Black's Beach Shuffle: A Rolly Waters Mystery

by Corey Lynn Fayman

  "Mom!" he screamed. "Mom!" It was as if someone else were screaming, a boy he knew a long time ago.

  "It is childish of you to call for your mother," said Little Walter. "You are an adult, with adult responsibilities. You must renounce your childhood. You must leave it behind." He threw Rolly on the ground, put his knee in Rolly's back, pulled Rolly's arms from behind, and started to wrap them around his knee. It was painful, but at least it pulled Rolly's head up so he could see something more than four square inches of wood flooring. The front door was still open, although with the light out, no one was likely to see them inside.

  "I would like to inquire again as to the whereabouts of the key," Walter went on, still pulling on Rolly's arms.

  Rolly hung on through more pain than he would have thought possible. To his left he saw the ES-335, face down. The tuning head was about two feet from his face. The top left tuning peg was bent at an angle, the wood split where it had been screwed into the head. To think that this guy liked to call himself a musician, messing up a perfectly good guitar like that.

  It was hard to breathe. There wasn't any air he could pull into his lungs. Or maybe it was just that his lungs couldn't move, Little Walter’s knee planted as it was in his back.

  "Rolly?"

  Someone was calling his name, a high sweet voice, like Minnie Ripperton returning from heaven or wherever she was now.

  "Rolly, are you all right?" said the voice.

  The pain in his arms released a little as Little Walter looked up. He'd heard the voice too. It was real. It wasn’t Minnie Ripperton welcoming him into the next life. Walter took his knee from out of Rolly's back, stood directly above him.

  "Rolly?"

  He knew now it was his mother. She’d heard him scream. She was outside on the gravel driveway, walking towards the front door. She was going to walk straight into Little Walter if Rolly didn't do something. This was his chance. He might not get any more. He reached to his left as slowly and quietly as he could, felt the top of the ES-335, the steel strings under his hand. He closed his hand around it, made peace with himself for what he was about to do, coiled his body and swung the guitar around with all he had left in him.

  A scream filled the room as the maple wood body of the guitar crashed into Little Walter’s left knee. The guitar made a sickening sound as the wood cracked and shattered. Walter crumbled to the floor like an old eucalyptus in an El Niño windstorm.

  "Rolly!" His mother ran towards the house. He could hear the scrunching of gravel.

  "Auugh, fuck it, fuck it, you fucking hack, you fucking junkie!" screamed Walter. He was lying on the floor, but turning towards Rolly. Rolly stood up, the neck of the guitar in his hand, the rest of it splintered around him. He looked around for another weapon. The gold-top Les Paul was closest, a good ten pounds of solid mahogany. With the right amp it would let you sustain a note forever. Walter reached out with both hands, his gigantic surf-paddling, harmonica-mangling hands. He grabbed tightly onto Rolly's left ankle. Rolly grabbed the Les Paul, brought the guitar down on Walter’s back. There was another sickening crack and a grunt. Walter’s grip remained strong. Rolly swung again. The guitar glanced off Walter’s shoulder and into his head. He stopped moving. His hands loosened and fell to the floor.

  "Rolly, what's happening?" His mother stood at the door. Rolly moved towards her, turned on the light. His mother's face went white when she saw him.

  "Rolly, what’s going on?”

  "Call the police, Mom. Call the police.”

  His mother’s eyes were wide open, terrified. She looked past him at the body on the floor.

  “Who is that? What happened?”

  Rolly paused for a moment. His heart beat incredibly fast. He could hear the blood throbbing close to his still muffled eardrums. He looked down at the mountainous body stretched out on the floor, shards of his ES-335, the guitar that had saved his life, scattered around it.

  “It’s just some harmonica player. Call the police. Tell them to bring an ambulance, too.”

  Rolly knelt down by Little Walter’s shoulders, reached for the puka shell necklace, ripped it from his neck, and threw it into the corner of the room, a little revenge for the defilement and destruction the man had brought to the room. Little Walter lay still. Rolly couldn’t tell if he was living or dead. He didn’t care. The man had been caught breaking and entering. Rolly had the law on his side this time, clear as day. He reached into Walter’s left pocket, pulled out a pair of keys attached by a ring to a small plastic block, a car lock remote. Each key had a small piece of masking tape stuck on it, one labeled “car,” one labeled “house.” You had to wonder about the mental capacity of a man who needed labels to tell two keys apart. Rolly tried the other pockets, found nothing. He had to give Walter credit for that. At least the big jerk lived by his big hands alone. No knives or guns or brass knuckles.

  Ten minutes later, the police arrived. The paramedics joined in half a verse later. Little Walter lay still on the floor, like a big Kahuna who’d drunk too many Mai Tais. The paramedics grunted and strained as they lifted him onto the gurney. Rolly answered the policemen’s questions, denying he’d ever seen Little Walter before, keeping to the simplest, truest story he could. He’d been to the baseball game. When he came home, the guy had been here, had jumped him. These guitars were worth a lot of money, you know. And look what this guy did to them. Rolly gave them a little outrage, a little hysteria to make it look like he was a complete innocent. He said nothing to suggest this event was not unexpected, considering what had happened to him in the last seventy-two hours of his not quite break-even life.

  The police finally left, but not without turning down several offers of tea and soy cookies from Rolly’s mother, who stood by the door in her nightgown and slippers the whole time. After the police departed, she and Rolly spent thirty minutes cleaning up, talking themselves down until the adrenaline started to fade. He walked her back to the big house, sat for another fifteen minutes in her kitchen, sipping on herbal tea of some sort until he could tell she was ready for sleep. He walked back to his flat, lay down on the sofa, flipped on the TV, inserted the videotape into the deck. He picked up the remote control and pressed the play button.

  The BFH

  An hour later Rolly found himself driving north on I-5 again, but this time he cruised along in Little Walter’s big Coup DeVille. He was headed to La Jolla, to The Farms, to the Big Fucking House where this whole thing had started. The Magic Key lay in the passenger seat, it’s digital secrets still unrevealed. But Rolly had hope. Or something like it. He had Walter’s house key in his pocket and a whole new idea about what Curtis Vox might still be able to tell him.

  The videotape had been unrevealing at first, if you could call it that, since most of Alesis was revealed throughout. Rolly found it hard to focus, at first. The battle with Walter, the pictures on his TV; they jangled his hormonal balance in ways that were slightly disturbing, as if he were eighteen years old again. Violence, victory, and sexual display. It was a lot to absorb in one evening, riling his blood, raising his measure. He finally gave up, took care of personal business, then rewound the movie to watch it again, calmer, clear-eyed.

  Some of the scenes looked familiar. The film had definitely been shot at the house in The Farms. One exterior shot by the pool looked similar to the layout of the yard that Rolly remembered from the party. And the background of a couple of shots was clearly the main hall. There wasn’t much background to look at in most of the shots.

  He found the scene that had been on the disk, the one that Marley had shown him. Curtis Vox must have put it there for a reason, something besides an infatuation with Alesis, something besides the fact that he was a young, horny geek, without any friends, who lived in a house that was too big for one person and felt lonely at night. Curtis liked to play games, create puzzles, that’s what Professor Ibanez had said. Rolly closed his eyes and listened to the movie’s music track, playing the notes back in his head, the notes he�
��d put on tape fifteen years ago during a session he still couldn’t remember. He paused and rewound the scene over and over, inspecting each frame. Then he found what he was looking for, a slight glimmer, a few frames of screen time, a little hint in the dangerous game that Curtis Vox had been playing.

  He called Bonnie at the station. She didn’t answer, so he left a message on her voicemail. He made a joke, invited her to a pool party at the big house in The Farms, suggested she meet him there in an hour or so. He picked up his car keys, checked to make sure the Magic Key was still in his pocket, and walked out to his car.

  But his car wouldn’t start. The old Volvo wagon had finally died. It wasn’t going anywhere without a tow.

  Rolly had Walter’s keys in his pocket. He got out of the Volvo, looked around, tried to guess where Little Walter most likely had parked. He walked through his mother’s backyard, took a right along the fence out to Eighth Street. The street to his left was quiet and dark, three blocks that led to a cul-de-sac. It would be a good place to hide the big Coupe DeVille. He started down towards it.

  As he reached the end of the street, he pressed the button on the remote pad. A car horn honked, headlights blinked. It was Walter’s car, wedged in between an old Ford Fiesta and a new Volkswagen Beetle. Walter had tried to park parallel, but hadn’t quite managed it. The big headlights of the Coupe stared out at Rolly from its cramped parking spot as if looking for a getaway. A car like that needed room.

  Rolly opened the door and climbed in. He slid into the frictionless seat, put the key into the ignition, and started the engine. The stereo came on, blasting away like cold vengeance, Paul Butterfield playing “Who do you Love?” Rolly jumped, stabbed at the controls, trying to turn the thing off. He finally hit something that lowered the volume.

  He slipped the car into reverse, turned to look out the back window. It would be tight getting out. He tapped on the gas pedal, a little too much, felt a small bump as he touched fenders with the car behind him. He turned back around, cranked the wheel, and put it in drive, clearing the Volkswagen in front by less than an inch.

  The drive to La Jolla was easy. He’d been up this way so many times in the last week, he could do it without even thinking. The events of the last several days ran through his mind, unedited, like his father’s old slide shows of family vacations. Except Rolly was the man with the camera this time. He didn’t appear in the snapshots, only the sights that he’d seen.

  He took the exit to La Jolla Village Drive, turned left. There were very few cars on the road. The traffic lights ahead of him all turned to green. As he sped up the hill, he noticed a pair of headlights pinned to his rearview mirror. He drove past UCSD, then turned into the entrance to The Farms. The headlights still followed. He slowed the car down as he turned onto Starlight, crept past the bougainvillea-wrapped walls of the indifferent mansions. He pulled into the driveway of the BFH. The headlights pulled in behind him. Rolly turned off the engine, opened the door. He jumped out, turned to look at the car that had followed him.

  It was a green Ford Fiesta, the engine still idling. There was a small dent in the front fender. Sitting inside, staring out from behind the steering wheel, looking surprised and confused, was a face that he knew.

  He walked over to the Fiesta, yanked at the handle on the driver’s side door, pulled it open.

  “Get out, Fender. Get out of there, now.”

  Fender looked up at Rolly as if he were sick. He turned off the engine, reluctant and guilty, caught in a cognitive dissonance as noisy and dense as a Captain Beefheart LP.

  “Rolly, what are you doing here?”

  “The question is what are you doing here, Fender?”

  “I…I thought you were Walter.”

  “Walter’s not feeling well. I borrowed his car.”

  “What happened?”

  “Walter’s in the hospital. He tried to kill me. He trashed my house, my guitars.”

  Fender looked out through his windshield, away from Rolly.

  “You were there, weren’t you?” Rolly continued, suddenly seeing the Fiesta again, parked behind Walter’s Coupe DeVille back in Hillcrest.

  “He made me do it, Rolly. He threatened me. He told me he just wanted to talk to you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You were there.”

  “He made me stay. He said I couldn’t leave until he got back, that he was going to take care of things, once and for all. I had a headache. I was tired. I put the seat back and shut my eyes. The next thing I knew, Walter’s car had bumped into mine and was driving away. I thought you were Walter.”

  “So you followed me here.”

  “Yes. He told me I had to stay with him. I didn’t know it was you. You have to believe me.”

  Rolly didn’t have to believe anyone. He couldn’t afford to believe anyone now, but Fender’s story was not without logic or sense.

  “Is this what he wanted?” Rolly said, pulling the Magic Key from his pocket, brandishing it in front of Fender’s face.

  “Rolly, you found it! That’s great! ” Fender reached out his hand. Rolly stepped back.

  “Why did Walter come to my house?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. He said he had to talk to you. He told me he’d kill me if I told anyone else.”

  Rolly looked at Fender, his anger fading. Fender was scared. Fender had lived in fear his whole life, of schoolyard bullies, of women and sex, of bosses who demanded impossible things. Someone like Little Walter would make him crap in his pants.

  “I can’t give the key back yet. There’s something in this house I need to find.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s more to this than just the lost key. Curtis had some kind of secret, something he was trying to say.”

  “Curtis?”

  “Yes.” Rolly held up Walter’s keys. “I think this is a key to the house. I think that if Curtis’ computer is still in the house, it has something on it that will explain everything.”

  “What do you mean, explain everything?”

  “I can’t tell you, right now. But I’m going into the house. You can come in with me or leave.”

  Fender looked out at his windshield. He ran the thumb and forefinger of his left hand along his eyebrows, stroking them. His right hand still clung to the steering wheel, shaking a little. He made a decision, pulled his hand off the steering wheel, turned off the headlights. He stepped out of the car. He acted like a man who’d found new resolve.

  “I got you into this, Rolly. I should go with you.”

  They walked to the front door. Rolly inserted the key, turned the lock. The tall, heavy door swung open into the hall. Through the tall windows across the room, you could see the lights from downtown La Jolla, twinkling jewels set in the indigo ocean, peeking out through the fog. The lower edges of coastline had disappeared in the creeping gray layer of mist. It wouldn’t be long before the whole coastline was shrouded in fog all the way up to the cliffs.

  “So you got any idea where Curtis kept his computer?” Rolly asked Fender.

  “In the bedroom. Down at the end, up the stairs,” Fender said, leading the way. They crept down the hall, past the door that led onto the deck, and up the stairs to the room overlooking the pool. It was dark in the room, but a tiny green light shone out like a beacon. A computer was there. It was still powered up. Rolly stepped towards it, ready to unlock the secrets of the Magic Key.

  The Program

  The computer’s monitor sat on top of a large melamine desk, the computer case on the floor down below it. There was a king-sized bed next to the desk, a set of closet doors along the opposite wall, an open door that led to the bathroom. Rolly walked to the desk, tapped the keyboard. The monitor’s screen flickered to life. He got down on his knees, crawled under the desk. He pulled out his penlight, flipped it on, and directed the light at the back panel of the computer case. There were several odd looking connectors, but one of them looked about the right shape and size. He slipped the Ma
gic Key out of his pocket and pushed the end of it up against the connector, jiggled it a little until it slid into the slot. He pulled himself out from under the desk, rose to his knees, and looked at the screen. A couple of seconds passed, then the Eyebitz.com logo appeared on the desktop. He grabbed the mouse, double-clicked on the icon to open the disk, then double-clicked on the icon labeled “Start.” Up popped the message he’d seen on Marley’s computer—“Computer unknown. Encryption key not available.” He clicked the “Close” button. He had been sure the Magic Key would work on Curtis’ computer. There was still something missing.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s working,” Fender said as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “No,” Rolly said. He looked through the listing of files on the disk, a long list of numbers, trying to remember which one was the video file. He found one numbered 696969, double-clicked on it. Up came the video. Curtis might have had an IQ equal to Einstein, but his EQ was predictably Beavis and Butthead. With the video playing, Rolly tried double-clicking the start icon again. A blank window popped up. The computer churned for a couple of seconds. Then a new message was displayed.

  Encryption accepted. Waiting for hard drive insertion.

  “What’s that mean?” Fender asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s progress, at least.”

  Rolly was at a complete loss as to what he was supposed to do next. What needed to be inserted? Another disk? No one had said anything about a hard drive. He stared at the screen for another minute, puzzling it out in his head.

  “Rolly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it okay if I go to the bathroom?”

  Rolly looked over at Fender. “Go ahead.”

  Fender got up off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom door, closed it behind him. Rolly’s knees were beginning to ache, so he stood up. He walked to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony overlooking the pool. The moon shone on the dark rectangular surface of the water below. The answer was close. He had all the chords to the song now, had arranged them in order and played out the notes, but the arrangement was all in his head. He had to find a way to get it on paper, on tape, so that others could hear it, respond. He rubbed his eyes, looked at the reflection of himself in the glass. An idea popped into his head.