Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

  “What’s your name again?” the woman asked.

  “Rolly Waters. I’m in insurance.”

  “What do you really do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t work in insurance. You don’t have the right eyes.”

  “What kind should I have?”

  “You’re eyes are too soft. You’ve got deep eyes that let everything in.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “They let me in, didn’t they?”

  Rolly cleared his throat.

  “I look people over,” he said.

  “You certainly do.”

  “It’s part of my job.”

  “I saw the look in your eyes. It’s not insurance. An artist, perhaps?”

  “Well, I used to play guitar for a living.”

  “Oh. You’re a snake.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Guitar players are snakes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Slithery, slidy snakes.”

  “Some of us aren’t so bad.”

  “I like playing with snakes.”

  It was too early in the morning for Rolly to play the whoopee hustle. He reached in his jacket and pulled out the CD case.

  “Is this you?” he asked, pointing to the girl on the cover.

  The woman took a step closer.

  “What do you want?” she hissed.

  “I want to find out who drove their car through the least tern preserve last night.”

  “The what?”

  “Least terns. They’re birds. Over at Border Field Park.”

  “This is all about birds?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were going through my garbage.”

  “I needed your name.”

  “I thought you were stalking me.”

  “Jaime said you were the girl in the picture. He asked me to give you these panties.”

  “Why?”

  “He says he’ll die if you don’t take them back.”

  “That’s a new one. Some men would die just to get them from me.”

  “There’s this legend from where he grew up in Mexico, about a goddess, X’Tapay. She lives in the jungle.”

  “I see.”

  “She seduces young men and lures them to their death.”

  “I like her already.”

  “Jaime said you were with him last night. That you left him the panties.”

  The woman laughed again, deeper throated, more relaxed.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “What have I done?”

  “What?”

  “There’s been someone, up in the rocks. A man. We’ve been playing a little game.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not a prude, are you Mr. Waters?”

  “I’ve been around.”

  “You’ve enjoyed a little variety in your sexual life?”

  “Like I said.”

  “Well, I like to go ‘au naturel’ on occasion, out back. There’s a pool. It’s not entirely private, if someone’s positioned in the right place. Lately I’ve had a feeling that someone might be watching. He’s been up there, more than once.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Why should I? He wasn’t threatening me.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No. But I knew he was there. I’ll admit to giving him a little show sometimes. I’m a bit of a free spirit that way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, if some man’s up there, hiding away, taking his pleasure in looking at me, what do I care? It’s a compliment, really. I flirted a little. He never showed himself.”

  “What would you do if he had?”

  “Well,” the woman giggled, “That would depend on the man. If he was a snake...”

  The heat from the asphalt driveway blew up into Rolly’s brain. He changed the subject.

  “Have you ever been to a restaurant called Villa Cantina?” he asked.

  The woman inspected one of her fingernails, chewed on it a moment.

  “No. I don’t think so,” she said between bites.

  “I found some takeout containers in your trash.”

  “People put things in my trash all the time.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “The men who work over there, in the canyon.”

  “You mean the construction crew?”

  “There’s all sorts of men over there, tearing things up, making noise.”

  “Maybe it was one of them, up there, looking at you?”

  “Construction workers are heavy breathers. This man was quiet, a gentleman, you might say.”

  “Oh,” Rolly replied. He looked at the panties again. “You’re sure these aren’t yours?”

  “I need to go now,” the woman said. “Give them back to your friend.”

  “I don’t think he’ll want them.”

  “They’re yours then, I guess. Enjoy.”

  “I don’t think I got your name, by the way.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I’d love to know it,” Rolly said, flashing his friendliest smile, the one he used to seal the deal women thought they’d made with his eyes. “Maybe we could talk again sometime.”

  “My name’s Tangerine,” the woman replied.

  “Tangerine,” Rolly repeated. “What’s your last name?”

  “Just Tangerine,” she replied, turning away from him. “Like those sweet little fruits.”

  Rolly watched the robe swish across Tangerine’s bottom as she sauntered back to the house. The heat from the asphalt blew up into his brain again. If he was a snake...

  El Desayuno

  (The Breakfast)

  Hector Villa walked out from the kitchen of the Villa Cantina, carrying a rack of water glasses. He’d shaved his head since the last time Rolly had seen him. Hector stood about five-foot-six in his huaraches, had two silver rings in each ear, a gold stud in his tongue. When not attending to restaurant duties, he played congas with local salsa bands or DJ’d at the underground club next door. The nightclub was his parents’ concession to Hector’s bohemian enthusiasms, a carrot they’d dangled to keep him close to the family business. They’d opened the restaurant over thirty years ago, a homespun lunch place on the edge of the barrio, frequented by longshoremen and city bureaucrats. These days clews of young urban night crawlers swarmed the eatery, especially on weekends, fueling up between club hops and gallery openings. East Village gentrification made the place hip.

  “Buenos Dias, amigo,” Hector said, squatting down to stash the drinking glasses under the counter.

  “Hola,” said Rolly.

  “I just talked to some lady on the phone, Alicia Waters? She any relation to you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “We’re catering a party for her next Saturday. In Coronado.”

  “She’s my dad’s second wife. His birthday’s next week.”

  “You gonna be there?”

  “I’m the entertainment,” said Rolly, reminding himself to call his step-mother later. She’d asked him to come by the Coronado house this weekend, pick out a corner of the patio where he could set up and play.

  “You still playing with the band?” Hector asked.

  “Couple of nights a week. We’re at Patrick’s this weekend.”

  “Ay, yi, yi. That’s like playing in a sardine can.”

  “We’re doing the early shift tonight, four to eight. It’s not bad.”

  “If you say so.”

  Rolly shrugged, relieved he wouldn’t be out late. The only people on the streets after closing were speed-balling ravers or drunken frat-boys, prostitutes, meth-addicts, pushers and cops, each of them problematic in their own way. The later a gig went, the more dangerous it became.

  “Menu?” Hector asked.

  “Sure. I’ll take a look.”

  Hector grabbed a menu from under the counter, passed it to Rolly.

  “Club soda, right?” Hector asked.

  “Ye
ah, with a lime please.”

  “You got it.”

  Hector walked to the soda machine, drew a tall glass of bubbles. Rolly surveyed the room, noting the upgraded decor. Empty bulk coffee bags covered the opposite wall in rough burlap. A long wooden shelf had been installed along the top of the wall. On top of the shelf, Frida Kahlo self-portraits served as bookends to a display of vintage tequila bottles and colorful ceramic plates. In the corner of the room, by the front window, some sort of thick, green-leaved tropical thing sat in a large clay urn. Three young women sat at a table next to the urn. They laughed as Rolly’s gaze settled on them, but they hadn’t noticed him. They never did anymore. He’d become invisible to all females under thirty-five.

  Hector returned with a club soda.

  “I thought you’d be busier this morning,” Rolly noted.

  “Yeah, I guess everyone’s out at the beach or something, Labor Day weekend, you know. It’s cool by me. I gotta finish my costume for Monday.”

  “What happens on Monday?”

  “There’s a protest. I’m going as Pancho Villa.”

  “What’re you protesting?”

  “The AFA’s holding a rally,” Hector said.

  “You mean the guys with the paint guns, that AFA?”

  “Yeah. You know about them?”

  “Americans for America, right?”

  “Asshole Fucking Anglos is more like it.”

  “Where’s this rally going to be?”

  “Border Field Park. Across from the bullring.”

  “I was down there this morning.”

  “Oh yeah? What were you doing down there?”

  “Bird watching.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No offense, but you don’t seem like the type.”

  “I’m full of surprises.”

  “So what kind of birds did you see?”

  “Least terns.”

  “Everybody sees them. They got a preserve there.”

  “I saw a spotted grackle.”

  “Hmm, I think we might’ve had one of those in here last night. Skinny girl with freckles. Had a really sexy laugh.”

  “This is a real bird.”

  Hector laughed.

  “Yeah. And I’m a real hound dog. Anyway, the AFA’s having a rally down there on Monday. MENCIA’s staging a counter demonstration.”

  “Who’s MENCIA?”

  “Movimiento Estudiantes Nuevos Chicanos Independientes de América. It’s a Chicano student political organization.”

  “You’re not a student.”

  “No. I’m Chicano, though. I gotta protect my people’s rights.”

  “You grew up here. You’re not an illegal.”

  “Listen, those AFA fuckers are breaking the law,” Hector said, his voice rising. “They’re nothing but vigilantes.”

  “I ran into one of them this morning. He said it was legal. The paint guns, I mean.”

  “Yeah. Technically. That’s how they’re getting around the court ruling. The judge said they had a right to be down there as long as they didn’t carry firearms.”

  “Paint guns don’t count, I guess.”

  “It’s bullshit. You ever been hit by one of those things?”

  “This guy said it stings a little.”

  “Roberto, my lawyer, he plays with some friends on the weekends. He’s always got these big welts. And he wears protective equipment.”

  “I’m just telling you what the guy told me. I’m not signing up with ‘em.”

  “You sure?” Hector said, raising one eyebrow. “I thought all you white boys turned Republican in your dotage.”

  Rolly shrugged. He didn’t remember the last time he’d voted for anyone - Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, Whig.

  “You ready to order?” asked Hector.

  “The usual, I guess,” Rolly said. He pulled the receipt from his pocket, handed it to Hector. “Can you tell me anything about this? I was hoping to get a name, or maybe a phone number that went with it.”

  “What for?”

  “Just looking into something.”

  “Ay caramba,” said Hector. “This is that day job of yours, isn’t it?”

  “It’s related. I thought you could help me.”

  “You want your Mexican amigo for to help you find some bad pachucos?” said Hector, channeling Alfonso Bedoya.

  “Well, one bad pachuco, at least,” said Rolly.

  “What’d he do?”

  “Killed some birds.”

  “At the park? That’s why you were down there?”

  Rolly nodded.

  “Don’t you detective guys usually pass out some dinero for this kind of information?”

  “Only in the movies. I’m on a budget.”

  “So what do I get for my labors?”

  “My continued patronage of your establishment.”

  “Sweet. I’ll start planning my retirement.”

  “You know, it could be one of your AFA buddies.”

  “You think one of them did it?”

  “Don’t know. Could be. You could help me find out.”

  “Now you got me,” Hector said, “I’ll grab the credit receipts from last night. I’d love to nail those bastards. You know what you want yet?”

  “The usual, I guess. ”

  Hector retreated to the kitchen. He returned with a small bowl of sliced cucumber, avocado, and shredded jicama, plunked it down in front of Rolly.

  “I can’t find the order,” he said. “They must have paid cash.”

  “It was a takeout order, I think.”

  “You should talk to Vera. She worked front of the house last night. I had a catering gig.”

  “Is she here?”

  “She’s at the bank. She walks over there every Saturday. Deposits our cash receipts for the week.”

  “Isn’t that a lot of money to carry around?”

  “She’s got a gun. I bought if for her. Nice little pearl-handled .22, silver engraved with her name.”

  “That’s sweet of you.”

  “No one fucks with Vera.”

  “I know I won’t.”

  As if on cue, the front door opened and Vera stomped in, wearing a yellow bandana and short shorts, her feet strapped in high heel glory.

  “Hey, Vera,” Hector called, “come over here.”

  Vera plopped down on the stool next to Rolly, placed an oversized straw purse on the counter. She undid the bandana and shook out her frizzy black hair.

  “What’s up?” she said, snapping her gum.

  “Rolly’s got a receipt from last night. He thinks it has something to do with this case he’s on.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “He’s a private eye.”

  “Really? I thought you played guitar for a living.”

  “Pays the bills,” Rolly said, shrugging. He handed the receipt to Vera. “I was hoping to get a name or address that went with this order.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Vera said, “I know this one. It’s the same order, every Friday, around ten.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. It took me a few weeks to notice. Always Friday night. Two six-packs of Mountain Dew. The food order changes, but there’s always two six-packs of Dew.”

  “Sounds like a party.”

  “I might have the name on my notepad.”

  “I’m gonna check,” Hector said, hoisting himself over the counter. He knocked Vera’s straw purse off the counter as he scurried away.

  “Hey, watch it,” said Vera. She bent down to retrieve her purse.

  “You got a girlfriend, Rolly?” she said, placing the purse back on the counter.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “You want one?”

  “I’m too old for you, Vera.”

  “I’m thinking I might prefer someone more mature.”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Mr. Piñata Pants there, bouncing of the walls, throwing his cand
y all over the place.”

  Rolly looked down at his salad, picked at a chunk of jalapeno pepper with one tine of the fork.

  “I don’t mean other girls,” said Vera. “If that’s why you’re getting squirmy. I been with worse guys, that way. It’s just that goddamn crazy energy. He’s always got some new project, running out to the next thing. Sometimes I’d just like him to slow down a little. You know what I mean? I can’t keep up.”

  “Like that MENCIA rally he was telling me about?”

  “Oh, God, MENCIA,” Vera said, rolling her eyes, “If they’re so on fire about being Mexicans, why don’t they move back there? Know what I mean?”

  Rolly wasn’t sure what Vera meant. He nodded his head anyway.

  Hector returned, waving a yellow stationery pad.

  “Is this the order?” he said.

  Vera grabbed the pad from Hector, read the marks on the page.

  “Yeah. That’s it. Two packs of Mountain Dew. Paul Barrere. That’s the name.”

  “Is that his phone number?” Rolly said, indicating the number next to name.

  “Should be. I always ask for a phone first if it’s a takeout order, in case we get cut off.”

  “I’m calling the guy,” Hector said, flipping open his cell phone.

  “Hold on,” Rolly said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to make him suspicious.”

  “Don’t worry. I got a plan,” said Hector. He punched in the number, held the phone to his ear. “Check this out.”

  Rolly looked over at Vera. She opened her palms, raised her eyebrows as if to say, “See what I mean?”

  “Hola,” said Hector, speaking to whoever had answered the phone. “I’m trying to reach Mr. Barrere? Paul Barrere. He ordered takeout from the Villa Cantina last night. Uh-huh. Who’s this? James? Well, James, I guess you’re our winner then. That’s right. You’ve been selected to receive a fifty-dollar gift certificate for free food and beverage from Villa Cantina, the Mexican restaurant where fresh ingredients and old family recipes get a new start.”

  Hector paused for a moment, listening.

  “Sure, you can use it anytime,” he said. “Just come by and pick it up? Oh, I see. Well, normally we don’t deliver...yes? What’s that? Sure, I can have somebody to bring it over. What’s that address?”

  Hector looked at Vera, made a writing movement with his hand. Vera reached in her handbag and pulled out a pen. She scribbled down the information as Hector repeated it.