Black's Beach Shuffle: A Rolly Waters Mystery

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  “I see. And did this key have some connection to Mr. Vox? Was he a suspect in its disappearance?”

  “From what I understand, Mr. Vox had the only copy of the key. He reported it missing and that’s where I came in.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sunday morning.”

  “Did you speak to Mr. Vox?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Because he was already dead. That was the truth of it, but Rolly wasn’t going to share that bit of information with anyone, not even Bonnie. Not yet. There would be a time for that, but it wasn’t now.

  “I just didn’t get the chance,” Rolly said. “I was told by the people who hired me that Mr. Vox could be somewhat elusive.”

  “Interesting, what did you think about that?’

  “I didn’t think too much about it. It’s a good way to keep getting paid.”

  “Yes, of course. Mr. Waters, do you know why Eyebitz.com hired you to take this case? It seems a little unusual, given your professional background.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Mr. Waters, you’re hardly the kind of detective one would expect a corporation to hire, now are you?”

  Rolly wondered what they knew about his professional background. Had they been watching him, casing his house, following him around? Did they have a whole file on him? They probably knew about his past—the accident, the drinking.

  “I have a friend who works for the company. He recommended my services.”

  “And your friend’s name?”

  “I’d rather not say. Not if you’re going to try and contact him.”

  Mr. Hayes glanced at Mr. Porter, shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Porter reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, placed it on the table in front of Rolly.

  “One last question, Mr. Waters,” said Mr. Hayes, “do you know this man?”

  Rolly picked up the photo. It was grainy, a little out of focus, perhaps taken from a distance with a heavy zoom lens. The man looked about forty, with dark hair and a mustache. It was a picture of Anthony Kaydell.

  “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “His real name is Anthony Kaydell. But he probably doesn’t use that name, anymore. This picture was taken in Mexico fifteen years ago.”

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  Mr. Porter pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it in front of Rolly. It was a sketch of an older man’s face, someone in his mid-fifties, maybe sixty years old. He was bald. It was King Gibson.

  “Have you ever seen this man?” Mr. Hayes asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Rolly lied.

  “You’re sure.”

  “I don’t think I know him. Who is he?”

  “Let’s just say he’s someone who may have returned from the dead. Is there any other information you would like to share with us, Mr. Waters?”

  “I’m done if you are.” He wanted to tell them his story, just to get it out to someone else. But he didn’t. It was dangerous, but he couldn’t resist. He wanted to figure this thing out on his own. He could always remember to tell them something later when it was useful to him.

  “Yes, I think we’re done,” Mr. Hayes said. Mr. Porter pulled a business card from his wallet, handed it over to Rolly.

  “Please call us if you think of anything else,” said Mr. Hayes. Rolly wondered if Mr. Porter ever said anything. They had a pretty funny routine going for a couple of guys in business suits, clowns with one blue tie and one red. Rolly didn’t feel much like laughing, though. Hayes and Porter stood, walked out of the room. Bonnie followed them, locking the door as she left.

  The Rescue

  Rolly stared at the table, wondering what to make of what he’d just heard, the pictures Hayes and Porter had shown him. What did Mr. Hayes mean about the man in the picture—returned from the dead? There must be a connection between Kaydell and Gibson. That much was clear. Perhaps Curtis Vox had committed suicide. Maybe someone had dragged him out of the pool and dropped him off a cliff so the company could collect the insurance money.

  The door opened. It was Bonnie again. This time it was Fender who followed her in.

  “Well, Mr. Waters,” she said, “it looks like you’re off the hook. Mr. Simmons here has confirmed that you work for his company. They will not be pressing charges against you. You’re free to leave.”

  Fender leaned against the doorway, massaging his eyebrows, eyes darting up and down at the floor. Rolly got up, walked over to him.

  “All right, Fender. Let’s go.”

  Bonnie led them out of the room and back to the check-in desk, where Rolly collected his wallet and flashlight. He handed Curtis’ security card over to Fender.

  “I guess you’ll want this.”

  Fender took the card, slipped it into his back pocket without saying a word.

  “Mr. Waters?” It was Bonnie.

  “Yes.”

  “My pool. What was the name of that guy you suggested?”

  “Um, your pool?”

  “Yes, I was telling you about the pool at my house. The cleaning guy always puts in too much chlorine. You said you knew somebody.”

  Bonnie was trying to tell him something, but he was too thick to get it. He played along, decided to figure it out later.

  “Oh sure, uh, I’ll have him call you.”

  “Thanks. I hate it when they put in too much chlorine. I’m the only one swimming in it, just one person. All that chlorine, it gets in your system.”

  Fender and Rolly walked along the long vinyl floor of the hall that led out of the jail. Fender didn’t say anything. His deep-sunk eyes seemed to have receded further and further into his skull every time Rolly saw him. Rolly followed Fender out to Fender’s car, which was parked in the pay lot across the street.

  “That was very uncool,” Fender said.

  “Going to jail?”

  “Yes, going to jail,” said Fender. “And breaking into the office.”

  “I didn’t break in. I used Curtis’ card.”

  “Ricky screamed at me for a half hour this morning when he heard about you being in the building last night. He said I was an idiot, a stupid fucking moron. He said it was too bad I didn’t fall off a cliff instead of Curtis. He was ready to fire me, and you.”

  “I’m sorry. How come he didn’t?”

  “I told him you must have had a good reason for being there, that it had to have something to do with the case.”

  “It did.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you, right now. But I had to look at something myself, when there was no one else around.”

  “Ricky thinks you’re working for somebody else, another company. He thinks you found the key and were using it to steal our programs.”

  “I’m not.”

  Fender leaned on the roof of his green Ford Fiesta and stared down First Avenue, as if watching his magical future disappear right in front of him, slipping around the corner of the county building, dissolving away like morning haze in the sunlight.

  “Rolly,” Fender said, “this could be the biggest thing I’ve ever hooked up. It’s the real thing, like winning the lottery. I don’t want to miss out on this one. You gotta help me out here.”

  Rolly felt angry and tired and beat, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for Fender. Mostly, he felt sorry that Fender had ever thought he could get anywhere in this world by hiring Rolly as a detective. Rolly wasn’t a real detective, not like Bonnie, or those insurance guys, Hayes and Porter, slick as Fingerease fret spray. Rolly was a half-decent guitar player and an ex-drunk who’d killed his best friend, then spent three years in the library looking up names in telephone books as his punishment. He was just some guy who’d taken the state exam and set up shop in his mother’s backyard. He wasn’t smart enough to know when he was in over his head. Not with alcohol. Not with women. And certainly not with entrepreneurial assholes like Ricky Rogers, who could twist guys like Fender and Rolly a
round like a set of old nickel-wound strings.

  Fender was stupid enough to think Rolly was smart. That was the sad thing.

  “Fender,” Rolly said, “I need to ask you something. You can’t tell anyone else what I’m about to say, not Ricky, not Alesis, not anyone.”

  Fender turned his face back towards Rolly. His eyes were limpid, slightly wet.

  “What is it?”

  “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  Rolly had to put his faith in someone sometime. It might as well be Fender.

  “I don’t think Curtis Vox died from falling off a cliff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just saying I think there’s some connection between the Magic Key going missing and Curtis’ death. I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “Are you sure? Didn’t the police say he fell off the cliff?”

  “Yes, that’s what they’re saying. I’m just not sure they know all the facts.”

  “You didn’t tell them about the Magic Key, did you?”

  “No,” Rolly said. There he went, lying again. “But I need to ask you, would anyone at Eyebitz.com want to kill Curtis?”

  “That’s crazy, Rolly,” Fender replied. His eyes were dry now. He looked past Rolly, ran his finger and thumb across his eyebrows. “Why would anyone at work want to kill him? He was going to make us rich. He was the brains, the guy that made it all work. Like Ricky says, he’ll be impossible to replace.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s what everyone says. Have you heard anything about life insurance policies at Eyebitz?”

  “Life insurance?”

  “Yeah, on employees.”

  “No. We don’t even have medical coverage yet.”

  Fender’s inside coat pocket started buzzing, vibrating. He reached in, pulled out his cell phone, looked at the number displayed on the LCD. He took a quick breath, answered.

  “Hi Ricky.”

  Rolly could hear a voice screaming on the other end of the phone. Fender glanced nervously at Rolly, turned away from him. The tirade continued.

  “Okay, Ricky,” said Fender. “I’ll look into it.” He pushed the button to end the call, turned back to Rolly.

  “That was Ricky,” he said.

  “Your boss is kind of a screamaholic, isn’t he?” Rolly said.

  “He’s just a perfectionist,” responded Fender, looking down at the ground. “We’re putting together a deal for this big customer and Ricky doesn’t like some parts of the proposal. He wants me to rewrite it. It’s just the way he works.”

  “Well, if you can put up with it.”

  “Like I was saying, Rolly. The stakes are high. I don’t want to miss out on this one.”

  “I don’t think I could take it for long. I’d go back to drinking again,” Rolly joked.

  Regardless of his proclamations to the contrary, Fender was clearly upset by the phone call from Ricky.

  “Rolly, I need to get back to work right away. Can you get a ride home?”

  “I’ll be fine. There’s someone downtown I need to see anyway. Thanks for coming down and getting me out.”

  Fender opened the door to his car, paused before climbing in.

  “What am I going to tell Ricky?”

  “Tell Ricky I’ll have something for him tomorrow. I promise. He can have his money back if I don’t.”

  “By Leslie’s butt and all that's holy?”

  “By Leslie’s butt and all that's holy.”

  Fender’s demeanor returned to its old goofy self. He smiled, climbed into the car, and drove away, waving at Rolly as he turned the corner.

  Rolly walked east on C Street, headed towards Marley’s loft. When Rolly had departed from the Eyebitz.com building in the back of Bonnie’s squad car, he looked for his Volvo on the street. It was still there. Either Marley hadn’t made it out of the building or he’d had trouble getting the Volvo started.

  Rolly reached Seventh Avenue and turned down towards Broadway. He saw his car, parked halfway into a yellow zone, a ticket already attached to the windshield. It wasn’t exactly a welcome sight, but at least Marley had made it back home.

  Marley’s Video

  Rolly rang the doorbell. Marley looked out from the window above and buzzed him in. He waited at the top of the stairs when Rolly arrived.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to see you, Maestro Waters, a free man. The last time I saw you, it was the back of your head moving away from me in a patrol car. What happened?”

  “Just a little miscommunication,” Rolly smiled. He was tired.

  “I guess.”

  “Can I get that disk back?”

  “You bet. Come on in.”

  Rolly stepped in through the door. The place was quiet. Two children, and a woman who was apparently their mother, snoozed under the blankets on the sofa bed by the kitchen. Marley tiptoed by them, motioned Rolly to be quiet as well. They walked back to the end of the loft. Marley drew the curtain.

  “Hey, you need to get that car fixed. It took me half an hour to get it started last night. I thought I’d never get home.”

  “I know. I’ve been meaning to take it to the shop.”

  Marley rustled through the manuals, papers, and CDs that covered his desk.

  “I know it’s here, somewhere,” he said.

  “Did you find anything else on the disk?”

  “Nothing but that video I told you about. The rest of it’s still locked up tight. Ah, here it is.” Marley held up the disk.

  “The video. Can we take a look at it?”

  “It’s a little early in the morning for that kind of thing for me, but if you want to.”

  “I just want to check something.”

  Marley inserted the disk into the slot in the back of the computer. He clicked on a file in the window that appeared on the screen. Another small window appeared, the video, naked body parts moving, close-ups of engaged genitalia. There wasn’t much you could identify. It played for about thirty seconds, then stopped. It meant nothing to Rolly.

  “Is there any audio?” Rolly asked.

  “Yeah, but I’d prefer not to play it right now,” Marley said, nodding his head back towards the rest of the loft. “There’s lots of moaning and groaning, and some background music. Actually, the music’s pretty good.”

  “Thanks,” Rolly said.

  “Thanks?”

  “Um, yeah, thanks for showing it to me.”

  Marley closed the video, pulled the disk from the back of the computer, handed it back to Rolly.

  “I’m glad to get rid of this thing. If it’s encrypted like that, it’s not something they want us to see.”

  “I’m going to give it back to them.”

  “Good. The only thing you should be doing at two in the morning is playing guitar. You shouldn’t be sneaking around inside of some corporate headquarters. Me either.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for everything. Have you got my car keys?”

  Marley rummaged through the piles of junk on top of his desk, pulled out the keys to the Volvo. He tossed them to Rolly.

  “Get that thing into the shop, now.”

  “I will.”

  Rolly left Marley at his computer and tiptoed back down the hall, out the front door and down to the street. The rest of the block was coming to life. The driver of a delivery truck unloaded cases of beer at the JR Market across the street. Rolly grabbed the ticket off the Volvo’s windshield, checked the fine. Sixty-five bucks. He crossed the street to the market, picked up a packet of powdered donuts and a pint of 2 percent milk, returned to his car, and climbed in.

  It took him five tries to get the car started. The problem was worse. As he let the car idle, he thought about heading over to Randy’s to get the thing looked at. He ate all his donuts, drank half the milk, then decided against it. He needed some sleep. He put the car into gear and headed for home.

  When he got home, he went straight to the bedroom, stripped off hi
s clothes and lay down in bed. His body was tired and sore. He pulled the covers up over his head and fell straight asleep, undisturbed by any dreams, pleasant or fearful.

  The Game

  The phone rang. Once, twice, on the fourth ring the phone machine would pick up. Rolly waited, enjoying the warmth of his covers.

  “Hey, are you there?” It was Max, his lawyer. “I called the jail, but they said you’d been released. I’ve got tickets for the game tonight against the Giants. If you’re not doing anything, why don’t you come out to the game? You can tell me all about your visit with San Diego’s finest. Call me back before six.”

  Max hung up. Rolly looked at the clock on the night table. It was five-thirty. He stared up at the ceiling and considered the offer.

  He walked through the last few days in his head. He’d performed with the band at the mansion above Black’s Beach. He’d seen a dead man in the swimming pool, a man whose body later showed up on the beach. Someone had stashed a computer disk containing company secrets in his guitar case. Then he’d been hired to find that computer disk. Moogus got mugged. Rolly got laid. He’d gone surfing, shared room service with a rich old man in a hotel suite. He’d been attacked and verbally threatened by the harmonica-playing director of maintenance for Eyebitz.com, the man he suspected of mugging Moogus, the man he’d seen leaving the Eyebitz.com building just before Rolly and Marley discovered the destroyed computer, a crime for which Rolly had spent four hours in jail.

  A baseball game might be just the right thing. That and a visit with Max might be just what he needed. A break. He’d never turned down two games in a row. Besides, Max might be able to tell him something useful about Anthony Kaydell. Max knew the inside story on every white-collar crime that had taken place in San Diego for the last thirty years.

  Rolly's mother met Max originally, back in 1968, the year before she and Rolly’s father had separated for the first time. Max had been Eugene McCarthy's west coast campaign manager. Rolly's mom volunteered on the phones at the headquarters downtown. They had stayed in touch over the years, bumping into each other at various liberal fundraising events, like Planned Parenthood and the ACLU. Rolly always figured there’d been something between his mother and Max, but he’d never worked up the nerve to ask either of them about it.