in a band. We did a tour there.”

  She turned her head to look at Rolly.

  “You were in a band?”

  “Still am. We’re playing tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah? I used to be in a band.”

  Telling people you were in the band always brought something personal back, memories of one shining youthful moment or confessions of non-talent, failed piano lessons. The confessors were easy to handle. It was the folks who’d had a little bit of success you had to step around like landmines.

  “What kind of band?” Rolly asked.

  “It was an all-girl band, kind of like the Go-Gos. Only more . . . adult. We played in Japan one time.”

  He wasn’t sure what the “adult” comment meant. But before he could think of anything else to say, they were interrupted.

  “Alesis!” someone shouted from off to their right. Rolly turned. A man, middle-aged, glared out from the sliding glass door.

  “I’m right here,” said Alesis, without turning around.

  “I can’t find my glasses.”

  “Did you check on top of your head?”

  The man put his hand up to his bald pate, where a pair of glasses indeed rested.

  “Oh, yes. There they are.” He pulled the glasses down over his eyes, inspected his fingernails for a moment, then looked back up.

  “I can’t find my cell phone, either.”

  Alesis sighed and rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m coming.” She turned towards Rolly, dropped her cigarette on the deck, stamped it out with her boot.

  “Just a word of advice. Never go to work for your ex-boyfriend. It’s worse than being married.”

  She smiled again, for real or just out of habit, then turned and walked slowly away. Rolly watched her depart, felt a warm glow run through his body. She knew how to make an exit. It was the kind of departure that would convince men they should spend a lot of money to make sure she came back.

  Rolly returned to the view. Down below him, a skinny young man with a black ponytail played the drunken daredevil, balancing along the edge of the cliff for three young women who were dressed for encouragement in tight summer dresses. The women stood in a safe spot behind the wall watching the young man approach the edge of the cliff. He let out little screams and then laughed as the girls reached out to pull him back towards safety. It was the kind of thing Rolly might have tried when he was younger, tempting fate for dramatic effect, craving attention, naïve, unaware of the invisible nearness that death always has. Rolly knew now that invisible things can make themselves seen in an instant. It made him nervous watching the young man’s balancing act. He turned back to the house.

  ***

  His thoughts returned to the present, heading south on Interstate 5 towards downtown. He was about to miss the exit to Hillcrest, and home. He took a quick look back, ripped the car across two lanes of traffic, made the exit with a hundred feet to spare.

  What had really returned him from his thoughts was the realization that the young man he’d seen dancing along the edge of the cliff might have been the same man he’d seen floating in the pool, the one who had flirted with death earlier that evening. The man in the pool had the same long hair as the man on the cliffs. But Rolly hadn’t looked closely at either one. There were several men at the party with long hair.

  He headed up Washington, across First, saw the lights of the La Posta Taco Shop up ahead. His stomach felt empty with hunger, or from stress, probably both. He pulled up to the drive-in menu, ordered a carne asada burrito and a Horchata to drink. There was a small group of gothic-styled teenagers gathered around the front order window, black in their clothes, pale in their makeup. He wondered how many had parents who were drunk or divorced or had hit them, if any were runaways he might be asked to track down. He watched the young Mexican woman inside the bright fluorescent kitchen dip a ladle into a pot of greasy, spiced meat, spread it out on a flour tortilla, then expertly fold it into a little package for filling the stomach of one of the kids who waited outside. Rolly pulled up to the window, asked for a couple of extra packets of hot sauce and picked up his order. He looked forward to feeding his own little hunger, then falling asleep. He glanced at the open door of the liquor store across the street, thought about how his meal might taste with a beer, decided not to find out, then turned the corner and headed for home, four blocks away.

  Rolly lived in a one-room granny flat above Highway 163, the old road that passed through the heart of Balboa Park into downtown San Diego. It wasn’t much of a place, but the location couldn’t be beat.

  The iron light fixture over his front door was shining brightly when he arrived, making his humble abode look unusually cozy and warm. His mother, ever protective, had turned the light on for him. She lived in the two-story Victorian next door and rented the granny flat to him. It was a temporary business arrangement. They had agreed. That had been five years ago. He was still paying the same rent he had when he started, 200 dollars, which was a hell of a deal, considering the going rates in Hillcrest.

  He opened the door, flicked on the light, and dropped the white paper bag on the table before crossing to the bedroom and sliding the guitar case under his bed. It was safe now. The rest of his guitars, currently ten of them, were kept in the living room, stacked in their cases, displayed in floor stands or hung on the wall. But the Gibson stayed under his bed, in a safe place, away from the eyes of the world.

  He took off his shoes, walked back to the kitchen, sat down, and started to eat. There were still a lot of things in the world worth living for. One of them was a carne asada burrito at four in the morning.

  Wake up call

  Rolly lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. It was 6:32 A.M. He hadn’t been able to sleep much. His stomach kept rumbling, perhaps from the carne asada burrito, but more likely from the uncomfortable thoughts in his head. Every time he closed his eyes, a picture of the man in the pool rose up in front of him.

  He heard a car approach on the gravel driveway. Something thumped on the door. Rolly jumped, realized it was just the Sunday edition of the Union-Tribune. His chances for sleep seemed about over. He struggled out of bed, went to the kitchen, tried to decide which was worse, feeling old or hung over. As best he could tell, there wasn’t much difference, but at least there was a cure for a hangover. There was a cure for getting old too, but it wasn’t much of an option. The man in the pool might have been drunk, but he wouldn’t have a hangover this morning.

  Rolly put a few heaping tablespoons of coffee into the brewing machine, poured in some water, and flipped on the switch. He opened the front door, found the morning paper propped up against it perfectly. If the new deliveryman had any speed on his throws, the Padres should give him a tryout. They could do worse. They probably would.

  This morning, like most, was shrouded in light misty f
og. It would burn off in a couple of hours, giving way to another oppressively bright, pleasant day in the sun. It had been the same kind of morning, the same kind of day every day for the last thirty-nine years, for the last 200, for all Rolly could tell. He remembered something resembling rain a year or so back, but it might have been something he’d seen in a movie. The weather in San Diego had been one of the few things in life he could depend on.

  The thought of the dead man in the pool kicked back into his head like a bad rap song, riffing on dope, “bitches,” and guns. He sat down at the kitchen table and looked through the paper, trying to chase the thought out of his mind. He checked out the sports section first, ran through the box scores. The Padres had lost again. Their chances of repeating the pennant run of last year were already fading. He leafed through the world news, then the local section, thinking there might be a story about the man in the pool, but there was nothing. It didn't surprise him. Any police report that had been filed would have come in too late to make last night's deadline. But if someone had drowned at a millionaire mansion at The Farms, it would make the paper sooner or later.

  The coffee machine sputtered, spit out a last gasp of caffeinated water. There was someone outside on the porch.

  "Rolly?" It was a high sing-song voice. "Rolly, are you there? I've got some croissants for you." It was his mother.

  "Come on in, Mom," Rolly yelled through the door.

  The door opened like an apology. Rolly's mother walked in, her long gray hair pulled up in a loose bun. She had on a canary yellow nightshirt, which was tied gracefully at the waist above khaki pants and Japanese house slippers. She carried a small white paper sack in her right hand.

  "It's a wonderful morning," she chirped, like an accusation. He never understood how someone could sound so cheerful and confrontational at the same time, as if she were daring him to disagree.