Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

  “That’s why she was there?”

  “Like I said earlier. It was this guy’s car. Somebody stole it last night. She came by to talk to him. That’s when I made the connection. I told her about you coming by earlier, showed her your card. She got real interested, started asking more questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “She said she’d be giving you a call. I wanted to let you know.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Burdon.”

  “It’s not Paul Barrere?”

  “This guy’s Mr. Burdon. He’s kinda weird.”

  “How so?”

  “Looks like a vampire. Black clothes and makeup. Lotta piercings.”

  “A Goth look, that kinda thing?”

  “I guess. Anyway, he lives in that condo.”

  “Thirteen-thirteen.”

  “Yeah. Real estate agent who came through told me about him. This kid coulda got out of the deal, after the developer went bankrupt. Everybody else did, but Mr. Burdon wanted that number, insisted that he got to keep the place, even after everybody else bailed out of the deal.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “A hearse.”

  “You mean like, for funerals?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, he’s kinda weird. You carry heat?”

  “What? You mean a gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “You might wanna consider it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your lady friend, the cop, I got the feeling there was something more serious going on.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m just saying, there’s a lot of bad stuff happens down at the border. They got some dangerous people floating around down there, both sides of the fence. You mighta stuck your nose in some nasty shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if this Burdon guy’s selling dope or something and that’s why his car got stolen. Those Mexican gangsters he’s dealing with, they’ll just as soon kill you as look at you. They don’t care about any damn birds.”

  “You think this is about drugs?”

  “I think it’s more than you wanna mess around with. Those drug fuckers’ll cut off your balls and stuff ‘em down your throat, kill you afterwards.”

  Rolly closed his eyes. He felt tired. Jimmy stood up, slapped him on the back.

  “Your police lady friend looks tough enough,” he said. “Let her handle these guys.”

  “Yeah,” said Rolly rubbing his temples. “I might do that.”

  His stomach hurt. He needed to eat.

  La Cena

  (The Dinner)

  Marley Scratch wiped his mouth with a large floral print napkin, dipped his fingers in his water glass, dried them with the clean side of the napkin.

  “OK,” he said. “Lemme see it.”

  Rolly passed the CD across the table. Marley inspected it, scratched at one side with his thumbnail, then inserted the CD into his laptop.

  “You know what’s on here?” he said.

  “No,” Rolly said. “This is the first time I’ve looked at it.”

  The two men sat in a back corner booth at the Villa Cantina, as far away as they could get from the front entrance. When Rolly arrived, there was a line out the door, but Vera directed him to the back corner as soon as he described the large black man with graying dreadlocks. Rolly navigated his way through the boisterous crowd to find Marley sitting alone in a dark red booth, noshing on chips and salsa and drinking a pink margarita.

  “Where’d you get this?” asked Marley.

  “There’s this state park near the border. I think it fell out of someone’s car.”

  “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  “Just tryin’ to find out what’s on there.”

  “Something wrong with your computer?”

  “I haven’t been home since this morning,” Rolly said. He had a clunky old HP at home that his mother had given him, but Marley knew how to find information he couldn’t – invisible files, hidden user names, password protections. Marley understood digitalia at far deeper level than he ever would. Rolly just clicked on things.

  “What’s your pleasure?” said Marley, adjusting the laptop screen so they could both see it.

  “Let’s try the photos first,” Rolly said, pointing at a folder labeled the same.

  “Dos Hermanas Bonitas,” said Marley, reading the caption on the first photo that opened. It was a picture of two teenaged girls, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with olive-brown skin and long black hair. The girls smiled at the camera, displaying youthful white teeth.

  “What’s that mean?” Rolly asked.

  “Two pretty girls?”

  “Sisters,” someone said. “Two pretty sisters.”

  A short man wearing a large sombrero and sporting a bushy fake moustache stood at the end of their table. It was Hector.

  “Who’re you supposed to be?” asked Rolly.

  “Take a guess.”

  “Yosemite Sam?”

  “Ayy, no, guess again.”

  “The Frito Bandito?” said Marley.

  “He’s my great, great uncle.”

  “Who?”

  “Pancho Villa.”

  “Oh,” said Rolly.

  “I’m wearing this outfit at the demonstration on Monday.”

  “You mean that MENCIA thing?”

  “Yeah. How do I look?”

  “I think you need gun belts or something,” said Marley. “Make you look bad-ass.”

  “Yeah, I’m trying to figure out how to work it so the border patrol doesn’t freak out. What’re you guys up to?”

  “Marley’s helping with my case.”

  “This is that Border Field Park thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So who are the chicas?”

  “I don’t know. We’re looking at this CD I found there this morning.”

  “You still think it’s the AFA guys?” Hector asked, seating himself next to Rolly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure be righteous if we could nail those bastards.”

  “Who’s the AFA?” asked Marley.

  “Border trash vigilantes,” said Hector. “Rolly’s gonna nail their asses.”

  “Cool beans,” said Marley. “I like working for the good guys.”

  “I don’t know that it’s them,” Rolly said. “I’m still looking into things.”

  “Let’s see some more pictures,” said Hector.

  Rolly nodded his head at Marley, indicating he should continue. Marley clicked through more pictures of the girls, unsmiling headshots, the kind you’d get at the DMV for your driver’s license.

  “Hold it,” said Rolly. Marley paused.

  The picture on screen looked different than previous ones. It was the same type of photo, but the girl in the picture had a cleft lip. It wasn’t a large deformity, but noticeable.

  “Go back one,” said Rolly. Marley returned to the previous picture.

  “Now forward.”

  “Looks like the same girl,” Hector said. “She must’ve had surgery or something.”

  “The eye lids are different, too,” Rolly said.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Hector. “They’re more Asian-like.”

  “Digital surgery maybe,” said Marley. “Might’ve been Photoshopped.”

  “Is there some way you can tell?”

  Marley brought up both pictures, put them next to each other, zoomed in on the pixels.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s a pretty good job if they did it.”

  “Let’s see the rest,” said Rolly.

  Marley clicked to the next picture. Rolly wished he hadn’t. It was a close-up of the girl’s pudendal cleft, surrounded by light pubic hair.

  “Hector!” cried a voice.

  The three men cringed, turned to find Vera walking up to their table. She looked steamed.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked. Marley reached back
towards the keyboard with one hand, closed the picture without looking.

  “It’s Rolly’s,” said Hector.

  Vera glared at Hector for a split second, turned her attention to Rolly. She raised one eyebrow and twisted her mouth, glaring at him. Rolly felt like a shamed thirteen-year-old.

  “I’m sorry, Vera,” he said. “I didn’t know that was on there. It’s part of my case.”

  Vera crossed her arms, turned back to Hector.

  “They need you back in the kitchen,” she said. “Not out here playing dress-up."

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Marco says they’re out of masa, or something.”

  “There should be some in the freezer.”

  “You need to talk to him. I never understand what he’s saying.”

  Hector took off his sombrero and moustache.

  “Sorry, guys. Let me know what you find out,” he said. He scurried out of the booth and back to the kitchen.

  The arrival of Marley’s dinner prevented any further opprobrium from Vera. She glared at the two men, then stomped off to deal with the restaurant’s more respectable clientele. Rolly ordered Huevos Rancheros and a soda water as Marley tucked into a steaming plate of dark red enchiladas.

  “Mind if I go through some stuff?” Rolly asked, indicating the laptop.

  “Help yourself,” said Marley. “Child porn ain’t my thing.”

  “I’ll think I’ll skip the photos for now,” Rolly said. “I wanna see what else is on here.”

  He pulled the computer onto his placemat, clicked to open a folder labeled ‘Papers.’ There were three files inside it. The first was a passport from the People’s Republic of China. There was a photograph of one of the girls on the passport. The name on the passport was Lei Dizi. Eighteen years old. The second file provided a list of common Spanish words, with what looked like matching Chinese translations. The last file was an entry form.

  “You know a TV show called Family Act?” Rolly said.

  “Never heard of it,” said Marley.

  “There’s an audition form for it on here.”

  “Any names on the form?”

  “No. It’s blank.”

  “Sounds like one of those reality things - America’s Super Talent, You’ve Got Balls, whatever. Zamora loves that shit.”

  “Who’s Zamora?”

  “My crib mate.”

  “What happened to Reggie?”

  “She got stuck on the marriage bag. Had to part ways.”

  “When was this?”

  “Almost a year ago. You ain’t been keepin’ up.”

  “I guess not.”

  Rolly returned to the computer, opened another folder entitled ‘BFB.’ There were several folders inside it. He clicked on a folder named ‘Maps.’ From there he selected a file labeled ‘setup.ini.’ The file opened, revealing a long list of numbers.

  “This stuff mean anything to you?” he said, turning the screen towards Marley. “It’s in a folder called maps.”

  Marley nodded.

  “Looks like coordinates,” he said, appraising the numbers on screen. “Read some other file names to me.”

  Rolly read through the file names.

  “Sounds like a mod,” Marley said. “Somebody’s setting up their own scenario.”

  “For what?”

  “A video game. A lot of games these days, they let you build your own scenarios, create your own maps and characters, import them into the game.”

  “Sounds kind of geeky.”

  “It’s not that hard, once you know the basics. Takes some time, though, to do it right. Guys that are into it post their files on the net, so you can download ‘em. Kind of an ego thing, getting a lot of downloads.”

  “Can you figure out what game this is?”

  “That might take some poking around. Try opening one of the files in the characters folder.”

  Rolly double-clicked on another file. A picture opened on screen.

  “It’s some kind of person, I guess,” he said. “But they’re all flattened out.”

  “Lemme see.”

  Rolly swiveled the computer around so Marley could see it.

  “That’s the mesh for the character mapping. It gets wrapped around a wireframe so it’s three-dimensional.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t recognize the character. Try some more.”

  Rolly opened more files.

  “This looks kind of like one of those girls,” he said, turning the screen back to Marley.

  “Hey, yeah. It does. That’s why the photos are there. The modder used them.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure. Probably explains why they’ve got so many.”

  “You think they used the naked stuff?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. A modder can do whatever he wants. It’s not an official release. Could be an Easter egg.”

  “There’s a Chinese passport here, too.”

  Marley scrutinized the passport.

  “Well, this ain’t really my line, but I’d bet that’s fake. Might be used in the game. As a token or something. You can probably check that number somewhere.”

  “Where’s the number?”

  “On the side there, it’s vertical, by the photo.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What’s this all about, anyway?” asked Marley.

  Rolly ran through the day’s events for Marley’s edification. As he finished his story, the waiter arrived with his dinner. He pushed the computer away to allow room for the plate.

  “That’s quite a puzzle you’re piecing together, Sir Roland,” said Marley. “You think all this stuff is connected?”

  “I have no idea,” said Rolly.

  “Mind if I see what else is on there?”

  “Help yourself,” Rolly said, blowing air across the top of the steaming fried eggs to cool them.

  Marley reached over, pulled the computer next to him, tapped at the keyboard.

  “There’s some music,” he said. “You wanna hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  Marley tapped once on the keypad. Music played over the computer’s thin speakers.

  “Hey, I know that riff,” Marley said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That piano part. I’ve heard it before. Somebody sampled it.”

  The singer’s voice came in over the rhythm track.

  I like touching you baby,

  all night long,

  Anaconda baby,

  our love so strong.

  “Yeah, that guitar and piano thing. They processed it some, but it’s the same riff.”

  “What’s the song called?”

  “It’s, uh… I’m trying to remember.”

  “No, no. The song that’s playing now. The file. What’s it called?”

  “Jungle Love,” Marley said.

  Rolly dropped his fork. It clattered against the ceramic plate, bounced off the table and fell to the floor. The band modulated into the chorus as the lead singer screamed.

  I am lost, in your jungle love.

  I am lost, in your jungle love.

  I am lost, in your jungle love.

  Lost, in your jungle of love.

  La Madre

  (The Mother)

  Rolly sat at one end of his living room sofa playing a nylon-stringed Cordoba guitar, serenading the pair of pink satin panties that lay on the cushion in front of him. He ran through scales on the fret board as he ran through the events of the day in his head, re-arranging his thoughts with each pass – the panties, the takeout order from Villa Cantina, the contents of the CD. He thought about Jaime the cowboy and the infamous groupie, Tangerine Swimmer. He thought about Nuge and the Goth kid Jimmy had told him about, the one whose hearse had been stolen. He figured at least one of them would be able to tell him how those tire tracks appeared in the least tern preserve at Border Field Park.

  He heard a creaking sound from outside, near the front door. The
re was someone on the porch. Three gentle taps sounded on the door, percussive accents to his guitar rhythm. He put the Cordoba down, glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. Only one person tapped on his door like that. He shoved the panties into the gap between the sofa arm and the cushion, walked to the front door and opened it. His mother stood on the porch, sporting a white gardenia in her hair, a red and black shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked like a chorus member in Carmen.

  “Buenas Noches, Señorita,” Rolly said.

  “Buenas Noches,” his mother giggled, “I saw your light. And I’ve had such an interesting evening.”

  “Mi casa es su casa,” Rolly replied, which was the literal truth of his housing situation. His mother owned the property. They were neighbors – landlord and tenant. She lived in the large Victorian at the front of the lot. He paid rent on the granny flat in the back. He swung the door open, swept his arm back with a flourish.

  “Entre por favor,” he said.

  “Muchas Gracias,” she said, stepping into the room.

  “De nada.” Between them, they’d used up half the Spanish they knew.

  “You left rather early this morning,” his mother remarked, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Your car was gone all day.”

  Rolly sat down at the table across from her. He crossed his arms, contemplating the flecks of green in the Formica tabletop. His mother bought the dining set for him when he moved in. She’d found it at the Salvation Army in East Village, a table and four padded chairs, which she’d purchased as a homecoming present for her new tenant.

  “I had some work this morning,” he explained, “And then we had a gig at Patrick’s.”

  “How was your musical engagement?”

  “Fine.”

  He hated answering questions about his performances. What was there to say – that he’d tried to play a whole set’s worth of solos from one fret position, just to amuse himself? That he’d told the band he would never, ever, play ‘Mustang Sally’ again? She wouldn’t understand, or really care. He changed the subject. He knew that look on his mother’s face. She had some grand adventure to regale.

  “You’re all dressed up,” he said.

  “Well, I passed by El Puente this morning on the way to my yoga class and I saw they were having a performance of Mariachi music this evening, some special group from Mexico. So I decided to go see it. Have you ever heard real Mariachi music before?”