Desert City Diva

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  Max didn’t say anything for a moment. Neither did Rolly.

  ‘Well,’ said Max, ‘I’d offer to come down, but it sounds like you got enough on your hands.’

  ‘Yeah. Alicia’s a mess. Mom’s getting agitated.’

  ‘And you’re in the middle. As usual. You gonna be OK?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s mostly just weird right now. I guess I’m OK.’

  ‘Well, I hope your dad pulls through. Give me a call if you need anything. I can find a way to distract your mother if you need some time to yourself.’

  ‘Yeah. Call me if you hear something from Ozzie.’

  ‘I will. Talk to you later.’

  Rolly hung up. He checked the time on his phone. Moogus was picking him up around five. They were carpooling to tonight’s gig, at the casino on the Jincona Reservation where Macy grew up. It was a longer drive than usual, through the winding roads of the East County mountains. He put the phone back in his pocket. He had hoped to get down to Norwood’s today with the diddley bow. Depending on how things went with his father, he might still have a couple of hours. He picked up the apple, the banana and the bottle of orange juice, and headed back to the emergency ward.

  FOUR

  The Shop

  Rob Norwood stood hunched over the back counter, looking at his laptop computer when Rolly entered the store on Tenth Avenue, a few blocks from the Villa Cantina. Rolly referred to the shop as Norwood’s Mostly, as did most of his guitar-playing associates, but the official name for the place was Mostly Guitars. It was a miracle the shop still existed in its present location. Most of the neighborhood had been overtaken by high-rise condominiums and fancy coffee shops. Norwood’s worn-down one-story anachronism blighted the block, but Rob remained stubborn in his devotion to staying there. He didn’t pay rent. His moneyed wife had purchased the building for him years ago, before the present mania for urban living had revitalized the city center.

  ‘You need something?’ said Norwood, without looking up from his computer. ‘Or is this just a social call?’

  ‘Much as I enjoy our little heart-to-hearts on the issues affecting today’s music industry, I can’t dilly-dally,’ said Rolly, pulling up to the counter.

  ‘This won’t be one of your “lemme try that one” marathons?’

  ‘I’m in a hurry,’ said Rolly. He pulled the diddley bow out of its case and placed it on the counter. ‘What can you tell me about this?’

  Norwood looked at the diddley bow, then over at Rolly. ‘You want to sell it?’ he said.

  ‘Can’t. It’s not mine.’

  ‘So why do you want to know about it?’

  ‘I told a friend I’d look into it.’

  ‘Does he want to sell it?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I can get her good money for it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand bucks.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, it just so happens I had a guy in here yesterday looking for one.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. If it’s what I think it is. This guy yesterday was looking for one just like it.’

  ‘Really?’

  Norwood sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘That’s three reallys in a row,’ he said. ‘Am I so … mistrusted?’

  ‘No. I believe you. I’m just surprised.’

  ‘Who’s this chick you’re asking for?’

  ‘She’s a client, that’s all.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘She’s more interested in the picture on the back.’

  ‘Can I look?’

  Rolly nodded. Norwood lifted the diddley bow, flipped it over and inspected the back.

  ‘This is a fortuitous moment,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s exactly the one he was looking for – the guy who came in.’

  Norwood pointed at two small letters engraved just below the bottom right corner of the photograph. ‘B-M,’ he said. ‘Buddy Meeks.’

  ‘That name sounds familiar.’

  ‘You should remember better than anybody. He worked in the Guitar Trader shop.’

  ‘You mean the nerdy guy, right, with the big glasses? That Buddy?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Norwood. ‘I got to know him a little bit when I did commission sales up there. Strange dude. Awesome guitar tech, though.’

  ‘I remember him now,’ said Rolly. ‘I wouldn’t let anybody else work on my guitars.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember that too. You used to piss off the other guys in the shop – the snotty teenage punk who insisted that he had to have Buddy work on his guitars, acting like the rest of them were incompetent peons.’

  ‘I had very high standards.’

  ‘Admit it. You were snotty.’

  ‘Maybe. A little. That Buddy guy did great work, though, you gotta admit. You really think he made this thing?’

  ‘That’s what the guy told me. He was looking for a one-string guitar with Buddy’s mark on the back. I was kind of thinking “good luck with that” and now here you are walking in with the very thing.’

  ‘You think I could talk to this guy?’

  ‘So you can go around me and sell it to him directly?’

  ‘It’s not for sale. Like I told you.’

  ‘Maybe you should check with your girlfriend, see if she wants to sell it, now that you know it’s worth something.’

  ‘My client’s not interested in how much it’s worth. She wants to know about the photo on the back. Did the guy say anything about that?’

  ‘No,’ said Norwood, continuing his examination of the instrument. He looked at the photo. ‘Who’s it supposed to be, anyway?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘This baseball guy looks like he might be somebody.’

  Rolly shrugged. Norwood would have to figure that out for himself.

  ‘It’s nice work,’ said Norwood. ‘But I don’t see how the thing’s worth a thousand bucks.’

  ‘Surprised the hell out of me,’ Rolly replied.

  ‘Well, the guy said he was willing to pay if I could find it for him,’ said Norwood. ‘Maybe it’s got sentimental value for him, too.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me his name?’

  ‘Only if your girlfriend’s willing to give me a cut.’

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Thirty percent.’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘All right. She won’t want to sell it, though. Now can you tell me the name?’

  Norwood extended his hand. Rolly shook on the deal. Norwood placed the diddley bow back on the counter, peeked under his laptop and pulled out a business card.

  ‘Randy Parker,’ he said, handing the card to Rolly. ‘That’s the guy’s name. He has a shop called Alien Artifacts over in City Heights. I looked it up on the Web.’

  Rolly reviewed the information on the card. Gold stars and planets were embossed on a purple background.

  ‘What does he sell?’ he asked.

  ‘Looked to me like it was UFO memorabilia. Science-fiction collectibles.’

  ‘There’s a market for that?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Norwood shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You think this has something to do with UFOs?’ said Rolly, indicating the diddley bow.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Norwood. ‘I remember Buddy was into some unusual stuff – theories about aliens, like that Chariots of the Gods stuff. I remember one time he was talking to me about how there were these unique musical frequencies, tunings, with special properties that resonated in our DNA. Too weird for me.’

  ‘You know where I can find him?’

  ‘Buddy? No idea. You could ask up at Guitar Trader. That was a long time ago, though. I doubt anybody up there remembers him. I think he started his own shop, somewhere in East County.’

  Rolly pointed at the dots along the neck. ‘What do you make of those inlays?’ he sai
d. ‘They don’t look correctly spaced for fret marks.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed that, too. I guess they’re just decorative. You try plugging it in yet?’

  ‘Nope. Too busy.’

  ‘You want to try it now?’

  ‘I gotta get going,’ said Rolly.

  ‘You might ask your girlfriend if she knows anything about an amplifier or something that’s supposed to go with it. He wrote the name of the thing on the back of the card there.’

  Rolly flipped the business card over, read the scrawled words. ‘Astral Vibrator?’

  Norwood laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s it. Maybe your girlfriend wants to keep that for herself too.’

  ‘It’s an amplifier?’

  ‘I guess. This Randy guy said you plugged the diddley bow into it. He said it was a box, ’bout so high and so wide.’ Norwood indicated the approximate dimensions of the Astral Vibrator with his hands.

  ‘I’ll ask her about it,’ said Rolly. ‘Let me know if you remember anything about Buddy.’

  ‘OK. You need anything else?’

  ‘I could use some guitar strings.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two packs. You got any eights?’

  ‘For your delicate little fingers?’

  ‘I read somewhere that B.B. King plays eights.’

  ‘Using eights won’t make you sound like B.B. King,’ said Norwood. He squatted down then opened the cabinet on the floor behind him. He pulled out two packs of guitar strings and returned to the counter.

  ‘Ten dollars,’ he said, tossing them on the countertop. Rolly pulled a twenty from his pocket. Norwood opened the register, tossed in the twenty and pulled out two fives.

  ‘How’s that Telecaster working for you?’ he said, handing Rolly his change.

  ‘All cleaned up and ready to go,’ said Rolly. ‘First public appearance tonight.’

  ‘Where you playing?’

  ‘At one of the reservations. Jincona.’

  ‘You play there before?’

  Rolly shook his head. ‘First time at this one. I’ve played at all the others.’

  ‘Kinda soul-sucking, isn’t it?’ said Norwood. ‘All those people sitting there punching one-arm bandits and none of ’em paying any attention to you.’

  ‘Money’s good,’ said Rolly. He slipped the guitar strings into his back pocket and wrapped the diddley bow up in its cloth. ‘Once a month I guess it won’t suck up too much of my soul.’ His phone buzzed in his front pocket. He pulled it out and answered.

  ‘Hey,’ said Max. ‘You at home?’

  ‘I’m downtown.’

  ‘Even better. You close to the ballpark?’

  ‘Eight blocks or so.’

  ‘I talked to Ozzie. He’s down there, at the ballpark. Some kind of kids’ event. Said you could stop by.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Just go to administrative office. Give ’em your name. How soon can you make it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes?’

  ‘That’ll work. I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You bet. Anything new on your dad?’

  ‘They moved him out of emergency. Into intensive.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s some kind of progress. Let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  Rolly slipped his phone into his pocket.

  ‘Who’s in the hospital?’ said Norwood.

  ‘My dad had a heart attack.’

  ‘The Captain?’ said Norwood.

  Rolly nodded. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not negligible,’ said Norwood.

  ‘It doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole,’ Rolly said. ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘Well,’ said Norwood. ‘I gave you that guy’s card. Randy Parker. I’m assuming you’ll talk to him. You’re going to tell him you talked to me and that you’ve got the guitar he was looking for. You get whatever information you need from the guy and then you talk to your girlfriend about selling the thing. Owes me twenty percent finder’s fee if she does.’

  ‘Right, right,’ said Rolly. ‘Except for one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

  FIVE

  The Ballpark

  Rolly sat in the reception area of the downtown ballpark’s business office, waiting for an administrative assistant to locate an employee who could usher him in to see Eric Ozzie. A poster-sized photograph of Ozzie in his baseball uniform hung on the wall, along with those of other well-known players. Ozzie’s professional career had been cut short by injuries and a nagging addiction to pain pills, but he’d once come close to setting the team record for stolen bases in a single season. His down-home demeanor and occasional malapropisms had made him a fan favorite, but three straight years battling the Mendoza line had finally ended Eric Ozzie’s summers in the big leagues. Within a few years of his retirement, he parlayed his personality and ambitions into a fast-food concession called Sneakers, a variation on the nickname given to him by the team’s broadcast announcer. The Sneaker had always been quick on his feet, able to capitalize on opportunities.

  The inner door opened. An earnest-looking young man stepped into the office, holding a clipboard and a cell phone.

  ‘Mr Waters?’ he said, approaching Rolly. They shook hands. ‘I’m Jerry Kirby. I can escort you out to the field to meet Mr Ozzie now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rolly.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ the man asked, indicating the cloth case in Rolly’s hand.

  ‘It’s a guitar,’ said Rolly, ‘A one-string guitar. It’s got Mr Ozzie’s picture on it.’

  ‘It’s a gift?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘Oh. I see,’ said Jerry. ‘Well, follow me.’

  Rolly followed Jerry through the door and down a long hallway.

  ‘Eric’s out on the field with the kids,’ said Jerry as they walked down the hall. ‘Big day today for them. We’ve got more than five hundred here from the various organizations.’

  ‘What kind of organizations?’

  ‘Oh, you know, representing our underserved population. Boys and Girls Clubs. St Vincent’s. Eric loves doing these events. He’s got his own foundation, you know. Free sneakers for all the kids.’

  They passed through two additional doors and entered the clubhouse. Rolly had been in the locker room once, with Max, on a tour. During the off-season it was just a bunch of empty lockers in a big circle. He followed Jerry through the clubhouse and out to the field.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Jerry, indicating the dugout bench. ‘I’ll let Eric know that you’re here.’

  Rolly took a seat and looked out at the baseball diamond. There were kids everywhere, organized into small groups around the various bases. There were more kids in the outfield, getting coached on the fundamentals. Tables had been set up near the visitor dugout. Adults stood behind the tables, handing out box lunches. Rolly recognized the look of the packaging. The boxes contained Ozzie’s titular product, Sneakers, which were deepfried balls of cornmeal mush wrapped around various fillings: jalapeño cheese, Italian meatballs and pineapple cream. More than one person had joked that the product’s name described its effect on one’s digestive system.

  Jerry waved to catch someone’s attention. Eric Ozzie stepped out from behind the food service tables, wearing a white apron on top of black pants and a purple dress shirt. He still looked in playing shape. Rolly stood up as Ozzie walked into the dugout.

  ‘Mr Waters?’ said Ozzie, extending his hand. His grip was solid, just shy of crushing, a well-calibrated professional’s grip.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Rolly.

  ‘No problem,’ said Ozzie. ‘Any friend of Mr Gemeinhardt is a friend of mine. He said you were a musician?’

  ‘Yeah. I play guitar.’

  ‘You were in that band The Creatures, right? Max told me. I remember when
you guys used to play around town. Didn’t you sing the anthem at one of the games?’

  ‘Yeah. We did once,’ Rolly said. He had a vague memory of standing with Matt, out near home plate, strumming chords while Matt belted out the melody. ‘Did Max explain why I wanted to talk to you?’

  ‘He said you’re a private investigator now, something like that?’

  Rolly nodded. He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Ozzie.

  ‘Quite a change from playing guitar, I imagine,’ said Ozzie, inspecting the card.

  ‘Less so than you might think. I still play guitar some.’

  ‘That’s good. Gotta keep up your skills. So what’d you wanna see me about?’

  ‘It’s this,’ said Rolly, undoing the cloth wrapper from the diddley bow.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ozzie asked.

  ‘It’s called a diddley bow.’

  Ozzie grinned. ‘Well, I heard of Bo Diddley, but not a diddley bow.’

  ‘There’s a photograph, on the back. I think it’s you.’

  Rolly flipped the diddley bow over and presented the back.

  Ozzie squinted. ‘Jerry?’ he said. ‘Can you get me my glasses? I think they’re on one of the tables.’

  Jerry scurried out of the dugout.

  ‘Can I take a closer look?’ said Ozzie, indicating the diddley bow. Rolly nodded and handed it to him.

  Ozzie walked to the dugout steps, angled his position to catch the sunlight. ‘The Hawaii Coconuts,’ he said, reviewing the photograph. ‘Man, that was a great place to start your career. Except for the plane flights.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘A year and a half. Moved up to the majors in August.’

  ‘Do you recognize the girl in that picture?’

  Ozzie stared at the picture a moment. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve never seen her before?’

  ‘Not that I remember. Who is she?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, you know, playing in Hawaii. Look at those palm trees in the background. I think they only had about a thousand seats in that park. Pretty girl. Must’ve been a fan. Why are you looking for her?’

  ‘My client gave that to me. She’s looking for her aunt. That photograph is all she’s got to go on. She remembers a woman who looked like that living with the family when she was very young.’