Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

  “Yes. The people, they like to ride on the beach.”

  Rolly nodded, stepped towards the trailer. The horse on his right shook its mane, stomped the ground. Rolly stopped.

  “Do not worry, my friend,” the man said. “She will be fine now. You know what is the difference between horses and women?”

  “No,” Rolly replied, shaking his head.

  “Women they only break your balls after you ride them.”

  The cowboy laughed, put his hat back on, and tied the handkerchief around his neck. He pulled a bottle from his back pocket, took a shot and offered the bottle to Rolly.

  “No thanks,” Rolly said. He recognized the green label – Herdurra Reposado. Tequila. “Were you here yesterday?”

  “Sí.”

  “How late did you stay?”

  “After the sun was gone. My people stay out late.”

  “Seven, seven-thirty?”

  The cowboy shrugged.

  “I do not know the time,” he said. “There was still light, over the ocean, but the sun was below. Why do you want to know this?”

  “Someone broke into the park last night, drove through the bird reserve, ran over some nests. I’m trying to find out who did it.”

  “You work for the government, no?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Rolly said, pulling a business card out of his wallet. He handed it to the cowboy.

  “You no look like you work for the government,” the cowboy said. He glanced down at the card.

  “You are Roy-ee?” he said.

  “Rol-lee,” said Rolly, offering a handshake. “Rolly Waters.”

  “I am Jaime,” said the cowboy, grasping Rolly’s hand in his leathered brown grip. He looked older than Rolly first thought, at least sixty, his face dark and wrinkled from a lifetime in the sun.

  “This is your work?” Jaime said. “To ask questions?”

  “Yes,” Rolly replied.

  “What will you do if you find these men, the ones who drive over the birds?”

  “Someone hired me. He’ll decide what to do with ‘em.”

  “He is with the government, no?”

  “No,” Rolly said, shaking his head. “He’s a private citizen. Was there anyone here when you left last night? In the parking lot? Any cars?”

  “No. I was the last.”

  “The gate was closed then?”

  “It is closed all the time now.”

  “Did you see anyone up near the bullring?”

  “I do not think so. Except for La Migra. I do not look for anyone, though.”

  “And you left after sunset?”

  “Yes, it was dark by the time I get home. After I put the horses away.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Near the river. Across from the canyon. That is my home.”

  “Did you pass anyone on the road? Anyone headed into the park?”

  “No. I did not see anyone.”

  Rolly pursed his lips. He had a nine-hour window to work with, some time between eight last night and five this morning, when Max arrived.

  The growl of an approaching engine came to his ears. He looked back towards the park entrance, saw Nuge’s accessorized pickup squeeze around one side of the entry gate and pull onto Monument Road. The truck honked, picking up speed as it went by, kicking up a hazy cloud of dust, though the air remained clear enough for Rolly to note the middle finger salute offered by Nuge as he passed.

  “That was for me,” he said, turning back to Jaime. “I talked to him earlier.”

  “He did not like you asking questions.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “I would like to have a truck such as that one. Mine is old now. I must work on it always.”

  “Have you seen that truck before?”

  “There is a truck that is like that one, in the canyon sometimes.”

  “What canyon is this?”

  “The one across from my land. Smuggler’s Canyon it is called.”

  “Sounds like a place he’d hang out. Do illegals come through there a lot? Border crossers?”

  “In the past, yes. Not so many now,” Jaime said. He pointed at the tractors in the parking lot. “There are machines there, like these. They make the new fence.”

  “Smuggler’s Canyon,” Rolly said, repeating the name.

  “I do not call it that,” said Jaime. “It is just the canyon, to me.”

  “I found something while I was out there,” Rolly said. “In the park.”

  “What is it you find?”

  Rolly pulled the CD case out of his pocket, handed it to Jaime.

  “For the music, yes?” said Jaime. He opened the cover, inspected the disk.

  “Yes. It plays music.”

  Jaime closed the case, stared at the picture on the cover for a moment, then handed the case back to Rolly. He took the tequila bottle out of his pocket, unscrewed the top, offered the bottle to Rolly. Rolly shook his head.

  “You no like the tequila?” said Jaime.

  “I like it too much,” Rolly replied.

  Jaime nodded, took a drink.

  “The tequila is good for you,” he said. “But not too much.”

  He put the bottle back in his pocket, stared at the ground. The sun broke free of the morning’s haze, a delirious light bending over the eastern mountains that warmed Rolly’s skin. A choir of birds sang in the fields. Their calls danced on the air in a lazy, pulsating rhythm. Rolly listened to the sound of their natural counterpoint, no note out of tune, all connected. He rested his own voice, a full measure, then two.

  “Me atormentará,” Jaime said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It is X’Tabay,” said Jaime. “The woman, there, with the music. She is X’Tabay, the seducer of men.”

  Rolly looked at the CD cover again, saw no reason to disagree with Jaime’s assessment.

  “In Yucatán,” Jaime continued. “That is where I was born, the old men tell of X’Tabay, the woman who lives in the jungle. She will show herself to the young men, the ones who go into the jungle alone. They will desire her. She will lead them far into the jungle, give them pleasure. The young men will die. They will not find their way back.”

  “It’s a story, a myth?”

  “I think yes. That is what you call it. I too, think this as a young man.”

  “You don’t think so now?”

  “She has been here, with me. She came to me last night, in a dream.”

  “X’Tabay?”

  “Yes, I surrender this time, in my dream. I take pleasure in her. I think now I will die soon.”

  “It was only a dream.”

  “I find something, too,” said Jaime. “When I wake up from my dream. Anoche.”

  “What did you find?”

  “I will give them to you.”

  Jaime pulled something from his front pocket, handed it to Rolly. It was a pair of pink satin panties, with the word ‘Serpent’ on one side and ‘Jungle Love’ on the back.

  “Where did you find these?” asked Rolly.

  “En mi casa. My house.”

  “You found these in your house?”

  “Sí. When I awake this morning.”

  Jaime took another hit from the tequila bottle. If the morning’s intake was any indication, he would make it through the whole bottle by noon. His memory, and his dreams, would be drowning in it. Rolly thought about the dreams he used to have, the drunken nightmares. They had seemed real then, his pickled brain transmuting unconscious thoughts into winged furies and soul-stealing spirits, the vivid manifestations of an uneasy mind drowned in alcohol. The dream-furies disappeared two months after he became sober.

  A blue mini-van appeared on the road, headed in towards the park. It slowed, came to a stop across from the two men. The driver’s window slid down. A round-faced woman with a tall blond hairdo poked her head out.

  “Do you rent those horses?” she asked.

  “Sí. Yes,” replied Jaime.

 
; “Can we ride on the beach?”

  “Oh yes, that is fine. They like the water very much.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  “How many horses?”

  “Three. Just for a couple of hours.”

  “Muy bueno. Three is good. I give you good price.”

  The woman looked doubtful, turned back to talk to someone in the car before returning to Jaime.

  “All right,” the woman said. She turned the car into the lot, parked between Jaime’s trailer and Rolly’s Volvo.

  Jaime stashed the tequila inside a small cabinet on the side of the trailer.

  “I have customers now,” he said. “I must go with them. For the insurance.”

  “Wait,” Rolly said. “You said something, earlier, when you looked at the picture. May tormenta?”

  “Me atormentará.”

  “Yes. What does that mean?”

  “She is a curse.”

  “The woman in the picture? She’s the one in your dream?”

  “It was not a dream. She is X’Tapay.”

  “She looks like X’Tapay, the picture, that’s what you mean?”

  “I have seen her, that one.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She is a ghost.”

  The doors of the van opened, disgorging the chubby woman driver and two pre-teen females.

  “C’mon girls,” the woman said. “This will be fun.”

  The girls didn’t look convinced. Jaime collected his horses, helped the woman and her daughters mount up, led his own horse over to Rolly.

  “You want these back?” Rolly said, indicating the panties.

  “Take them to her,” Jaime said. “Then I will be free.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You stop drinking the tequila, sí?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have great strength, muy fuerte. She will not seduce you.”

  Jaime mounted his horse.

  “Where do I take them?” asked Rolly.

  “It is an old house. Back down the road, where the white earth spreads out from the canyon. Smuggler’s Canyon. That is the house. You will see the machines there for moving the earth. They are next to the house. On the other side of the road, there is land that opens out to the river. That is my house, down by the river. No le atormentan.”

  “This woman lives there?” Rolly said. “X’Tapay? Is that what you mean?”

  “No me atormentará más,” said Jaime, again. He clicked at his horse, waved to the woman and her girls. They followed him out towards the beach, where California ended and ran into the Pacific.

  La Casa

  (The House)

  Rolly drove back along Monument Road, searching for the house Jaime had described, passing tall grasses and reeds, tough thickets of plants that thrived in the briny mud marsh of the river plain. To his right, dusty round hills swept up to the border. Long, winding ruts creased the crests of the hills, tracks of Border Patrol vehicles that paced the fence like caged jaguars.

  Ranchers and farmers had settled the land long ago. Their inheritors still lived here, but the slumped barns and rusted tractors he saw didn’t bode well for an agrarian future. The farmhouses looked worn, in need of repair and a fresh coat of paint. Weather stains under drooping window sills made them look like fatigued eyes. Rolly slowed the Volvo, negotiated a set of sharp curves, and entered a long straightaway. A motionless flow of white earth spilled down towards the road from the canyon above. He slowed the car, pulled in next to a pair of large yellow tractors. The Volvo’s aging shock absorbers rattled as the wheels caught the dirt shoulder, bouncing him around like seeds in a pair of maracas. The car stopped. He climbed out, surveyed the scenery. A line of smoke trees fronted a black metal fence. Beyond the fence a house stood on a small hill.

  Smuggler’s Canyon, Jaime called it. It wasn’t much of a canyon, more a wide gulch, or an arroyo. Whatever its geologic appellation, the place was a garbage dump. Bits of consumer flotsam dotted the flow of dried runoff that ran down its spine. A weather-beaten sofa sat between the two earthmovers, surrounded by a half-circle of discarded tires and crumpled beer cans. As the canyon receded towards the border, the earth closed in on it in a series of irregular hills. At the top of the farthest hill ran the dark line of the border fence; above it bleached sky. At what point the sky became Mexico, Rolly couldn’t tell.

  He checked his watch, wondering if Jaime’s seductress was awake yet. He walked down to the road, until he could see the front of the house. It sat on a small rise of ice plant, fifty feet back from the road. A cracked blotch of asphalt indicated the driveway, traversed by a heavy mechanical gate. A spiked fence encircled the property.

  The house looked like it was built in the sixties, perhaps early seventies, California-Modern-Hippie, flat and rectangular, the exterior covered in weathered wood stripping. He imagined the interior as it once might have been – the smell of incense, fern plants in hand-stitched macramé hangers, enthusiastic pottery efforts displayed on the dining room table. The house had been a free spirit once, but someone had wrapped it in chains. Metal bars covered the windows like rusted scars, bolted on at odd angles, broken hopes scrawled on a once hopeful face.

  He spotted a plastic intercom near the hinge of the gate, set into a large blob of dried glue, painted flat black to match the iron bars. He pushed the button next to the speaker. There was no reply. He tried again, holding the button down as he spoke.

  “Hello,” he said. “Is anyone home?”

  No one answered. He waited, pulled a business card from his wallet, wedged it into a crack in the speaker’s grill, and headed back towards his Volvo.

  Passing the corner of the fence, he spotted a garbage can tucked in-between the fence and the smoke trees. He slid in next to the container, lifted the lid. A raft of smells wafted out of its depths. The food wasn’t rotten yet, but it would go soon in the heat. An adrenalized shot of digestive acid shot up his esophagus, burning the back of his throat. He dropped the lid, stepped away from the garbage can and bent over, hands on his knees. The nausea passed without incident. He stood up and swallowed. The taste of acid-washed pepperoni slid down his throat, a reminder of pizza he’d shared with the bar staff last night, after closing time.

  He looked to make sure no one was around, then pulled out a handkerchief, covered his nose with it, opened the lid and looked in. A polystyrene container sat on top of the pile, emblazoned with the logo of the Villa Cantina, a well-known eatery in East Village. He grabbed the greasy paper receipt that clung to the top of the container, slid it into his pocket. Someone at the restaurant might remember who ordered takeout. They might have a phone number.

  “Get away from there!” someone shouted at him.

  Rolly jumped, caught his foot on the bottom corner of the garbage receptacle. As he fell, he reached back for something to break his fall, caught the top corner of the container, bringing it down on top of him. The voice squawked again. It came from the speaker attached to the gate.

  “What are you doing?” the voice said.

  Rolly climbed to his feet, wiped a blob of guacamole from the leg of his pants and looked up at the house. A woman stood in the front doorway, wearing an orange paisley robe. One slender leg peeked out from below the robe’s loosely tied satin, arched as if on toe-point. A luxuriant tumble of hair surrounded her face, poured down onto her shoulders. It glowed in the morning light, golden orange like her robe.

  Rolly waved.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “What do you want?” the woman called down to him, her breathy voice cracking like a Keith Richards falsetto.

  “I rang the bell earlier, but no one answered,” Rolly continued. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “My name’s Rolly Waters,” Rolly said. “I’m an insurance investigator. I’m looking into an accident last night at Border Field Park.”

  “What are you doing in my trash?”

  “I thought
I might find your name, or a phone number.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could call you.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “No.”

  “I just have a few questions.”

  “Please go away. I don’t feel well.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you here last night?”

  “No. I was out.”

  “What time were you out?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, you’re right. It’s none of my business. I think this accident happened sometime after eight last night. Did you see or hear any cars go by?”

  “Cars go by all the time.”

  “At that time of night?”

  “All the time.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “If you don’t leave I’ll call the police.”

  People rarely called the police the first time they threatened to, especially when they had something to hide. That was Rolly’s experience, anyway.

  “Can I show you something?” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  “You’re not one of those, are you?”

  Rolly pulled the panties from his pocket, held them up for her perusal.

  “Jaime asked me to give these to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Jaime,” said Rolly. He pointed across the road, towards a house by the river. “He lives over there, I think. Older fellow, a cowboy? I don’t know his last name.”

  “What have you got there?”

  “It’s a pair of women’s panties. They’ve got the words jungle love and serpent on them.”

  The woman laughed, a harsh cackle.

  “You want an autograph or something?”

  “Jaime gave them to me,” Rolly said, not sure what to make of the question. “He seemed to think they were yours.”

  The woman crossed her arms, stared down at Rolly.

  “I don’t know any Jaime,” she said.

  “Could you just take a look?” he asked. “He asked me to give them to you.”

  The woman stepped off the porch and walked down towards Rolly, negotiating the steep driveway in her high heels as if she’d been born in them. She paused a few feet from the gate, pulled the orange silk robe tight against her skin. At close range, she looked a bit older than fabulous. There were signs of collagen desperation in the shape of her lips, an age-inappropriate lift to her tits.