“You got some extra pounds on you too, un poco gordo,” the orderly continued. “That don’t help much, gives you the man titties. You got to stay in good shape if you want to make the hard thing for your whores.”
The orderly rested his hands on the sofa, stroked the cushions. He leaned down to inspect something, raised an eyebrow.
“Oh amigo, I think you are not telling me something,” the orderly said. He pulled a metal blade from his pocket protector, inserted it between the seat cushions and extracted the panties. He dangled them at arm’s length on the point of the blade, performing a clinical inspection.
“I thought you did not have a girlfriend,” he said.
“I don’t.”
“Whose are these?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your whore did not leave them here?”
“No.”
Rolly shrugged. The man stubbed his joint out on the Cordoba guitar, flicked the butt into the corner of the room. He stood up, walked to the table, squatted down and spread the pink panties on the floor in front of Rolly.
“You know what I think, amigo?” he said.
“No,” said Rolly.
“I think you are one of those men who likes to wear the panties sometimes. The whores, they tell me about men like you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rolly said.
The orderly smiled, inspected his fingernails, used the scalpel blade to scrape at something under the nail of his left middle finger, and inspected the nail again. Grooming complete, he slid the scalpel back under the panties, lifted them up on the point of the blade, dangled them in front of Rolly’s face.
“What do you want?” Rolly asked.
The little orderly grinned in a sick kind of way.
“I want you to put on the panties,” he said.
La Policía
(The Police)
Rolly stared at the panties dangling in front of his face.
“Someone gave those to me,” he protested.
“You have the boyfriend, yes?” said the orderly. “I see the men who live around here, the fancy boys. Maybe your boyfriend likes you to wear these?”
Rolly sighed.
“Put them on,” the orderly said, jiggling the panties on the tip of his scalpel.
“What if I don’t?”
“Muy doloroso. Much of the pain for you.”
Rolly heard a noise from outside, the sound of a car pulling into the gravel driveway. The orderly heard it too. He stood up, walked to the window and parted the drapes.
“Gringo, did you call the police?”
Rolly said nothing. A car door slammed. His inquisitor whistled.
“Ooh, it is a chica. Maybe she is your novia, eh?”
“No.”
“Ay, she looks strong. Muy fuerte. You put on the little panties for her, I think?”
“No.”
“I think that’s why you got the problems with your salchicha. Your sperm gets all frighted and swims away.”
The orderly made a little swimming motion with his hand, and stepped away from the window.
“What are you going to do?” asked Rolly.
“You keep them,” the orderly said, tossing the panties at Rolly. He slipped the scalpel back into his pocket protector. “I like your guitar. I will buy it from you.”
“It’s not for sale...”
“Do not argue with me, amigo. You must say I have purchased the guitar from you.”
Rolly heard footsteps on the porch. There was a knock on the door.
“I will pay you the good money,” the orderly said. He reached in his pants pocket and extracted a wallet. “Comprende, amigo? I am not a thief.”
Rolly nodded his head.
“I comprende.”
There was another knock.
“Go. Now,” the orderly said.
Rolly crawled out from under the table, stood up, and stashed the panties in his front pocket. He took a deep breath, smoothed his rumpled shirt, walked to the door and opened it. Police detective Bonnie Hammond stood on the porch. For the first time in his life, Rolly felt relieved to find a law enforcement representative outside his door.
“Hey, Bonnie,” he said, swinging the door wide open to make sure each party could see the other. “What’s up?”
“Thought you might like to go for a ride with me this morning,” Bonnie replied. She spotted the little orderly, moved her arms into a more guarded position. The orderly took his cue, waved some money in the air and placed it on the table.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said, picking up the Cordoba. “It is a pleasure to do business with you.”
Bonnie moved to the side of the porch as the little orderly stepped outside. Rolly resisted an urge to scream. If he didn’t play along, the little orderly would slash Bonnie’s throat before she could get the strap off her gun. He’d kill Rolly at his leisure.
“Good morning, officer,” said the orderly, passing Bonnie on the porch, “I hope my fine musician friend here isn’t in any trouble.”
“No trouble,” said Bonnie, maintaining her guard. The little orderly stepped off the porch, walked out the driveway to the street. He glanced back at them, smiled in a way that was less than reassuring. Then he and the Cordoba guitar were gone.
“Friend of yours?” said Bonnie.
“I just met him. He bought a guitar.”
“Yeah, so I heard. Can I come in?”
“Sure,” Rolly said, turning back into the house.
“It smells like dope in here,” Bonnie said, as she walked into the living room. “I thought you were done with that stuff.”
“That guy lit up a joint,” Rolly said. “Guess he assumed it was okay since I’m a guitar player.”
He picked up the money the orderly left on the table – forty dollars, a tenth of what the Cordoba was worth.
“I didn’t think musicians were up this early in the morning,” said Bonnie.
“You know me. I get all the weirdos.”
“That’s for sure. How about that ride?”
“You mean now?”
“You got something better to do?”
“Is this about that stolen car?”
“What car would that be?”
“The one your guys towed out of Border Field Park early yesterday.”
“Maybe. I got some things we need to talk about. Let’s go.”
“Where‘re we headed?”
“Just get ready. We’ll talk on the way.”
Rolly went into the bathroom, closed the door, sat down on the toilet, stared at his quivering hands. He didn’t want to tell Bonnie what had just happened, not yet, not until he knew what she was up to, why she wanted to drag him out of the house at this ungodly hour. He got up from the toilet, slapped a stick of deodorant under his arms, knocked back a brace of antacids, and ran a wet comb through his hair. Returning to the bedroom, he opened the dresser. The little orderly’s assessment wasn’t far off. Rolly’s sartorial selection was almost monastic, black shirts and jeans, a penitent man’s sackcloth and ashes. Guitars were his only study now, his spiritual guide. No drugs. No alcohol. No women. Guitars didn’t make him stupid the way those things did. Still, he wished he had a bottle in front of him now, and a long-legged female around him. Guitars weren’t always enough.
He changed clothes, walked back into the living room, picked up his cell phone and keys.
“Ready,” he announced to Bonnie.
They walked outside. Rolly locked the door, glanced across the yard to see if his mother was awake. There were no lights on in the house, no sign of activity in her kitchen window. He walked to the passenger side of Bonnie’s patrol car, relieved he wouldn’t have to explain its presence in the driveway. He climbed in, fastened his seat belt. Bonnie put the car into gear, backed out of the driveway.
“Tell me about your friend Jimmy,” she said, as they merged onto the freeway, headed north.
“He’s not really my friend. I haven
’t seen him in twenty years. Until yesterday.”
“He said you were working on something, at Border Field Park?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Somebody hired me.”
“What for?”
“My client was down there yesterday morning, counting birds for some census. Audubon Society, something like that. Anyway, he spotted these tire tracks in the preserve, like somebody had gone off-roading through this protected area for the least terns.”
“The what?”
“California least terns. They’re some kind of endangered seabird. Lays eggs in the sand. Anyway, my friend was pissed off about it. He didn’t think the rangers or border patrol would do anything, so he hired me to try and track down the guy that did it.”
“Did your client call the police?”
“He didn’t figure it was your jurisdiction.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is it?”
“No. Not for something like that. What’d you find out?”
“I went into the least tern area, followed the tracks. They crushed some nests, killed at least one baby bird that I saw. It looked like he might have got stuck. There were some deep ruts. I got some pictures on my phone if you want to see them.”
“This was inside the park?”
“Yeah. I guess your guys’d towed him out already.”
“The car we picked up was outside the park, in the reeds like it went off the road.”
“It’s not the same one?”
“I didn’t say that. What time were you down there?”
“I guess around seven-thirty.”
“How about your client?”
“He called me at six-thirty, probably got there at dawn.”
“What’s his name?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I’m gonna need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“Have a look at that folder there.”
Bonnie indicated a file folder on the seat cushion between them. Rolly picked up the folder. There was a case number written on the file tab. He opened the folder. It was a preliminary autopsy report. There were photographs inside of a young woman, a girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, her naked brown body and long dark hair laid out on a metal table like a dead robin in an ornithological display. Her body looked whole, unviolated by blade, bullet or blunt instrument. The coroner hadn’t opened her up. Rolly felt grateful for that much. The morning’s events had unsettled his stomach enough.
“Why am I looking at this?” he asked.
“Did you read it?”
“Not yet.”
“Well read it.”
He turned his attention to the written report. Jane Doe. Body discovered at eight-fifteen yesterday morning. Location Border Field Park. Estimated time of death between twelve and two that same morning. He looked back at Bonnie.
“Her body was there, wasn’t it? When I was there?”
“Looks like it.”
“Where’d they find her?”
“On the beach. Hung up on one of those metal pilings where the border fence goes into the ocean. You didn’t see her?”
“No.”
“You sure? Maybe something related?”
“I’m pretty sure,” he replied, trying to recall if he’d seen anything that could have been the girl’s body, a lump of flesh in the surf. “What happened to her?”
“Preliminary is drowning.”
“Maybe a border crosser?”
“Maybe.”
“You think this is related to my bird people?”
“I’d like to talk to your client.”
“He didn’t see anything. He would have told me. He would have called the police.”
“You sure?”
“There’s no way he’s involved in this, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”
“Good. Then you can tell me who he is.”
“I’ll give him your number.”
“I can get a court order if I need to.”
“I’ll have him call you. He’s got nothing to do with it.”
Rolly returned his attention to the report, hoping the discussion of his client was over. He flipped through the rest of the photographs, wondering if the little orderly would recognize the girl in the photos, if this was Rio, her last dance on the sand. The last photo was a close-up of the girl’s left buttock. She had a small scar like the letter ‘m’ with an extra loop.
“What’s this?” he asked, showing the photo to Bonnie.
“Don’t worry about that,” she replied. “Did you finish the report yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Finish it.”
He read through the rest of the report, closed the folder. One particular item disturbed him, a description of the girl’s underwear.
“Who found the body?” he asked.
“A woman and her daughters. They were out on horses with a guide.”
“Was his name Jaime? The guide?”
“You’re referring to Mr. Velasquez?”
“I don’t know his last name. He rents horses. I met him down there yesterday.”
“Mr. Velasquez mentioned your name.”
“What’d he say?”
“Just that you’d been down there earlier, asking questions. He showed me your card.”
Rolly reached in his pocket, found the panties.
“I guess he told you about these too?” he said, pulling them out of his pocket.
“What are those?”
“Panties. Like the ones your Jane Doe was wearing.”
Bonnie glanced at the panties, looked back out at the road.
“Where’d you get those?”
“Jaime gave them to me. Didn’t he tell you?”
Bonnie cocked her head an inch to one side, pursed her lips.
“No,” she said.
“I hate it when you do that,” said Rolly.
“What’s that?”
“I made things look bad for him, didn’t I?”
“We’ll see. What’d he tell you?”
Rolly told Bonnie the story of Jaime’s ghost, X’Tapay. He told her about the red-haired woman who lived in the house on Smuggler’s Canyon. Tangerine.
“That’s quite a story,” Bonnie said, when he’d finished. “Quite a story. I’ll need you to surrender those, by the way.”
“The panties?”
Bonnie nodded.
“You got a warrant?”
“Those are evidence.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, they’ve got my fingerprints all over ‘em.”
“I expect they do.”
“Doesn’t that fall under some law against self-incrimination?”
“I know the law.”
“You know about the record album that goes with the panties?”
“No. I don’t know about any record album.”
“It’s called Jungle Love. By Serpent. I found the CD in the park. This woman, Tangerine, she’s on the front cover. When she was younger, of course.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Rolly described the CD cover, told Bonnie about his visit to Norwood’s Mostly, Rob Norwood’s estimate of the combined value of the original record and panties.
“A hundred bucks, huh?” Bonnie said, when he’d finished.
“Maybe two. What do you think?”
“I think it might explain some things.”
“About what?”
“The car that was stolen.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. There was a whole box of those records in back.”
El Coche
(The Car)
Rolly and Bonnie stood in front of lot space number twenty-three in the San Diego Police department’s automobile recovery yard, contemplating a distressed black hearse. It had tinted front windows and shiny silver hubcaps, but the paint job was scratched, the bumper pitted with early rust.
“You got th
ose tire shots?” asked Bonnie.
Rolled pulled out his phone, scrolled through the photos until he found the tread marks he’d taken pictures of yesterday morning. He handed the phone to Bonnie. She crouched down in front of the right front tire, comparing the treads to the ones in Rolly’s photo.
“Whattya think?” Rolly asked.
“Can’t rule them out,” she said.
“There’s more,” said Rolly. “You can scroll through ‘em. Where are the albums?”
“Inside the back door,” said Bonnie, making her way around the car, comparing each tire to the photographs.
“OK if I take a look?”
“Be my guest. It’s been dusted.”
Rolly walked to the back of the hearse. A flaming cobra had been airbrushed onto the rear door. He pulled the door open, found a cardboard box on the carpet inside. He opened the top flaps. The records inside were still shrink-wrapped, Jungle Love by Serpent. They were collector’s editions, in pristine condition, just like the ones Norwood had told him about.
“I need you to email me those photos,” Bonnie said, returning his phone.
“Sure. You think they’re the same tires?” he asked.
“I’ll have the lab take a closer look. Send me anything you took pictures of down there.”
“I will.”
“What about those?” Bonnie said, nodding her head at the box of records.
Rolly pulled out the top record.
“You see this?” he said, indicating the round cutout inside the snake’s mouth. “That’s the panties, underneath.”
“So they’re valuable?”
“Rob knows his stuff. There’s fifty records in here. At a hundred dollars each...”
“Five-thousand bucks,” said Bonnie.
“You think that’s why somebody stole the car?”
“Can’t rule it out.”
“Why didn’t they take the records, then?”
“Maybe they panicked,” Bonnie said. “Maybe someone was after them. Have a look at this.”
She closed the back door, walked around to the passenger side. Rolly followed.
“See that,” Bonnie said, indicating the passenger door. There were dried splatters of red along the side of the door and the window.
“That’s paint, right?” said Rolly. His stomach gurgled.
“Well, it ain’t blood, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Border Field Blues Page 9
