Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

  “I talked to a guy down there, yesterday morning. He had a paint gun in the back of his truck.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He’s with this group, the AFA, some kind of vigilante group, trying to keep people from crossing.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard about them.”

  “He says they all carry paint guns.”

  “You remember the guy’s name?”

  “Nuge.”

  “Nuge? Is that his first name or last?”

  “I think it’s a nickname.”

  “You didn’t get his real name?”

  “We didn’t get along very well.”

  A man in a grease-monkey suit approached them, one of the mechanics who worked on the lot.

  “Are you done with the car, officer?” he asked. “The owner’s wanting to claim it.”

  “The owner’s here?” Bonnie said.

  “Office just gave me a call. They finished the paperwork.”

  “It’s Ray, right?” Bonnie said, extending her hand. “I’m officer Hammond.”

  “Yeah, Ray,” the man said, shaking hands.

  “Well Ray, we’re done here, but I wonder if you could do me a little favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like a few minutes to talk to this guy before he gets his car back.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s been avoiding me.”

  “Sound like he lacks proper respect for the work our law-enforcement officials are doing.”

  “You might say that.”

  Ray looked into the distance, towards the dry Poway hills.

  “You know,” he said. “The office doesn’t always give me the right number. Sometimes they flip it around.”

  “They could’ve said thirty-two, for instance?”

  “I’d better check,” Ray said, giving a wink. He turned and walked away, headed towards the other end of the lot. Bonnie set off in the opposite direction, towards the office, a converted mobile home parked just inside the main gate. Rolly hustled to catch up.

  “You haven’t talked to the owner?” he asked.

  “I set up two meetings. He didn’t show. I called him three times since then. No response.”

  “Jimmy said the guy was kinda weird.”

  “How so?”

  “Goth type. Heavy makeup. Lots of piercings. Did you catch his condo number?”

  “Thirteen-thirteen?”

  “Yeah. Jimmy told me the guy insisted on keeping the place, even after everybody else bailed.”

  “Fits with his choice of automobiles.”

  Rolly broke into a jog.

  “He’s not really my friend, you know,” Rolly said, “I mean Jimmy.”

  “He talked like he was. Told me a lot about you.”

  “He worked at this bar where we played, a long time ago.”

  “Mr. Bodeans was quite a chatty fellow. He told me a few stories.”

  “About me?”

  “You. And Moogus.”

  “What’d he tell you?”

  “Nothing we can still prosecute.”

  Bonnie vaulted the stairs to the office two at a time, waited for Rolly outside the front door.

  “Let me do the talking with this guy,” she said, when Rolly caught up. “I’ll give you the sign if I want you to jump in.”

  Rolly nodded. He’d need another minute to catch his breath, anyway, let alone ask any questions. Bonnie opened the door. They walked in.

  It wasn’t hard to spot the hearse’s owner, a young man slouched in a chair across from the service counter, hunched over some sort of handheld device.

  “Mr. Burdon?” said Bonnie.

  “My name is Sayer Burdon,” the man said, jabbing his thumbs at the device screen. His skin looked the same shade of gray as the hearse’s interior. A grungy silver skull dangled below his nose, hung from a pin stuck through his septum. Dark eyeshade and black lipstick completed the look.

  “I’m Detective Bonnie Hammond, from the San Diego Police Department. I called and talked to you earlier?”

  “You called on my cell phone.”

  “Yes. We were supposed to meet. At your place.”

  “At my condominium. One-thousand, two-hundred-two Tenth Avenue. Unit number one-thousand, three-hundred and thirteen.”

  There was something odd about the kid’s responses, flat and colorless, as if he were stoned, or stupid, or both. Bonnie wouldn’t get much traction riding the guy for his missed appointments.

  “Can I ask you some questions?” she said. “About your car?”

  “Somebody took it.”

  “When did you realize the car had been stolen?”

  “Somebody took it.”

  “Yes. When did you realize it had been taken?”

  “It was somebody I know.”

  “You’re saying you know the perpetrator?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Someone borrowed my car.”

  “But you reported it stolen. You called it in.”

  “I forgot. Someone borrowed it.”

  “Detective Hammond?” said a voice from behind them. Bonnie and Rolly looked back towards the counter. A short, bald man in uniform stood at the window, waving a file folder at them.

  “Yes?” said Bonnie.

  “Mr. Burdon signed off. He dropped all the charges.”

  “Let me see,” Bonnie said. She stepped over to the counter, returned with the file folder.

  “You’re sure you want to drop this, Mr. Burdon?” she asked. Burdon finished playing with his phone, or whatever it was.

  “It’s OK now,” he said. “I forgot. Someone borrowed my car.”

  “Can you tell me who borrowed it?”

  “Someone I know. A friend.”

  “Can you tell me your friend’s name?”

  “I paid for my car,” said Burdon, producing a scrap of yellow paper from his pocket as evidence. “I paid that man over there for it. He gave me a receipt. I want to drive my car now.”

  “All right, Mr. Burdon,” said Bonnie. “You can go soon. Mr. Burdon, do you have any idea why this friend of yours drove the car down to the border?”

  “No.”

  “Did he say anything about it?”

  “My friend knows a lawyer.”

  “He’s going to need one if you don’t help me out here,” said Bonnie. “Did your friend explain why he abandoned your car?”

  “It stopped working. My car stopped working.”

  “That’s why he abandoned it?”

  “No. I don’t know why he did that. He said he knows a lawyer.”

  “I’m not sure this person is your friend, Mr. Burdon. We found a dead girl down there.”

  “What was the girl’s name?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why I want to talk to your friend.”

  “You found a dead girl.”

  “Yes. I want to find out what happened to her.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I understand, Mr. Burdon. But your friend might.”

  “He borrowed my car.”

  “Mr. Burdon, if your friend was involved in this girl’s death and you don’t tell me what you know, you’re an accessory.”

  “My car’s got a snake head gearshift.”

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  “It’s an after-market accessory.”

  Bonnie looked stymied. She excused herself, returned to the man at the counter window, nodded to Rolly as she left, which Rolly took as an indication that Burdon was now his to question.

  “Hello, Mr. Burdon,” said Rolly. “My name’s Rolly Waters. Here’s my card.”

  The boy took the card, holding it as if it were a used Kleenex.

  “Rolly Waters. The rock ‘n’ roll dick,” he said, reading out loud.

  “That’s me.”

  Burdon showed no indication he got the joke, or cared. He continued reading out loud.

  “CA PI License nu
mber two-hundred-and-three-thousand, five-hundred and twelve. Phone open parenthesis six-hundred and nineteen close parenthesis five-hundred and thirty-eight dash...”

  “What’s your first name?” said Rolly.

  “Sayer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sayer. I like your skull.”

  “My skull’s in my head. You can’t see it.”

  “I meant that little silver one that’s hanging from your nose.”

  “It’s jewelry.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “A friend.”

  “The same friend who borrowed your car?”

  “No. It was my girlfriend.”

  “She gave you the skull?”

  “She said I should get it. It’s a token.”

  “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  “She’s a Mexican girl.”

  “You go out on dates with her?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “Sometimes we eat food together.”

  “Do you ever eat Mexican food?”

  “She likes Mexican food. She’s a Mexican.”

  “Where do you go for Mexican food?”

  “I call someone.”

  “You order takeout, over the phone?”

  “It’s for when we play games.”

  “What kind of games do you play?”

  “I like to play Border Lords.”

  “What’s that? Some kind of video game?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you were playing there on your phone?”

  “It’s not a phone. It’s a handheld gaming device.”

  “Oh. How do you play that game? Border Lords?”

  “You get to shoot Mexicans.”

  Rolly didn’t know how to respond to the last bit of information. He changed the subject.

  “I noticed you have some old records in the back of your car.”

  “Yes. They’re vinyl recordings.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “My dad. He gave them to me. They’re tokens.”

  “You think I could talk to your dad?”

  “No.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s my ancestor.”

  “I’m sorry he’s dead. When did he give the records to you?”

  “After I was born.”

  Bonnie rejoined them. Rolly gave a little wave with his hand, hoping she wouldn’t interrupt.

  “What was your dad’s name?” he said.

  “He died. He gave the records to me after he died.”

  “You inherited them? Is that what you mean?”

  “I want to drive my car now. My friend knows a lawyer. I paid for the car.”

  “They’re bringing your car up now, Mr. Burdon,” said Bonnie.

  Burdon stood up and moved towards the door.

  “My friend borrowed the car,” he said.

  “Mr. Burdon?” said Rolly.

  “Yes?”

  “I met a woman, yesterday. She’s on the cover of those albums, the woman with red hair. Her name is Tangerine Swimmer.”

  “She’s married to the serpent,” said Burdon.

  “Did you know she lives here?”

  “She doesn’t live here.”

  “She lives in a house down by the border, near the place where the police found your car. I spoke to her yesterday.”

  Sayer Burdon paused at the door.

  “Did you have sex with her?” Burdon asked.

  “No.”

  “My father had sex with her.”

  “She was his girlfriend?”

  “They had sex.”

  “Did you know she was living there?”

  A frown played across Burdon’s face, a sixteenth-note change in his expression before it returned to the dominant tone.

  “Do you want to have sex with her?” he asked.

  “I just want to talk to her, get some more information.”

  “You shouldn’t have sex with her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My father is dead.”

  El Barranco

  (The Canyon)

  Sunday afternoon, Rolly joined Max at the ballpark, ingesting chili dogs and taking Max through the events of the last two days while Padre hitters ground into double-plays and stared at third strikes. The game didn’t improve his mood any. Neither did Max’s offer to hire someone else to take the case. Max’s concern for his welfare made Rolly feel like he’d bungled things, like he’d screwed up again. It was an old pattern of thinking, a bad habit, blaming himself for events over which he had no control. Then came the phone call.

  “Señor Rolly?” said the voice. It was a girl’s voice, low and shaded.

  “Yes?”

  “Necesito el dinero,” the voice said.

  “Who’s this?” he asked.

  “Señor Jaime. Él dice que usted me ayudará.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Estoy aquí. Lo van. Debe ayudarme.”

  The line disconnected. He tried dialing the number back. No one answered. The girl had said something about Jaime. She wanted money. He understood that.

  So instead of crashing in front of the TV with his guitar after the game, he drove back down to the border, guiding his Volvo over the uneven asphalt of Monument Road, on the way to Border Field Park, in search of Jaime Velasquez.

  A car appeared in his rear view mirror, lurching into view like a pouncing cougar. The driver honked at him, pulled out to pass. He slowed, and let the other car pull in front of him.

  It was the hearse, from the police lot, the one with the flaming cobra painted on the rear door, Sayer Burdon’s hearse. He followed it around a sharp bend in the road, stomped the gas pedal to keep up as the hearse accelerated into the straightaway. They entered the gentle arc of road fronting the outlet of Smuggler’s Canyon. The hearse’s brake lights flashed. It slowed to a stop across the street from Tangerine’s house. Its left turn signal blinked on like an afterthought.

  “Crap,” Rolly said, stomping the brakes.

  The gate across the driveway creaked open. Rolly strained for a glimpse of the driver’s face as the hearse turned into the driveway, but its tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside. He drove past the house, down to the end of Monument Road, spun a u-turn near the entrance to Border Field Park and braked to a stop. He idled the car for a moment, mulling his options, then put the Volvo in gear and headed back towards the house. He wanted to see who the driver was before he called Bonnie.

  He pulled in behind the row of smoke trees on Smuggler’s Canyon, just as he’d done the day before. The trees blocked his view of the house, but they would prevent anyone inside from seeing him as well. He cut the engine, coasted to a stop, and cracked the door open. Three large boulders sat on a rise of dirt at the upper end of the smoke trees, a barrier to divert canyon runoff away from the house. He measured the distance, took a deep breath, jumped out of the car and skittered across the mouth of the canyon, then flattened himself down against the dirt rise. He crawled up behind the boulders and peeked through a space between them, down at the back of the house.

  The sloping tile roof of the house appeared first, then the iron security fence. Between the fence and the house was a swimming pool, surrounded by a pockmarked concrete patio. A sliding glass door led out to the patio from the back of the house. The door opened. Tangerine stepped out on the patio, wearing the orange silk robe and high-heel sandals he’d seen her in before.

  A voice came from inside the house, too muffled for Rolly to make out the words.

  “I’m having a smoke,” Tangerine responded, and lit up a cigarette. Exhaling her first puff, she tilted her head, looked up towards Rolly’s hiding spot. He dropped back into the shadows, resisting an urge to flee. There was something unsettling in Tangerine’s eyes, even this far away, as if she knew he was there. He kept his position, trusting the
shadows to hide him.

  Dangling the cigarette between her lips, Tangerine undid her belt, let the robe slip from her shoulders. It fell like a whisper, leaving her naked except for her shoes. She kicked off her sandals, placed the cigarette at the edge of the pool and dove in. She paddled the length of the pool a couple of times, returned to puff on her cigarette, and began some stretching exercises at the shallow end. Her actions seemed willful, a show for Rolly’s benefit. He remembered the story about the man hiding up in the hills, looking down on her, how she liked to flirt. The display was for him, whoever she thought he might be - a construction worker, a border crosser, or Jaime, any man who took pleasure in her with his eyes.

  Tangerine climbed out of the pool and spread herself out on a reclining chaise lounger, providing Rolly a full view of her assets.

  “I’m all wet,” she said, challenging anyone to deny it.

  A noise came from inside the house. Rolly spotted someone sitting at the end of a sofa, just inside the open door. It was Sayer Burdon, the Goth kid, clutching a black object in both hands, his thumbs skittering across its surface as he stared intently at something further inside the room.

  “There’s a snake in the rocks,” said Tangerine.

  Two shoes appeared on the linoleum floor inside the back door, lit by a slash of sunlight across the stoop. A vague recognition stirred in Rolly’s brain, rising to consciousness, even as he resisted the thought. The little orderly stepped onto the porch and looked up towards the rocks. He walked to the edge of the pool, picked up the half-finished cigarette.

  “What kind of snake?” he asked, re-lighting the cigarette.

  “A slippery, slidy snake,” said Tangerine.

  The little orderly walked behind Tangerine’s chair, so that she couldn’t see him.

  “Ssssssss,” he said. “Ssssssss.”

  Tangerine began rubbing her crotch.

  The orderly undid his belt, dropped his pants.

  “Snakebite,” Tangerine said.

  “Ssssssss,” said the orderly, stroking himself.

  Tangerine groaned.

  Rolly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, switched to the camera setting. He moved into position, snapped a photo, adjusted the zoom setting, took another one. The little orderly hissed again. Tangerine groaned. The two of them hissed and groaned, getting close, but never touching one another.

  “Snakebite,” cried Tangerine, louder this time. She pulled her hair to one side, exposing her neck. The little orderly leaned forward, increased the intensity of his self-stroking.