Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

  “Twelve-zero-two Tenth Avenue. In the lobby. Two carne asada burritos. Okay, give us about twenty minutes. Yes. Yes. All right then. Goodbye and have a great day!”

  Hector flipped the phone shut. He laughed.

  “See,” Hector said. “I told you I could take care of it. No problem.”

  Vera tore the address from the notepad, handed it over to Rolly.

  “It’s like four blocks away,” Hector said.

  “Who’s James?” Rolly asked.

  “I don’t know. He answered the phone.”

  “What about Paul Barrere?”

  “James never heard of him. I figured you could scope it out when you get there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can be our delivery boy. Take him his lunch.”

  Rolly frowned.

  “I guess that would work.”

  “Nobody gets suspicious when you give them something for free,” said Hector. “I’m a genius.”

  “Yeah, you’re a genius,” said Vera. “Except we don’t carry any gift certificates.”

  El Rascacielos

  (The High-rise)

  Rolly opened the glass front door of the high-rise condominium located three blocks up the street from the Villa Cantina and walked into the lobby. A gigantic security guard sat behind the front desk. It looked like the guy went at least three hundred pounds, most of it fat.

  “Hello,” said Rolly.

  “Good morning,” said the guard. A large red rash ran across the guard’s left ear, along his pink, porcine cheek and down his neck, where it tapered away into the overstuffed collar of his blue shirt.

  “I’m looking for someone named James,” Rolly said.

  “That’d be me.”

  “You’re James?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I’m from the Villa Cantina.”

  “You got my burritos?”

  “Yes,” said Rolly, placing the takeout container on the desk.

  “They said something about a gift certificate?” said the guard.

  Rolly reached in his pocket, pulled out the printed certificate Hector had cobbled together on the computer in the Villa Cantina’s back office.

  “Here you go,” he said, placing the envelope on top of the take-out container. “Fifty dollars minus this order comes to thirty-seven-fifty.”

  “Now how ‘bout that twenty dollars you owe me?” said the guard.

  “What?”

  “You owe me twenty dollars.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Sir Roland owes me twenty bucks.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “You’re Rolly Waters, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Also known as Sir Roland the Stratomaster?”

  “I haven’t heard that one in a while,” Rolly said, studying the man’s face, trying to place him. The appellation, Sir Roland, went back to his earliest days, when he’d set out with his guitar every night of the week, on the lookout for any band that would let him sit in, any gig he could find. Moogus had crowned him with the title one night after Rolly wielded his six-string in especially noble and wondrous style.

  The guard flipped open the takeout container, leaned down and inhaled the aroma of the burritos.

  “That’s a Royal Tingler, for sure,” he said.

  “Jimmy?” said Rolly. “Big Jimmy?”

  The guard laughed. The sound of his laugh was a big as the man, and confirmed Rolly’s reckoning. James Bodeans, aka Big Jimmy, had been the bouncer at Pelicans bar in Imperial Beach twenty years ago, maintaining order, rousting bikers, surf bums and swabbies with equal prejudice, back when The Creatures were Pelican’s house band, when malfeasance buzzed around the band like a swarm of human flies.

  “Had you going, didn’t I?” said Jimmy.

  “You shaved your beard,” Rolly said. “You look different.”

  “Yeah. Cleaned up my act.”

  “What’s this twenty bucks I owe you?”

  “I loaned it to you my last night on the job. Before that guy stabbed me.”

  “Somebody stabbed you?”

  “Yeah. I still got the I.O.U. Signed by Sir Roland.”

  “With a knife?”

  “Yeah. With a knife. Punk-ass little Mexican dude. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

  “What happened?”

  “This little beaner started hassling some girls in the line, so I kicked him out, told him to go back to his own country. Guy comes back in a couple of minutes with a switchblade. Sticks it in me. Four times. Woulda stabbed me some more, but these jar heads standing in line jumped the guy, beat the crap out him.”

  “It was your last night?”

  “Well, it didn’t start out that way, but that’s what I decided after I got home from the hospital. Something like that kinda makes you reconsider your way of living, got me started on the straight and narrow, if you know what I mean.”

  “We were playing that night?”

  “Sure. I remember the song you were playing, right after I got stabbed, that Madonna thing you used to do - ‘My girl’s a sad-eyed Madonna...’”

  “Every night she’s praying for me,” Rolly said, completing the couplet.

  “Yeah. That’s it. The ambulance is there. The lights are flashing and the paramedics are trying to talk to me, but all I can hear is that damn song. And I saw her, you know. Madonna. I’m sure I’m about to die and I see her floating there in front of me. She had that pointy metal bra on.”

  “It wasn’t about that Madonna.”

  “Oh yeah? I always thought it was about her. Well that’s who I saw, anyway. I must’ve been hallucinatin’ or something. That was your song, right?”

  “Yeah. I wrote it.”

  “Well then, you must have been there.”

  “Sorry. I don’t remember,” Rolly said. “I wasn’t always...sober in those days.”

  “Nobody was sober in that place. That’s why I had to get out.”

  “I can pay you,” said Rolly, reaching for his wallet.

  “Forget it. Like I’m going to care now.”

  “No. I want to give it back.”

  Rolly pulled a twenty out of his wallet. He handed the bill to Jimmy.

  “Square?” he asked.

  “Square,” said Jimmy, taking the money. “So what’re you doing? Working as a delivery boy or something?”

  “Just this once. As a favor. You eat over there much?”

  “I been a couple of times. Seems a little pricey when I can go to Roberto’s and get three burritos for less dinero.”

  “Yeah. I hear you. Were you working here last night?”

  “What time?”

  “Around ten.”

  “Nah. I was on the road then. What’s going on?”

  “Somebody called in an order from this phone number.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The guy who called you, from the Villa Cantina with the gift certificate. He did it for me.”

  Big Jimmy gave Rolly a blank look.

  “You know, I’m not the smartest guy in the building,” he said. “And there ain’t nobody here except you and me.”

  “Someone called the restaurant last night. About ten. With a takeout order. Paul Barrere?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “This guy calls every week. Same order. That’s how I got your address, when the guy from the restaurant called you about the gift certificate.”

  “Okay. I get it. I think.”

  “You weren’t on duty last night?”

  “Not at ten. Wasn’t my shift.”

  “Is there a guard after you?”

  “Sure. I don’t remember his name, though.”

  “Who else uses the phone?” Rolly said, indicating the phone on the desk.

  “No one, as far as I know. There’s nobody here.”

  “No one else uses it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Nobody lives here.”

&
nbsp; “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really. This place is empty. Some kinda lawsuit or something. All the buyers backed out.”

  “The whole place is empty?”

  “Like I said. Why’s that restaurant sending you over here? Didn’t this guy pay or something?”

  Rolly reached in his pocket, pulled out a business card. He handed it to Jimmy.

  “I’m looking into a car accident. It’s an insurance claim. Whoever picked up the order last night might know something about it.”

  “No shit,” Jimmy said. He leaned back in his chair, perused Rolly’s business card.

  “Rolly Waters. The Rock ‘n’ Roll Dick.”

  “Moogus came up with that.”

  “Figures. How’s it work with the ladies?”

  Rolly shrugged for an answer.

  “Not like the old days, huh?” said Jimmy.

  “No.”

  “You guys must’ve collected more panties than Elvis.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Not that I’m complaining. Peons like me got to pick over the leftovers. Moogus is still around, huh?”

  “I’m playing with him tonight.”

  “That guy cracked me up. Where you playing?”

  “Patrick’s. Fourth and F.”

  “Man, I can’t believe you guys still play together, the way you fought all the time. I’m surprised you’re both alive.”

  “I’m surprised too. Just lucky, I guess.” He and Moogus had been lucky. Matt, The Creatures lead singer, hadn’t been.

  “Those were good times, though, huh? While they lasted.”

  “Sure. Listen, you know any way I might be able to get this guy’s name?”

  “What guy?”

  “The security guard. The one who was here last night. After you.”

  “You think he’s your guy?”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Have you espied the Royal Tingler?”

  “Hmm?”

  “That’s what you and Moogus always asked me when you went on break.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t remember, huh? I used to spot for you. Pick out the best looking girls in the room.”

  “The Royal Tinglers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Big Jimmy took care of things for you guys. I kept that place under control.”

  “You sure did. Listen, about this other guard, is there someone I can call, this company you work for, they’d have the schedule or something?”

  “Sure. Pantera. Give them a call.”

  “Pantera?”

  “Yeah. Pantera Security. That’s who I work for. Google ‘em.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “Say, this gift certificate. It’s legit, right?”

  “Better be. I paid fifty bucks for it,” Rolly said. Fifty bucks he’d have to charge Max.

  “They got good food there. I don’t go much ‘cause it’s expensive.”

  “You should get a few meals outta that.”

  “Takes a few meals to keep this body going.”

  Rolly smiled.

  “Sorry I can’t stick around longer, but I gotta see somebody. Good to see you, again.”

  “You too.”

  Rolly walked to the front door, pulled it open.

  “Hey Rolly,” said Jimmy.

  “Yeah?”

  “I took care of you guys, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you sure did.”

  It was true, Rolly thought to himself, as he walked down the sidewalk. Big Jimmy took care of them, treated them like they were special. It had been a long time since he’d thought about Pelicans, the notorious beach dive where the band learned its trade, when sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll were his holy trinity. Drugs, by necessity, disappeared from his life. Sex was rare. The music he played was more subdued – straight blues, country swing, New Orleans second-line, the smaller capillaries feeding into the big rock and roll heart. No one took care of the band now, not like Big Jimmy did then, making sure the good-looking girls, the royal tinglers, sat up front. Jimmy would bring drinks for the girls too, compliments of the band, on the house. He’d been the band’s spotter, their confidant, and their protector. In the language of recovery Rolly learned in therapy, Big Jimmy had been their enabler.

  La Tienda

  (The Store)

  Norwood’s Mostly Music sold used guitars and old vinyl records, a smattering of related items. It was the kind of place aficionados loved – a dank cavern, hostile to dilettantes. Norwood’s Mostly surrendered its secrets to customers who weren’t in a hurry, who could see past the dingy carpet and poorly labeled displays. Parents didn’t bring their teenagers into Norwood’s to slap down nine hundred bucks for a shiny new Kramer or to pick up the latest CD from Lady Gaga.

  “You got some money for me?” said Rob Norwood, looking up from the back counter as Rolly walked into the shop.

  “I just need some guitar strings,” said Rolly.

  “D’Addarios OK?”

  “Yeah. Just one pack. Nines.”

  Norwood squatted down behind the counter, searched through a drawer. He’d played the same clubs as Rolly had, many years ago. Norwood’s band released two albums on Mercury before the label dropped them. The band broke up soon after. Norwood cut his losses, married rich, to a woman he could tolerate. Their union had produced one precocious daughter who kept her father wrapped around her finger like a tourniquet. The shop was more a hobby than a business for Norwood, a place he could hang out with musical friends, reminisce on the past, discuss the relative merits of Kings – B.B., Albert and Freddy. Ignorant customers were treated like unworthy intruders. Rob Norwood was an encyclopedia when it came to classic guitars and collector’s vinyl.

  “I don’t have any nines,” he said, rooting through the drawer. “How about tens?”

  “Any Ernie’s?”

  “Not in nines.”

  “I guess I’ll take tens then.”

  Norwood shut the drawer and stood up, tossed the strings on the counter top.

  “Pussies play nines, anyway,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You know you’re overdue on that Tele payment, too.”

  “I haven’t forgotten it,” said Rolly. He’d put fifty dollars down on a flame-burst MIM Telecaster two months ago, but hadn’t paid a dime since.

  “I need fifty more by the end of the month or it goes back on the shelf.”

  “How much are the strings?”

  “Six bucks.”

  “They used to be five.”

  “Janis says I gotta break even this year.”

  “Here’s a twenty. Put the rest on the Tele.”

  “Looks like my kid will go to college after all,” Norwood said, taking the bill.

  “Only if she’s got her mother’s brains,” Rolly replied.

  “Yeah,” Norwood guffawed. “That and my good looks, she’ll make valedictorian and homecoming queen.”

  “Can I show you something?” Rolly asked, as Norwood wrote up a receipt.

  “As long as it ain’t your dick.”

  Rolly pulled the CD case out of his jacket pocket, placed it on the counter.

  “What about it?” Norwood said, after a cursory glance.

  “You know this album?”

  “Sure. Serpent. Released three albums. This was their third. They broke up afterwards.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Title track was a minor FM hit. Had that cheesy toy piano riff? Di-di-di-dee-dee-di-di-dee-dee.”

  “I’m interested in the girl.”

  “Nice piece of ass, huh? They musta sold half the albums ‘cause of that cover.”

  “You know her name?”

  “I used to. Geez, what was it?”

  “Tangerine?”

  “Yeah. She was kind of famous there for awhile, ‘cause of this cover.”

  “I met a woman this morning. I think it’s her.”

&
nbsp; “She still a Tingler?”

  “She’s older.”

  “You’d still do her though, right?” Norwood said.

  Rolly shrugged.

  “Well, she was a Royal Tingler back then,” Norwood said. “A lot of fourteen-year-old boys holding this cover up with one hand.”

  “Now you sound like Jimmy.”

  “Who?”

  “Big Jimmy. Remember him? From Pelicans.”

  “Was he that bouncer got his dick cut off?”

  “I don’t know about that. He only told me somebody stabbed him.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing you run around telling people.”

  “Yeah. I guess. Where’d you hear that?”

  “I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

  “He said we were playing that night.”

  “Well, Moogus was probably the one who told me about it.”

  “So the story got Moogusized.”

  “Moogusized and elasticized, no doubt. Anyway, that’s what I remember hearing. Hey, I got a new one. You know the difference between a drummer and a vibrator?”

  Rolly shrugged.

  “No. What?”

  “Women aren’t embarrassed to have vibrators in the house,” said Norwood, laughing at his own joke. “Where’d you run into Big Jimmy?”

  “He works just up the street here, at that high-rise condo. He’s a security guard.”

  “Is that where your lady friend lives?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl on the cover. You said you met her, right?”

  “Not there. She’s in this house down by the border.”

  “You think you might see her again?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I just had a thought, if it’s really her...”

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe she’s got some of the original pressings. With the recalled covers.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’d give her a good deal on ‘em,” said Norwood. He walked out from behind the counter, and over to the crates of records stacked against the wall, started flipping through them. “Tipper Gore and her bunch were all over this, ‘cause of the panties thing.”

  “What panties thing?” asked Rolly.

  “What the hell is this doing in here?” Norwood said, setting an album aside. Rolly glanced at the discarded album cover – “The Carpenters Greatest Hits.” Norwood re-sorted his album collection on a regular basis, on various whims. Alphabetizing wasn’t one of them.