Black's Beach Shuffle: A Rolly Waters Mystery

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  "Good morning, Mother," he shot back with the best attempt at enthusiasm he could muster. It was always tough to compete with his mother for the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed trophy, but for some reason he still tried. Maybe because if he didn't he risked the slow inquisition, even now, at thirty-nine. Even now, after he’d been sober for almost five years.

  Rolly’s flat stood behind his mother’s house on Eighth Avenue, just south of Upas at the edge of Balboa Park. It was in the heart of Hillcrest, neighborhood home to members of the rainbow coalition, the hopelessly hip and the urban elderly. There were knick-knack shops, organic grocers, alternative bookstores, and chic restaurants and hair parlors. There wasn’t a Hooters in sight.

  His mother always said she moved to Hillcrest because it was "artistic." Rolly thought she moved there so she could flirt with attractive young men while avoiding the threat of any real sexual pressure. She liked attention. His father had never understood that. It was all she ever had wanted, just some attention, some hugs and some credit for taking care of their house and their son, who wasn’t so easy to handle. Some credit for keeping herself almost celibate while her husband was away for six months at a time. Some credit for staying more honest then he ever had.

  “You look tired,” she said to him.

  “I didn’t get home until late.”

  “Did you have a good party?”

  “It went pretty good. Rich people. Big house in The Farms, up on the cliffs above Black’s. They seemed to like us pretty well.”

  “Well, perhaps there was someone there who could help your career. You never know with those folks in La Jolla. They’ve got connections.”

  Rolly’s mother still thought of him as a full-time musician. He was never sure if she just liked to be encouraging or if she thought he still had a chance of making it big. He might be young in her eyes, but Rolly knew the guys in L.A. in the Armani suits and the $100 haircuts wouldn’t even talk to you once you passed thirty-five. His mother never mentioned his day job, as if she pretended it didn’t exist.

  “You want some coffee?” Rolly said.

  “Just half a cup, thank you dear.” His mother sat down at the table. “How about some plates?”

  Left to his own devices, Rolly avoided china and silverware whenever possible. It wasn’t possible now. He poured out two mugs of coffee, went back to the kitchen, pulled out a couple of plates and two knives, brought them back to the table.

  “So tell me more,” said his mother, doling out a large croissant for each of them.

  “Well, like I said, it was a nice house, right on the edge of the cliffs. Lots of big windows. You could see down to The Cove and up to Mt. Soledad. You could probably see all the way up to Dana Point on a clear day. And, of course, lots of ocean.”

  “I don’t think I’d do anything all day if I had that kind of view. I’d just sit there and look out the window. Whose house was it?”

  “I don’t really know. They don’t seem to live in it much. There must have been twenty rooms, but only a couple of them had any furniture. The party was outside on the patio, by the pool.” There was that picture again in his head.

  “Perhaps the owners are still moving in.”

  “Maybe. Fender said they hadn’t been living there long.”

  “Fender lives there?”

  “No, he just gave us a tour. He works for the company.”

  “Oh. What’s the company called?”

  “Eyebitz.com. It’s an Internet company.”

  “Oh, yes. I think I’ve read about them. So Fender works for them?’

  “Yes. He seems to think he’s going to make a lot of money.”

  “Well, that’s nice for him. I haven’t seen Fender in years. He was always a nice boy. Shy and quiet, but very polite.”

  They continued their small talk a few minutes until they had finished their breakfast. His mother cleared the table and rinsed off the dishes while Rolly finished his coffee.

  “I’m going to Henry’s Market this morning,” his mother said. “Can I get you anything while I’m there?”

  “No, thanks, Mom. I’ll go to Ralph’s later,” Rolly replied.

  “That produce at Ralph’s is full of chemicals and pesticide. You should go to Henry’s. It’s better for you.”

  “Maybe I will.” He wasn’t going to argue. He wasn’t going to the grocery store, anyway. He hardly ever bought groceries. Sometimes he bought milk, cereal, coffee, maybe peanut butter and jelly, a loaf of bread.

  His mother dried her hands on the towel by the sink. “Well, have a nice day, dear. Take a nap if you need to. You’ll feel better.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Maybe I will.”

  His mother walked to the door, closed it softly behind her, leaving the room as empty as it had been before she arrived. Outside in the driveway, Rolly could hear a car pulling in, the gravel scrunching under its wheels. He stared into his coffee. The scrunching stopped. A car door opened and shut.

  “Fender Simmons, is that you?” Rolly's mother sang out in a bright cheery chirp.

  “Hello, Mrs. Waters. How are you?”

  “Well I'm fine, Fender. I haven't seen you in years. Rolly tells me you're going to be very successful.”

  “I hope so, Mrs. Waters.” Rolly could hear the puff of pride in Fender's voice, even through the door. “I think I may have hooked up with something really special.”

  “That's wonderful, Fender. How's your wife?" Rolly had neglected to tell his mother that Fender's marriage of last year had only lasted three months.

  “My wife and I are separated, Mrs. Waters.”

  "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, Fender."

  Rolly was going to go crazy if his mother kept repeating Fender's name every time she said something to him. He didn’t know why, but it bugged him. He got up from the table and opened the door.

  A Request

  There was a forest green Ford Fiesta parked outside. Fender stood beside it, looking uncomfortable, trying to decide how much longer he needed to be polite before he disengaged himself from Rolly’s mother. He tugged on his right ear, cleared his throat, tapped his left rear pants pocket as if to make sure his wallet was there. He had on a blue business shirt and brown pants, clunky black dress shoes. He stood for a second looking down at his feet, placing his hand on his forehead and stroking his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger.

  “Hey, Fender,” Rolly called out from the doorway.

  “Hey, Rolly,” Fender said in relief. He turned toward Rolly, smoothed his eyebrows again, then glanced back at Rolly’s mother.

  “Good to see you, Mrs. Waters.”

  “Good to see you, Fender,” she said. “Rolly, are you sure you don’t want anything from Henry's?”

  “No, thanks, Mom." His mother walked away, carrying her canvas grocery bag, off on another big adventure amongst the organic fruits and vegetables.

  “Come on in, Fender,” Rolly said.

  Fender rolled a shoulder, touched his hand to his back pocket again and walked in the door.

  “Great party last night,” Rolly said.

  “Sure was,” said Fender, regaining his enthusiasm. “Everybody loved the band. Ricky said you were one of the best bands he'd ever heard, couldn't believe you were from San Diego. He couldn’t believe you weren’t a big rock star.”

  Rolly kind of doubted Ricky had said anything about the band, but he appreciated Fender's kiss-up anyway. Of course, with Fender, a compliment was often followed by a request, a proposition. Rolly appreciated getting the gig, but with Fender there was always a marker to be paid. He wondered if Fender had heard anything about the man in the pool.

  “So what do you want?” Rolly said.

  Fender took a tiny step back, as if losing his balance. Directness in speech was always a little difficult for him to handle. But Rolly wanted to get to the point. If Fender got going on something, you'd never get another word in until you just gave up and agreed to whatever he was proposing.

  Fender sat down in the fad
ed leather easy chair. Rolly sat back at the table, took a sip on his coffee.

  “I need to talk to you about something. It's important. The company needs your help.” Fender’s voice dropped a notch as he said “company,” making it sound weighty and important. He stared at the floor as if to add gravitas.

  “What is it?”

  “We, the company I mean, would like to hire you for an investigation.” He put a hand on either side of his temples, looked up from the deep eye sockets that gave him the appearance Moogus called the “Frankenstein look.”

  Red lights started flashing in Rolly's head like a squad car convention on F Street. He'd seen a dead man last night. The company the dead man worked for wanted to hire him. Companies never hired him, especially big, rich companies like Eyebitz.com. They hired investigators from big agencies, guys that knew certain guys because they'd worked for other rich guys’ lawyers. Guys with money to spend, who subscribed to fifty-thousand-a-year information services and hired interns to do their research. Rolly found lost sailors and their ex-girlfriends for frightened mothers from Des Moines who just wanted them to come home. He spied on the wives of jealous North Park shop owners when they checked into tourist motels in Mission Valley with their biker boyfriends.

  “I've got a check,” Fender said.

  “A check?”

  “For you, it's a retainer. Private investigators always get a retainer, right? That's what they do in the movies.” Fender rolled the fingers on his right hand. He was nervous, which set Rolly at ease. It was only Fender he had to deal with for now.

  “Sure, I like to have a retainer. But tell me what you want first. How do you know I'm the right person for the job?” Rolly tried to sound professional, whatever professional was.

  “We can't take this to the police. We need someone we can trust. We can't have it in the papers. So first you have to tell me that anything I say won't leave this room.”

  “By my girlfriend’s butt and all that's holy," said Rolly, reciting an old joke between them. Fender snarfed a nervous laugh.

  “Okay, Rolly. By Leslie’s butt and all that's holy.” It was Moogus’ line, but Fender liked to use it. Fender had always been hot for Leslie, Rolly’s longtime girlfriend, ex-girlfriend now. She thought Fender was creepy, a total loser. But Fender didn’t know that. Leslie did have a behind to die for.

  “There's an item missing from our offices. We don't know if it's stolen or just missing,” Fender continued.

  “What is it?”

  “It's a key.”

  “Can't you just replace the lock and get a new one?”

  “It's not that kind of key. It's part of the computer system.”

  “What computer system?”

  “Well, I can't explain it completely, it's kind of technical. I don't completely understand it, myself. Ricky can explain it to you.”

  “Ricky?”

  “Yeah, he'd like to see you as soon as possible. He wants to talk to you in person. I just wanted to check with you first, see if you could do the job.”

  “Why me?”

  “I told Ricky you could do it. He liked you. He said you seemed like someone he could trust.” Rolly wasn't sure he bought that one. Nobody ever thought of a rock and roll guitar player as someone they could trust. Someone they could screw over and cheat maybe, not someone they trusted.

  Fender reached into his back pocket, pulled out an envelope with the Eyebitz.com logo on it. He opened the envelope, handed a check over to Rolly. It was a blank check with Ricky’s signature on it. Rolly put it down on the table, turned back to Fender.

  “It’s a blank check.”

  “Like I said, Ricky trusts you. Whatever you think the retainer should be, you just fill it out.”

  “Are you sure somebody didn't just drop the key between some sofa cushions? What if they find it tomorrow?"

  “You can keep the retainer, either way. Ricky says he trusts you to do the right thing. He says you’ve got a high integrity quotient. But you have to meet with him today, this morning. It's very urgent.”

  Rolly listened, but he was thinking about the last time someone had written him a blank check. Fender had been there. Five years ago at Capitol Records, an Artist & Repertoire man had pushed a blank check across his desk to Rolly and Matt, the lead singer in Rolly’s band, and Rolly’s friend. It was an investment in their talent, the A&R man said, an advance on their sure-to-happen stardom. It was their shot at the big gold ring. Matt and Rolly took the check, shook hands with the A&R guy. Fender slept outside in the car. Fender always hung out with Rolly and Matt, following them around like a pet beagle. Rolly walked to the liquor store across Vine Street, picked up a pint of Jack Daniels and a six-pack of Bud, brought it back to the car to share with Fender and Matt. They started celebrating. They drove home, taking the scenic route, stopping at every bar they found along old Highway 101. Then came the accident.

  Maybe this offer from Fender was a kind of second chance, a little return on Rolly’s recent years of good behavior, a reward for his repentance. If he did well, he could move onto bigger cases, start to work with companies and corporations instead of greasy, beer-breathed mechanics trying to find a missing girlfriend and the rebuilt ’71 Camaro she’d taken with her. Or the lost teenagers he’d find for squabbling parents who probably hadn’t wanted to have kids in the first place. Maybe it was time to try being ambitious again. There was the guy in the pool to think about, too.

  At any rate, it couldn't hurt to meet with Ricky. It wasn't really a contract until you cashed the check. At least that’s how the A&R guy at Capitol Records had explained it to Matt and Rolly.

  He picked up the check on the kitchen table, folded it over. "Okay, I'll talk to him. Can I take a quick shower?"

  “Sure. Thanks, Rolly.”

  Rolly walked back to the bedroom, pulled off the extra large t-shirt he’d slept in, and walked into the bathroom. The big cloud in his head had just gotten bigger and was threatening rain. He looked at himself in the mirror, his middle-aged body, round, pink, and naked. A blank check from someone he’d only just met, someone who pulled in dollar bills as if they were sunbeams. It meant complicating his life when he was trying to keep things simple.

  He showered, changed his clothes, put on a pair of khakis, something resembling a dress shirt, and a tan jacket. When he walked back into the living room, Fender was strumming "Sunshine of Your Love" on Rolly's green Stratocaster. The case lay open on the floor in the living room. Fender was a hopelessly mediocre guitar player, but an earnest one.

  “Hey Rolly, what was that guitar you were playing last night? It looked cool.”

  “That's my ES-335. I keep it under my bed. I don't feel safe if it's out of my sight.” He was about to mention leaving it at the party, but stopped himself just in time. It wasn't a good idea to tell anyone about last night, even Fender. Especially Fender. Because Fender couldn't keep a secret if you sewed his mouth shut and dropped him in a cement hole. He was just naturally talkative.

  Rolly grabbed his keys, turned off the coffee pot. “All right then. Let's go.”

  The Hidden Fortress

  Rolly followed Fender's car north on Highway 5, taking the exit at Genesee Avenue, north of UCSD, where the smart kids went to college. The smart white kids and the smart Asian kids. They were the ones, mostly, who were learning to build the next big thing, be it software or pharmaceuticals, designer DNA, some scary and complicated technology that would make the smart kids a million dollars someday.

  Just before they reached Torrey Pines Road, Fender took a right on Atomic Way (named in a time when another technology pushed at the edge of the world’s problems, scaring people to death). Rolly followed.

  They pulled up to a long metal gate. Fender rolled down his window, reached out, and punched in a few numbers on the keypad.

  “Stay right behind me,” Fender yelled back. “The gate closes slow, so two cars can get through if you hurry.” He waved. Rolly waved back. They drove up a small asph
alt incline, pulled left into the parking lot. There were about two dozen cars in the lot, too many for a Sunday. Apparently, these folks never took a day off, even with the hangovers some of them must have had from last night.

  The building itself was the standard industrial-park box, a big two-story rectangle, with a square tinted window every twenty feet, top and bottom.

  They walked to the entrance. Fender pulled on the metal handle of the large glass door. It was locked. He looked in, saw the guard looking out at him. Fender felt around in his pockets.

  “Oh, hell. Where's my security card?” He flopped around some more, waved at the guard. The guard got up from his desk and walked over, opened the door.

  “Thanks, Sonny," said Fender. "Don't know where I left my card.”

  Sonny looked like he’d heard the story before. He didn’t care.

  “Sign the temporary form. You, sir, sign in too, please," he said, pointing Rolly towards a clipboard on the front desk. Rolly filled in the information—name and phone. He paused at the line that read “reason for visit.”

  “What's my reason for visiting?”

  “Just say you’re meeting with Ricky,” Fender said.

  The guard handed Rolly a security card. It had a belt clip attached to the top and the word “VISITOR” printed in large black letters over the Eyebitz.com logo. The guard gave a card to Fender, as well. It read "DUNCE CAP", with a little cartoon figure faced into a corner, wearing a tall cone-shaped hat.

  “I shouldn't have lost my card," Fender said. “The security's tight here. It has to be. The proprietary technology we have could be worth millions, billions even, Ricky says.”

  “Who's idea was that?” Rolly said, pointing to the dunce cap figure drawing.

  “Ricky’s. I'm going to go see him now, let him know you're here. Wait here in the lobby. I’ll come and get you.”

  Rolly sat down in a lipstick-red chair with a high back that flew off in a wing shape at one end. He looked around the lobby. The floor was pink marble, or possibly granite. There were fake marble columns on either side of the guard's desk, a hallway leading back to what looked like a mural from Chicano Park, and a stairway going up to the second floor. Lamps on the wall were held up by small plaster gargoyles, painted black and silver. Above Rolly’s head hung a huge stylized eye, the Eyebitz.com corporate logo, in brushed stainless steel, trimmed in black, and threatening to drop any moment, crushing him or anyone else trapped in the lobby.