Desert City Diva

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  ‘You ready?’ Bonnie said, indicating her phone.

  Rolly nodded. Bonnie spelled out Kinnie’s name and read him the number. Rolly entered the information into his phone.

  ‘Anything else?’ he said.

  ‘That’s it,’ Bonnie said. She turned to leave, then stopped to look back at him.‘How are you doing?’ she said. ‘With your dad and all?’

  ‘My mom wants me to talk to him. About his lifestyle. She thinks I could influence him, I guess – get him to stop drinking.’

  ‘I talked to my dad once, when he was in the hospital with cirrhosis. About cutting back, eating better and stuff.’

  ‘How’d that go?’

  ‘He said he wasn’t taking nutrition advice from a girl who ate pussy.’

  ‘Your dad was an even bigger asshole than mine.’

  ‘He looked scared to death in that hospital, before he died. I really saw him for who he was then, just a lonely, fucked-up bastard with nothing left in life but getting plastered and calling people names, pushing everyone away so he could crawl into that bottle.’

  ‘I guess we both turned out OK, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you know what they say: you can’t pick your parents. Make sure you call Kinnie. I told her you would. I don’t want her telling me you’re acting like a jerk.’

  ‘I won’t be a jerk,’ Rolly said.

  Bonnie left. Rolly locked the door. He reached into the back of his amplifier and pulled out the roll of paper he’d stashed there. The woman from the Desert View Tower had found it rolled up in a slot in the shop’s map case. She’d been looking for a map to show Rolly the location of Slab City. The shop had all sorts of maps for sale – road maps of California and the Southwest, elevations and trail maps for local parks and wilderness areas. But this map wasn’t like any of the others. The proprietors had never seen it before.

  It looked like a schematic diagram for some kind of electronic device. There was a nine-digit number printed in the bottom right-hand corner. He couldn’t remember the exact number embossed on the gold tube that hung from Macy’s necklace, but he had a feeling this one was the same. There was a word printed above the number. TEOTWAYKI. There were two more words printed above that. Astral Vibrator.

  Rolly had realized that the man in the rocks had left it for him, the birdman from Slab City with the VW van that looked like a rocket ship. He’d offered the woman ten dollars for the rolled-up tube of paper. She said he could have it for free. He’d left a ten-spot in the tower’s donation box on his way out. The roll of paper was worth at least that much to him.

  He walked to the sofa, sat down and took off his shoes. He rolled out the diagram and stared at it for a minute. He had a marginal familiarity with the symbols used in electronic diagrams but this one was too complicated for him to assess, especially in his present condition. He rolled the diagram up, dropped it onto the floor and leaned back on the sofa. Two minutes later, he fell asleep.

  Three hours later, his phone rang, waking him. He rolled off the sofa, crawled to the table and checked the number. It was Macy. He answered. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Fuck you, Waters,’ said Macy. ‘Fuck you and that cop you put on my ass.’

  TEN

  The Plans

  ‘Astral Vibrator, huh?’ said Marley Scratch, glancing over the diagram Rolly had handed him. He laughed. ‘How come every time you ask me to look at something, it always ends up involving female anatomy?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that kind of vibrator,’ said Rolly.

  ‘You try Googling it yet? I bet that’s what you’ll end up with.’

  ‘I imagine I would. I think this is for a guitar, though, like a stomp box or something.’

  ‘Is this a musical or sleuthing endeavor?’ said Marley.

  ‘Detective work,’ said Rolly.

  ‘Where’d you get a hold of this?’

  ‘Long story,’ said Rolly. ‘I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t been there.’

  The two men stood in the kitchen of Marley’s loft on Broadway and Seventh, the second floor of the old Apex Music store, which had been replaced many years ago by a Super Discount grocery outlet, an early casualty in the decline of independent music stores brought on by the rise of chain stores and the Internet. It was a dingy old building, spared from its inevitable demolition by the recent economic downturn. The developers would return someday, but Marley could enjoy his twelve-foot ceilings and cheap rent another few years.

  Rolly often called Marley when he needed assistance in deciphering computer data that needed to be recovered, analyzed or decrypted. When Marley wasn’t working for Rolly, he made a hodgepodge career out of repairing computers and writing for game magazines. He also traded in antique toys and black Americana.

  ‘I need more light to read this,’ said Marley. Rolly followed him back to the work area. Marley clipped the schematic to the top of a drafting table, turned on the table lamp and picked up a pair of reading glasses. He studied the document, tracing the signal path with his finger.

  ‘You might be right about the guitar thing,’ he said. ‘The input impedance is the right level. There’s no output, though, just a switch at the end of the signal path. Doesn’t make sense for a stomp box. You’d want to feed the signal back out somewhere.’

  ‘Does that number mean anything to you, below the name?’

  ‘It could be a patent ID. Maybe the SKU.’

  ‘There was a guy here in town, a guitar tech, named Buddy Meeks.’

  ‘You think he designed this?’

  ‘I’ve got this guitar he built. Well, not really a guitar. It’s called a diddley bow. There’s only one string.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what a diddley bow is,’ said Marley. ‘Hey, I gotta show you the Molo that I picked up on my trip to the motherland.’

  Marley stepped away from the table and returned with a primitive-looking stringed instrument. It had two strings stretched over a hollowed-out gourd and a broomstick for the neck. There was some sort of skin stretched across the gourd opening, like a drum.

  ‘When were you in Africa?’ said Rolly. He plucked at the strings. The instrument had a buzzy, lutish sound.

  ‘Took a trip last year.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You’ve been out of touch, my friend.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess so. How was it?’

  ‘Some beautiful musical expressions. Alternate tunings and stuff. Some beautiful ladies, too.’

  Marley hung the Molo back on the wall, next to a movie poster of Amos ’n’ Andy.

  ‘Hey, have you ever heard of the term Solfeggio?’ said Rolly.

  ‘Don’t think so? Why?’

  ‘This guy told me I needed to practice it. I think he’s the same guy who left me the diagram.’

  ‘You can Google it on the laptop, if you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Marley returned to inspecting the diagram. Rolly moved to the sofa and opened the laptop sitting on the coffee table next to a red Tonka truck. You could count on there being at least a dozen computers scattered about Marley’s loft at any given time, in variable states of functionality. There was usually one nearby. Rolly typed ‘solfeggio’ in the search field. He read through the entry at the top of the results page.

  ‘Do, Re, Mi,’ he said. ‘That’s what it is.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Solfeggio. It’s vocalizing a scale with different sounds, like Do, Re, Mi.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  Rolly looked down to the list of search results. There was a video link for something called the Solfeggio frequencies. He clicked the link and played the video. A low tone played through the computer’s speaker.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Marley.

  ‘It’s one of the Solfeggio frequencies,’ said Rolly.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like no Do, Re, Mi.’

  ‘This is something different.’

  ‘That’s all it plays?�
�

  ‘It says there are nine different frequencies. This one is a hundred and seventy-four hertz.’

  ‘Kind of lacking on the funkiness level.’

  ‘They claim it’s for meditating. And entrainment, whatever that is.’

  ‘I know what entrainment is,’ said Marley. ‘You know it too. Everytime you play with your band.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s when people get synced up to music, how we all get hooked into the beat. Rhythmic patterns. People dancing as a group, trancing out together. It’s like an evolutionary skill human beings developed.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Rolly. He flipped back to the listings on the search page, read through more of the list. There were all sorts of entries for Solfeggio frequencies.

  ‘Each of the frequencies represents a different consciousness level,’ he said, reading one of the entries. ‘Consciousness Expansion. Awakening Intuition. Transcendence.’

  ‘Sounds kinda woo woo to me.’

  ‘My mom would love this stuff.’

  Rolly continued reading. He thought about Dotty, the woman he’d met at the Alien Artifacts store. Universal Vibration Technologies. The paintings of flowing energy fields. The UVTs. She’d talked about frequencies, how they were used to release the alien within. The claims made on the Solfeggio websites were similar. Some even claimed that listening to the tones could realign your DNA.

  Marley muttered something under his breath.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Rolly.

  ‘What was that number you said earlier, that Solfeggio thing?’

  ‘Umm, let me look: one hundred and seventy-four hertz.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Marley.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That number’s written on here. It’s on one of the resistors. You say there’s nine of them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Read me the rest.’

  Rolly read the frequency numbers listed on the website.

  ‘They’re all here,’ said Marley. ‘That’s gotta mean something.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Take a look if you want to.’

  Rolly rose from the sofa and joined Marley at the drafting table.

  ‘You see, here,’ said Marley, running his finger down the paper, ‘above each of these squiggles.’

  ‘Maybe this Astral Vibrator plays those frequencies or something?’

  Marley shrugged. ‘Maybe. Sure looks like it’s got something to do with it.’

  Rolly pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time.

  ‘I have to meet with a client,’ he said. ‘Can I leave this with you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Marley. ‘I’ll do some more research. Maybe I can find that number on the bottom somewhere in a patent search. If I can find an abstract, it would help me figure it out faster.’

  ‘I’ll be over at the cantina. Give me a call if you find out anything.’

  ‘Will do, Sir Roland.’

  ELEVEN

  The Cantina

  Rolly sat in a back booth at the Villa Cantina, nursing a mug of Mexican cocoa and coffee. He’d finished his lunch – red enchiladas with an egg over easy. A satisfying meal was all the meditation he needed. It had provided both sustenance and gratification, greasing the wheels of his corroded feelings towards Macy. She had texted him a half hour ago to let him know she’d be late, which he hoped was a sign of appeasement. Neither of them had expressed themselves well on the phone. They were tired and angry, but they’d agreed on a truce and a face-to-face meeting to be held at the cantina. He opened his composition book and jotted down a few lines to keep his mind occupied while he waited.

  I’m sitting and eating huevos rancheros.

  Drinking black coffee and falling behind.

  I’m feeling tired, bewildered and beaten.

  Chasing old shadows and losing my mind.

  His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. He answered anyway. A sequence of tones played on the other end of the line, like a fax machine or computer calling. He hung up. The phone rang again, the same number. He muted it, then looked up to see Vera ushering Macy to his table.

  ‘There he is,’ said Vera. ‘The great detective. You want something to drink?’

  ‘Dos Equis Amber,’ said Macy, plopping down on the booth cushion across from Rolly.

  Vera wagged a finger at Rolly. ‘You be nice to her, Mr Rolly,’ she said. ‘Macy’s my home girl.’

  ‘This is business, Vera,’ said Rolly. ‘Just business.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I haven’t forgotten the nasty business you brought into my place with that little chica a while ago.’

  ‘That was an unexpected situation,’ said Rolly.

  ‘What happened?’ said Macy.

  ‘No big deal,’ said Vera. ‘Just some tunante who tried to kill me. I shot a hole in the wall upstairs and Hector ended up with some kind of skin condition on his face.’

  Macy looked over at Rolly. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘Your middle name is Trouble?’

  ‘You be careful with this one, girl,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t let those eyes fool you. He can talk you into anything. You gotta be cool.’

  ‘I’m gonna be one chilly bitch,’ said Macy.

  ‘Like ice?’ said Vera.

  ‘Freezing.’

  Vera laughed. Rolly smiled. It was all he had sometimes.

  ‘Could I have a glass of bubbles, Vera?’ he asked. ‘With a lime? Please?’

  ‘There he goes, Macy,’ said Vera, ‘With those eyes. You watch yourself.’

  Vera walked away.

  Macy drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Bubbles, huh?’ she said.

  ‘Club soda.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what it is. You don’t drink alcohol, do you?’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Why’d you stop?’

  ‘Health reasons. My car tried to kill me.’

  ‘You OK if I drink?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I need a beer. Your lady cop friend really got me riled up.’

  ‘Bonnie can be very … focused.’

  ‘I’ll say. I thought you weren’t allowed to tell people about me? Because I’m your client, right? I’m supposed to have some sort of immunity?’

  ‘Yes. You have client privilege. I didn’t give her your name.’

  ‘She told me she’d talked to you.’

  ‘It was that flyer you gave me,’ said Rolly. ‘It was sitting out on my table when she came by.’

  ‘Damn,’ Macy said.

  ‘Sorry. She had your first name already and put two and two together.’

  ‘She asked me where I was two nights ago.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘Daddy Joe’s disappeared. Weird, huh? Same night he was here.’

  ‘You told Bonnie about that?’

  ‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I? Daddy Joe gets kind of distracted sometimes. I’m betting he got lost driving home, ran out of gas or something and drove into a ditch.’

  Rolly flipped through the names on his phone and found the one Bonnie had given him.

  ‘You know Kinnie Harper, right?’

  ‘Yeah. I told you about her. Kinnie’s a bitch.’

  ‘You know she’s with the police up there? The tribal police?’

  Macy laughed. ‘No shit,’ she said. ‘Kinnie’s a cop now?’

  ‘Bonnie told me she’s chief of police.’

  ‘Just like her daddy.’

  ‘Bonnie wants me to call her.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I assume it’s to ask about you.’

  ‘How’d Kinnie get your name?’

  ‘No idea. Did you tell anyone you’d hired me?’

  ‘No. Vera’s the only one knows I talked to you. Unless someone else saw us the other night.’

  ‘Someone like who?’

  ‘How would I know? I’m just speculating. Don’t get on my case.’

  They were silent a moment. Rolly waited, letting Macy cool down.<
br />
  ‘Kinnie’s like my big sister,’ she said after a moment. ‘She took care of me after Mama Joe died. Kinnie hated me, but I guess I understand where she was coming from.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Daddy Joe put a lot of weight on her shoulders, taking care of the house, watching me. She was eleven or twelve, something like that, when her momma died. Daddy Joe didn’t give her much of a break. He’s kind of a hard case, real strict about men and women and what he expects. You know what I mean?’

  ‘You think he abused Kinnie?’

  ‘Oh, no, I never saw nothing like that. He just worked her to death.’

  ‘When was the last time you talked to her or Daddy Joe?’

  ‘I don’t talk to them. Haven’t since I left. I still can’t figure how Daddy Joe found me. Your friend, that cop, was asking if I was up there recently, on the rez.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘I don’t go to the rez. Period. Not since I left. I got too much history there – bad mojo.’

  ‘You want to tell me about it?’ said Rolly.

  ‘Just some stupid teenager stuff. DNA.’

  ‘OK. I’ll assume it’s not relevant.’

  ‘Waters?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you setting me up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. It feels like I’m in a movie or something. Are you working with the cops to put me in jail?’

  ‘I’m not working with the cops, but if you’ve done something illegal you need to tell me about it.’

  ‘Hmm, let’s see. I smoke weed sometimes. There, I confess. I smoked some weed Friday night. I used to do E when I first started clubbing. I’ve done a lot of things once. And I totally roll through stop signs.’

  ‘You stole that necklace.’

  ‘Yeah, I did. And I told you about it. That was over five years ago.’

  ‘Here’s my scenario. Daddy Joe goes missing. Kinnie Harper, his daughter, looks around the house and notices the diddley bow is missing. Kinnie knows you stole the necklace. Maybe she thinks you came back and stole the diddley bow, too. Took it from Daddy Joe’s house.’

  ‘I get what you’re saying, Waters, but I didn’t steal it. It’s just like I told you. Vera gave me that thing Friday night after the guy brought it in.’