After the accident, as Rolly lay unconscious in the hospital, headed to jail on drunk driving and vehicular manslaughter charges if he survived, it wasn’t Rolly’s father his mother had called. It was Max. Before the case went to trial, Max made a deal with the District Attorney and the judge, came up with a plan to give Rolly a job in his office forty hours a week. Rolly’s mother agreed to take on the rest of the burden, putting Rolly up in the granny flat behind her house, keeping him close at hand, under scrutiny. Between them they had his life pretty well covered. That was how Max became Rolly’s lawyer. And how they became friends.
Rolly picked up the phone, dialed Max’s number.
“Yeah, who is it?” Max answered.
"It’s Rolly."
“So can you make it?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling.”
"It’s the Giants, you know.”
The Giants, especially Barry Bonds, always beat up on the Padres. Max didn't care who won the games, but Rolly did. Max loved to give him a hard time about it. The Padres had gone all the way to the Series last year, but this year the team had reverted to form, at least so far. They’d lost more games than they’d won.
“You know, there's still a statistical chance the Pads could make .500 this year,” Max joked.
When you spend your life rooting for a team to achieve mediocrity, like Rolly had done, your hopes could be raised by the slightest improvement on abysmal. That's why Rolly had faith in his team. He'd been to abysmal so many times in his past. He’d come back. Every day now that he didn’t drink brought him a little closer to a .500 life. He didn’t need to win the World Series.
"Okay," Rolly said, "I'll meet you there."
"Gate J," Max replied.
"Gate J, 6:45." Rolly recited the mantra. Max had some very exact habits when it came to attending games.
"I'm bringing peanuts," said Max. "They're unsalted. I can't stand those ones they sell at the ballpark. They're too salty. And they’re a rip off."
That was part of the ritual, too. Max had ten million dollars and he still liked to complain about getting ripped off for a bag of peanuts. He’d been bringing his own bag of peanuts to games for the last twenty years.
At 6:15, Rolly left the house, drove his car down to the trolley station at Morena Boulevard in Linda Vista. He hated parking his car at the stadium. It was cheaper to ride on the trolley. Better people-watching, too. He pulled into the parking lot, locked the car, walked over to the ticket machine, and inserted five dollars. He grabbed his ticket, two quarters in change, crossed the tracks to wait for the next trolley. He felt lighter already. The trolley arrived. Ten minutes later he was at the stadium, walking down the ramp to gate J. Max was already there.
"You're early," Rolly said.
Max shrugged his shoulders. "Traffic wasn't too bad. How's your mother?" It was always the first thing Max would ask. Rolly thought again about his mother and Max. She had been an attractive woman, emotionally worn down at the time. Max was a smooth operator, a good listener, a liberal, all of the things Rolly’s father was not. Something could have happened between them.
"She’s fine. You got the peanuts?"
Max patted the inside pocket of his coat.
"Unsalted."
Rolly smiled. He was grateful for this small ritual. Some things in life were still dependable, no matter how stupid and crazy the rest of the world might get to be. They headed into the stadium, began talking statistics—ERAs and on-base percentages. One thing that had sealed Max and Rolly's early friendship was their general agreement on baseball matters. Best player, Willie Mays. Best pitcher, Sandy Koufax. That was it. There was no argument.
They talked about baseball through the fifth inning. The Padres were down one-zip in a snoozer. Bonds hadn’t hit a home run yet, so there were plenty of chances for heartbreak. Rolly ate an Italian sausage on a hard roll with onions and a plate of garlic fries. He wanted a beer in a tall paper cup. He drank a Coke instead, ate an Eskimo Pie. Max started into his usual rant about the minor league quality of today's major league players.
The baseball talk ended. Max went straight to the next thing on his mind.
“So what the hell were you doing in jail? The cop I talked to said something about breaking and entering?”
“It was nothing, just a little mix up with my client. We got it all straightened out.”
“You did, huh?”
“Yeah. He came down to the station, explained it all to the cops.”
“Sounded like you might be in some real trouble from that phone call I got.”
“No, really, it was just a miscommunication.”
“You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“Clean as a whistle, Max. I promise.”
“You’ve been on the wagon for a few years, now. Don’t screw up. I don’t want to have to bring your mother back down to the courthouse. We’re old people, Rolly. We’re tired.”
“I’m clean, Max. I swear,” Rolly responded. Once a drunk, you were always a drunk. The rest of your life was an inquisition. And anyone who knew you—your mother, your ex-girlfriend, your lawyer—was ready to act as your inquisitor. He couldn’t blame them.
"So who is this client?” asked Max. “And how’d you get that red stripe on your face?”
"I’m working for an Internet company, here in town.”
“An Internet company, huh. Crooks.”
“Crooks?”
“They’re all crooks. You can just tell. This whole Internet thing is out of control. It’s like the gold rush. A few people are going to make a lot of money and everybody else is going to get screwed. It’s hype, rich bankers and stockbrokers spinning a fancy money suit out of everyone’s greedy dreams. It’s like the emperor’s clothes, a suit made out of air. Nothing but hot air and magic tricks.”
“They’re giving me options.”
“Well, that’s so they won’t have to pay you real money. Good. Maybe you’ll get rich. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
Rolly sat back for a moment. Max was contrarian by nature, always acting in opposition to the prevailing mood of the time. He got things wrong sometimes, but not as often as most.
The Giants went out one, two, three. Ashby was pitching pretty well. Tony Gwynn led off the bottom of the sixth, slapped a single to right. There was some mild applause as the fans awoke from their stupor.
"Now there’s a real ballplayer,” Max said. “How do you pick up private investigation work, anyway?"
"Word of mouth, mostly," Rolly replied, “just like playing music.” Of course, most of the mouths he worked for weren't interested in telling anyone about how they'd hired a private detective. You didn’t work much as a private eye unless you hustled for business, all of the time. It was just like playing in bands. Rolly was naturally averse to hustling and self-promotion. It hadn’t always been that way, but he’d always needed at least one drink in his system to start selling himself to someone else. These days he just wanted to work enough to buy himself time to play the guitar.
"Still playing music?" Max asked.
"Sure, a couple times a week, maybe. A few parties. We still play most Sundays at Patrick's."
"Yeah, I gotta stop by sometime, hear you play again." Max had been saying he’d come hear Rolly play for two years now.
They sat in silence awhile, watching the game. Finley flew out to left. Caminiti struck out, stranding Gwynn at first. It was depressing. Rolly decided to toss a few questions to Max.
"Have you ever heard of a guy named King Gibson?"
Max scratched his beard. "No, I don't think so. Why?"
"Nothing. It's just a name. You know a lot of people in town. How about Anthony Kaydell?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t remember that crook?”
"I don’t.”
“Well, why are you asking then?”
“Someone at the jail asked me about him.”
“Has this got something to do with your client?”
“May
be. There’s a house in The Farms that Kaydell used to own.”
“Oh sure. The one he sold before he split town.”
“Yeah. My client seems to have a connection with the current owner.”
“Who’s that?”
“Someone named G. Tesch. He bought it from Kaydell.”
“He must have been the one they tried to sue.”
“Who?”
“The investors. This Tesch guy, he was from Barbados or something. The stockholders tried to get the court to revoke the sale of the house, but it was legit. There was nothing they could do.”
“Do you remember anything about Tesch?”
“Tesch and Kaydell did the deal privately. No one else was involved. No one knew who Tesch was or what he looked like. The D.A. looked into it, but there wasn’t much he could do. Tesch had lawyers. He wasn’t a U.S. citizen. A lot of people think there was something fishy there, though.”
The Giants put men at the corners. One out. Rolly sat watching the game without seeing it. He had a new set of chord changes to play with, but the melody was still incomplete. Where was the hook? A man named G. Tesch owned the house Curtis Vox died in. Gibson knew Tesch. Kaydell sold the house to Tesch. But no one else knew anything about him. What was the connection?
“The BFH,” Max laughed, scratching his beard, staring out towards the scoreboard above right field.
“The what?”
“BFH. The Big Fucking House. That’s what they called the house in the D.A.’s office. There was a story going around that Kaydell put up the money to produce a porno movie, that it was filmed at his house in The Farms.”
Rolly’s stomach jumped up and rumbled like there were two tom-toms inside it, playing a Bo Diddley beat. Max continued.
“They got a copy of the video, passed it around the office. I don’t think they ever did much with it. There was no connection to the case. The attorneys started calling it the BFH, the Big Fucking House. I think it’s a line from the movie. It was their little joke.”
Rolly had a pretty good idea who the star of the movie was.
“Max, I need to go. Can you give me a ride to my car?”
“What’s your hurry?”
“I just need to go now.”
“Hey, the game ain’t that bad. The Pads could still turn a double play.” Even as Max spoke, the Giants batter sliced a single to left, bringing in the runner from third. Max laughed.
“Ah well, maybe you’re right. I need to get up early tomorrow, anyway. I’m going birding down at Border Field Park.” Max rose from his seat, followed Rolly, who was already halfway up the aisle, moving faster than usual.
“Hang on, I’m an old man,” Max said.
The walk to the parking lot took forever. Half of the crowd was leaving the ballpark. Rolly worried that he and Max would get stuck in the traffic. He climbed into Max’s Mercedes coupe. Max turned on the engine, looked at Rolly.
“Rolly, I’m your lawyer, you know. Anything you say to me is confidential. If there’s something you need to tell me, I think you should do it now.”
“I’m okay, Max.”
“I don’t know who you’re working for, but you’d better be careful. If this has something to do with Anthony Kaydell, you are in way over your head.”
“I’m okay.”
“I don’t want to have to call your mother if something happens to you.”
Rolly didn’t say anything. Max put the car into gear and headed out of the parking lot. It looked like they’d beat the rush.
The Videotape
Max dropped Rolly at the trolley station. Rolly got into his Volvo, started it up and headed towards Moogus’ place in Ocean Beach. He needed to look at the videotape, “New Wave Nudes,” starring Alesis Amati. There was something in the movie, something that just might explain this whole thing, something about the big house that Curtis had lived in, had died in, some connection to Anthony Kaydell, G. Tesch.
He pulled the car onto I-8, headed west, took the exit marked “Beaches.” He drove along the long causeway that ran along the outflow from the San Diego River. Fresh water mingled with salt from the ocean, transforming from river to sea. He remembered the odd conversation with Bonnie this morning as he left the jail, her mysterious complaint about the chlorine-happy pool man. Bonnie and Joan didn’t have a swimming pool.
Then he realized what Bonnie had been trying to tell him. It was the chlorine. Bonnie knew that someone had called in with a report of a body in the pool at the house in The Farms. Now the autopsy had confirmed it. It was Bonnie who had been on patrol that night, had responded to Rolly’s 911 phone call. She knew, for sure now, the call wasn’t a hoax. Curtis Vox had been in the pool. He had been there, and someone had moved him. Rolly knew it. Bonnie knew it. And so did one other person, at least. Bonnie was testing Rolly, trying him out, angling to get something back. He hoped to have something for her soon.
He pulled up to Moogus’ house, a two-room shack three blocks from the beach. He knocked on the door.
“Moogus, it’s Rolly.”
Moogus opened the door, dressed in boxer shorts with a big smiley face on them, a green Zildjian t-shirt, scratching his belly. The area around his left eye was multicolored green, with a bit of purple towards the nose. There was a girl with blond hair, a beach rat of indeterminate age, lying on the sofa, watching TV.
“Hey, Rol, what’s up?” Moogus said.
“I wanted to pick up that videotape.”
“You miss her already, huh? I was planning to bring it over to you tomorrow, but you’re just too hot for it, I can see. I got it right here.”
Moogus glanced back at the girl.
“Hey, throw me that tape there, would you honey?”
The girl looked up at Moogus, glanced over at Rolly with deeply stoned eyes, then reached over to the table at the end of the sofa, picked up a videotape and tossed it to Moogus, who dropped it. Moogus leaned down, picked up the tape from the floor, handed it over to Rolly.
“Let me know what you think. The soundtrack’s not bad considering the band was stoned out of their minds. Sideman sucks less than usual. Of course, you won’t be paying much attention to the music.”
“Thanks,” Rolly said. He grabbed the tape and ran back to his car.
“I hope you’ll still respect yourself in the morning!” yelled Moogus as he stood in the doorway, laughing. The pale blue light from the television formed an aura of light around his body, as if the moon was hiding behind him, a Moogus eclipse.
Rolly put the car into gear and headed downtown. A high layer of mist rolled in from the ocean, across Coronado Island. His father’s house would be under it now. The fog stretched its fingers in lingering filaments across the bay, touching the tops of the skyscrapers that lit up the downtown skyline. It was beautiful, unknowable. He thought about parking down at the Embarcadero, by the Star of India, the old whaling ship. He wanted to watch the clouds touch the tops of the masts, then roll down the ropes and settle in silence around him.
But he didn’t have time for that. He had to go watch a dirty movie.
An Intruder
Rolly opened the front door of his house, turned directly to the TV in the corner, intent on playing the video, sure there was some clue hidden there, if only it could be found and deciphered. He slapped the tape into the VCR, grabbed the remote. There was a noise in the bedroom behind him. He froze where he was standing, turned around.
He hadn’t turned on the light, but his eyes adjusted quickly. The room was a wreck. Someone had opened his guitar cases, dumping the contents all over the floor. Other guitars had been knocked off their stands or pulled down from the wall. His Epiphone and his Stratocaster. His Martin Dreadnought and Les Paul. His sunburst Telecaster leaned against the wall at a dangerous angle. And worse, much worse, his precious ES-335, a big divot dug out of the finish, lay at his feet.
He knew he should leave. He should back out the door. Someone was here, someone dangerous. Instead he stood in the middle of
the living room, unable to move, feeling violated, raped, defiled. He’d been beat up and lied to. He’d landed in jail. But this was beyond the limits of what he could stand. Someone had messed with his guitars.
A bulky silhouette filled the doorway from the bedroom. It was Little Walter, looking even less little than usual and moving towards Rolly more quickly and quietly than Rolly would have thought possible for a man of that size. For some reason all Rolly could focus on was the necklace of puka shells dangling from Walter’s thick neck. He took a step back, but it was too late. A loud crack rang in his left ear. He found himself face down on the floor. Something wet and warm drained onto his tongue from the back of his mouth. He hated surfers.
"Sir," Walter began in his odd voice, "I have the highest respect for musicians. I admire all artists, as I play an instrument myself. I did not wish to damage your instruments and I do not wish to hurt you. But my employer has requested that I return to him a certain article that he still believes you have in your possession. I have actively chosen to honor my employer and act upon his needs. So I will ask you directly—where is the Magic Key?"
Rolly pushed himself up to his knees, looked out towards the front door. It was only ten feet away. If he could just get outside, maybe someone would see him. He lived in the heart of a crowded metropolis, in Hillcrest, where the boys were out cruising all night. There was always someone in the neighborhood, passing through on their way to the bars and the restaurants.
A large hand grabbed him by the back of his hair. Another large hand slapped him on the right side of his face, over his ear, then on the left. His head started ringing. The room twisted, went sideways. It was like being drunk, except the pain was immediate.
"Where is the key?" Walter put his face down next to Rolly's. "I wish to honor my employer’s wishes. I have made a vocal commitment to him to return with the key."
Rolly gurgled, tried to get his bearing, pull himself together, focus inside and think clearly. He tried to scream. What came out of his mouth surprised him.
Black's Beach Shuffle: A Rolly Waters Mystery Page 16
