“What panties thing?” Rolly asked again. Norwood continued his search.
“Hang on. I’ll show you. Here we go,” he said, pulling another album out of the stack. He flipped it over, perused the back cover.
“Tangerine Swimmer, that’s her name. It’s here in the credits. I think she wrote that song, too.”
“What song?”
“Jungle Love.”
Norwood handed the album to Rolly, pointed to the song listings on the back cover.
“You see. Osmond/Swimmer. Cliff Osmond, he was the guitar player. I bet this chick was his girlfriend or something.”
Rolly looked at the names, then flipped the album over to look at the photo on the cover. The larger picture looked even more like Tangerine, standing among the lush tropical fruits and plants. The picture was different though. The snake looked even more frightening as it slithered over her shoulder, between her breasts and down her belly. It covered her hips with its hood and faced out towards the viewer, its fanged mouth open, hissing, daring the viewer to get anywhere near it.
“X’Tabay,” said Rolly.
“What?”
“This cover’s different than the CD.”
“Like I said, they had to change it, after Tipper complained.”
“Who?”
“Tipper Gore.”
“Oh.”
“You see the hole here,” Norwood said, indicating a perfect round hole inside the snake’s mouth, about half an inch in diameter. “That’s where the panties went.”
Rolly pulled the panties out of his pocket.
“Like these?” he asked.
“Holy cowbell!” said Norwood, snatching the panties from Rolly’s hand. He checked the tag in the back, studying it closely. “Where’d you get these?”
“From this Mexican cowboy. I was down at the border this morning, at the bird sanctuary. I started talking to him. It’s a long story.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks for ‘em.”
“Uh...”
“It’s the right label. The lot number’s in the right range.”
“What?”
“Man, guitar players are stupid. These are the originals.”
“You’re saying these panties went with the album?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Norwood opened the side of album cover, shoved the panties in on top of the record platter, pressed them out flat. He held up the album for Rolly’s approval.
“You see,” he said. “They went on the inside. Inside the serpent’s mouth.”
“So to speak.”
“Tipper Gore and the PMRC got wind of it, made a big deal. Some stores wouldn’t carry the album. The record company caved, recalled the albums and made a new cover, air-brushed the photo, got rid of the panties. That’s what makes the original pressing so valuable.”
“How valuable?”
“I’ll throw in a three-pack of strings, on top of the twenty.”
“How valuable is the album?”
“I’ll give you thirty bucks for ‘em, plus the strings. Last offer.”
“I can’t. They’re evidence.”
“What’re you trying to prove?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Is this that detective stuff you do?”
“Yes,” Rolly nodded. “How much is the album worth with the panties?”
“Well,” said Norwood, “not that I’d ever do this, but shrink wrap the whole thing like it’s new, some collectors’ll pay a hundred, up to one-fifty, maybe even two bills.”
“And without the panties?”
“Without ‘em the record’s worth twenty bucks, like I said.”
“That’s a big difference.”
“Nothing like Today and Yesterday with the butcher cover, but pretty collectible.”
“I could almost pay for the Tele with that.”
“Don’t tempt me,” said Norwood. He held the front cover of the album out towards Rolly. “Here. Take ‘em back.”
Rolly pinched the patch of fabric between two fingers, gave a tug. The panties popped out of the cover like a Kleenex tissue. Norwood laughed.
“I just thought of something,” he said.
“What?”
“Maybe we could do an autograph party. With your girlfriend. If she’s got some copies, I mean. I’ll split the take.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“On the album, I mean. I could advertise it like that. It’d double the price, I bet.”
“You really think so?”
“It might. If it’s really her.”
Norwood looked at cover of the album.
“How old do you think she was, then?” he asked.
“Just old enough,” said Rolly.
“Shit, I just realized something.”
“What’s that?”
“This hip-hop record my daughter plays all the time. They sampled that freakin’ riff.”
“Hmm?”
“Jungle Love. That piano riff. They sampled it.”
“Oh.”
“I wish somebody’d sample one of my riffs. I went to an Al Kooper concert about a year ago, just him in this little church up in Normal Heights. He told this story about checking his bank account, finding an extra two hundred thousand in there. He calls his manager to see what’s going on. Manager tells him some rapper’s using a sample from one of Al’s old albums. Can you imagine that? Two-hundred-thousand ‘cause some hip-hopper lifted four bars from one of your records.”
“What album was it?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I don’t listen to that rap stuff.”
“I mean which Al Kooper album?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’ll bet it was ReKooperation. There’s a lot of funky instrumental stuff on there.”
“Who cares? That’s not the point. I’m just saying, you know, maybe I should send these rapper guys some of my albums. To help them get acquainted with my fine riffage.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“We almost got there, huh Rol?”
“What do you mean?”
“Fame. Money. Girls. The big stuff. All you want.”
“You got a record contract. I didn’t.”
“You got the best girl.”
“Hmm?”
“Leslie, wasn’t that your girlfriend’s name?”
“Yeah. Leslie.”
“Finest ass I ever saw on a woman. Nice face, too. You seen her lately?”
“She married some doctor.”
“The Royal Tingler,” Norwood chuckled. “She’s there for a second, just within reach, like the last line of coke laid out on the table in a room full of crack heads. Then she’s gone.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You got me waxing nostalgic today, thinking about our glorious past.”
“I don’t think about that kind of stuff anymore,” said Rolly. “I’m just happy if I get to play my guitar at the end of the day.”
“Amen to that,” Norwood said. “Amen.”
El Batería
(The Drummer)
At nightfall, the Santa Anas changed character. Knife-sharpening La Jolla housewives stopped studying their husband’s necks long enough to kick off their shoes and sit on verandas by perfect blue swimming pools, drinking tall glasses of frozen forgiveness and reminding themselves why they’d married the overstuffed jerks in the first place. Amid the hustle of the Gaslamp Quarter, Rolly Waters collapsed into a heavy iron chair on the patio in back of Patrick’s nightclub. He sipped at a club soda and lime, grateful for the cool night air, relief from the sauna-like atmosphere inside the club.
A breeze riffled through the brick-lined alley, bringing with it the smell of stale beer and discarded crab shells as it passed over the dumpsters. Rolly’s phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. He retrieved it, checked the caller name, put the phone up to his ear.
“Hey Marley,” he said.
“What’s up?”<
br />
“I got a CD I want you to look at. Some computer stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I need you to look at it.”
“There some coil in it?”
“I can pay you the hourly.”
“Where you hangin’?”
“Just finished a gig here at Patrick’s. I could stop by in a few.”
“I gotta eat.”
“You want me to bring something?”
“I was thinking of the Cantina. Why don’t you meet me there?”
“Sure. About fifteen, twenty minutes?”
“I’ll bring my laptop. If it needs more forensics, we’ll come back to the loft.”
“Sounds good.”
“See you there, bredren.”
Rolly hung up the phone, slipped it back in his pocket, felt the cool silk of the panties Jaime had given him. He pulled the panties out of his pocket, laid them neatly on one knee, and stared at them, as if hoping to divine their significance through concentrated study.
“Taking a trip down memory lane?” someone said. Rolly looked up. Moogus stood in the back doorway, drum cases packed on his cart. He eased the wheels of the cart down the steps, pulled up next to Rolly, reached down and picked up the panties.
“Looks like you got left holding the wrapper after somebody stole your candy.”
“I’ll take it over whatever that was you took home last night.”
“Low blow. I was desperate.”
“You’re always desperate,” Rolly said, shaking his head in mock disgust. Moogus would be hustling the nurses at his deathbed.
“Playing with some little girl’s panties looks pretty desperate to me,” said Moogus, tossing them back to Rolly.
“They’re evidence.”
“Evidence of your pitiful sex life?”
“This cowboy gave ‘em to me this morning.”
“He sweet on you or something?”
“No, no,” Rolly said. He slid his hand into the pocket on the other side of his jacket, pulled out the CD, pointed at the girl on the cover. “He told me they were hers. He asked me to give them to her.”
Moogus took the CD.
“I haven’t seen this in a while,” he said. “Tangerine Swimmer.”
“Wait. What? You know her name?”
“Sure. Tangie Swimmer.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Are you kidding? This chick’s in the groupie hall-of-fame.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Ferocious. Total sex machine.”
“How do you know that?”
“Creem Magazine. They did a whole series on rock stars’ favorite groupies.”
“When was this?”
“Shit. I don’t know. A long time ago. I was a randy young skin beater anticipating the rewards of my future rock-god status.”
“How’d that work out for you?”
“I’m still a rock god to some.”
“Like that psycho you took home last night?”
“They can’t all be Royal Tinglers,” Moogus said, handing the CD back to Rolly. “I doubt this chick looks that good anymore, either. That album’s twenty years old. Some of those old groupies get pretty hagged out.”
“I saw her. I talked to her.”
“No shit. Where was this?”
“She lives in a house, near the cowboy, the one who gave me the panties.”
“They’re getting it on?”
“He thinks they are. He thinks she’s some jungle goddess that’s going to kill him because he had sex with her. That’s why he gave me the panties.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What happened?”
“She said the panties weren’t hers. She said the cowboy’s been spying on her. Out by her pool. It got kind of weird after that.”
“Weird how?”
“She said she likes it. Having guys spy on her.”
“An exhibitionist huh? She still got something worth seeing?”
“Definitely. She’s had some work, though.”
“Well, that could go in your favor.”
“She said I was a snake.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She said she likes snakes.”
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I asked her some more questions, about my case.”
“You are a sad little man.”
“It was work. I can’t be messing around.”
“Utter lack of respect is what I’d call it.”
“What?”
“C’mon, think about it. She’s getting older. The boys in the band don’t call anymore. The woman’s a legend. And you won’t even give her a little sympathy shtup.”
“The cowboy freaked me out, I guess. It was weird.”
Moogus laughed.
“Yeah, well I should talk. I had my shot. That’s really the reason I remember her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I picked her up outside of Pelicans one night. Back in the day. Gave her a ride to the bus station. A year later she’s on the cover of that album, getting it on with every hotshot guitar player in L.A.”
“You’re sure it was her?”
“Dead sure. It was the same night that guy stabbed Big Jimmy.”
“I don’t remember that.”
”I do. Clear as if it was yesterday. The police were gone. Everybody’s gone. I’m packing the last of my gear when she comes sidling up, barefoot, got on a bikini top and one of those swishy cotton skirts. Asks if I can give her a ride, acting all soft and lonely like. You know me, I’m a sucker for a little belly showing.”
“That’s a long time ago. You’re sure it was her?”
“It was the album. That’s why she stuck in my head, ‘cause the album came out about a year after. I recognized her.”
“You took her home?”
“I took her to the bus station and gave her some money.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“No. Really.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Moogus I remember.”
“Yeah. I know. Hard to believe I didn’t take advantage of the situation. She was kinda strange, though. Something just wasn’t right. That whole thing with Jimmy might’ve freaked me out, I guess. I wasn’t on my game.”
“Did Big Jimmy really get his dick cut off?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Norwood says you told him.”
“Wasn’t me. I don’t know where he heard that.”
“It’s not true, then?”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“You remember anything else, about the girl?”
“She had this little guitar with her. Carrying it on her back. That’s when things got weird.”
“Yeah?”
“I asked her about it. She said it belonged to her husband.”
“What’s so weird about that?”
“Nothing. I said something about her being kind of young to be married. She told me she married the serpent.”
“The serpent?”
“Yeah, she started going on with this whole story, kind of biblical like, dominion and damnation, weird kind of stuff. I couldn’t make head or tail of it. Freaked me out, especially after Jimmy got cut up like that. Must’ve been a full moon that night.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She asked about the lost angels. She said that’s where her husband was. With the lost angels.”
“You think she meant Los Angeles?”
“That’s what I decided. Believe me, I was ready to unload this chick. She was too weird, even for me.”
“So you drove her to the bus station?”
“Gave her ten bucks for a ticket and booted her out the door. That’s the last I saw of her until she showed up on that album cover.”
“Serpent’s the name of the band.”
“Yeah, I made the connec
tion. Maybe that’s why it stuck in my mind. Anyway, that’s my story. Did you get the money from Gina yet?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m gonna put this stuff in my car. I’ll be back,” Moogus said, “Looked like there was some sweet stuff sitting by the front window.”
“I’ll get the money,” said Rolly, “You’ll need it for penicillin.”
Moogus laughed, set off down the alley, dragging the handcart and drum cases behind him. Twenty years ago, he brought two bass drums to gigs, a rack of six tom-toms, as many cymbals. There was an old joke about the inverse relationship between the size of a drummer’s kit and his manhood. Rolly had no information on the truth of that, but there was a connection between a drummer’s age and how much equipment he brought to a gig. Starting around thirty-five, guys started whittling it down, making due with the basics, unless they were rock stars, of course, with roadies for portage. Moogus wasn’t a rock star. Moogus was just a working stiff, like Rolly and everyone else in the club.
Rolly stood up, walked inside, found Gina. She counted out the night’s wages in tens and twenties, plus mixed change from the tip hat. He grabbed another club soda, walked back to the patio. There was someone in his chair.
“Jimmy. What’re you doing here?”
“You know that car you were looking for?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, it’s just that, I think maybe I coulda helped you more earlier. There is somebody. One guy. I didn’t think about him.”
“A security guard?”
“No. There’s one guy lives in the building. I forgot about him. Thirteen-thirteen.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s his unit. Thirteenth floor. He’s the owner.”
“I guess he’s not the superstitious type.”
“It was his car,” Jimmy said. “Somebody stole it.”
“He told you that?”
“No. A friend of yours did.”
“Huh?”
“A cop came by after you left. Some chick. Blonde, all buffed out, kind of dykey?”
“Bonnie?”
“She said she knew you.”
“Bonnie Hammond?”
“Yeah. I think that was it. She wouldn’t be half-bad looking if she let her hair grow or something, maybe cut back on the steroids.”
“What’d she want?”
“The cops have the car. The one you’re looking for. They found it down near the border last night.”
Border Field Blues Page 6
