“How’d you wind up being a P.I.?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I looked into it a couple of times.”
“What’s that?”
“Getting a P.I. license.”
“You don’t like working for the border patrol?”
“I’m thinking maybe when I retire, you know, to keep my hand in, supplement my pension.”
“How long you been doing this?”
“Ten years. You can start collecting when you turn forty-five.”
“Sounds pretty good.”
“Yeah. Nine more years and I’m in.”
Rolly had no retirement plan. Nothing would happen when he reached forty-five. Or fifty. His social security estimates had only recently edged into three figures. His mother might leave him the house when she died, assuming she checked out before he did. That was his only retirement plan. His father’s Navy pension, and the house in Coronado, would go to Alicia.
“Have you always worked here?” he asked the patrolman.
“Two years now. Started in Arizona. Then El Centro. They like to move us around.”
“You know anything about that house, the one at the mouth of Smuggler’s Canyon?”
“The Honey Trap?”
“What’s that?”
“You mean the place with the swimming pool?”
“Yeah. That’s what you call it? The Honey Trap?”
“Some of the guys call it that.”
“Border Patrol guys?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. That’s just what they call it.”
“Must be a reason.”
The patrolman glanced out the side window, then back at the road.
“It’s a good spot to find UDAs,” he said. “There’s a place out back where they like to hide sometimes.”
“You mean those boulders above the pool?”
“That’s the spot.”
“I saw a woman today, by the pool.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that doctor guy, the one who stole my car. He was there too.”
“I don’t know about him.”
“You’ve seen her before, though?”
“I guess I’ve seen somebody down there, a couple of times.”
Rolly decided not to press the patrolman any further on the topic. A border patrol officer wouldn’t admit voyeurism to a civilian, even accidental voyeurism.
“You know anything about the stolen car they found yesterday at the park?” Rolly asked.
“That’s what you’re working on? With the police?”
“I think it’s related to my case.”
“What’s your case?”
Rolly told the patrolman his story. By the time he finished, they’d reached the bottom of the hill and turned onto Monument Road.
“When did this stuff all happen?” the patrolman asked. “The stolen car, I mean, the hearse.”
“Friday night, maybe early Saturday.”
“There was some weird stuff going on Friday night.”
“You were on duty?”
“Distress call came in,” the patrolman said. “Man down. Shots fired. Sounded like all hell broke loose.”
“When was this?”
“Just after midnight.”
“What happened?”
“Turned out to be fake. Somebody screwing with us. A call like that comes on, we’re all in, full force response. Helicopters and all. This guy took everybody off line for at least twenty minutes, had us chasing shadows over by the water plant.”
“Where’s that?”
“You know that new bridge across the river, where you enter the estuary?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“It’s right at the bend in the road after you cross the bridge coming in.”
Rolly remembered seeing a large gray building with blue and yellow pipes.
“What’s that, about a mile from here?”
“Mile and a half,” said the patrolman.
“Any idea who did it?”
“Some jerk got the codes, I guess.”
“What’s that?”
“We use digital radios now. The signal’s encrypted.”
“Oh.”
“You can’t break in unless you have the scramble codes.”
“How do you get those?”
“They’re listed in our duty call. They’re assigned daily.”
“You think it was one of your guys?”
“Better not be. That’s a suspension for sure, without pay. He’d probably get fired, maybe even criminal charges.”
“So everyone on duty that night would have gone over there, to the water plant?”
“Yeah. All in. That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
“They didn’t find anything?”
“Nope.”
“You think it was a trick, then? Somebody trying to draw you away?”
“Looks like it. Maybe it’s got something to do with your birds. What’d your cop friend say?”
“I think she was waiting to hear back from you guys.”
They arrived at the entrance to Smuggler’s Canyon. A half-dozen men dressed in fatigues milled about in front of their pickups, brandishing paint guns in Rambo-style poses. The patrolman turned in, parked the truck. Rolly’s Mexican friends sat in the back of one of the pickups, their hands tied behind them.
“I’m not a coyote,” said Rolly.
“I don’t figure you are,” said the patrolman, “but I’m going to talk to these UDAs first, just to make sure.”
The patrolman climbed out, took Rolly’s arm, helped him climb down from the back seat. He unlocked the handcuffs. They walked over to the prisoners. The row of trucks reminded Rolly of a country-western bar the band played twenty years ago. Framed by an oversized Confederate flag as a backdrop, The Creatures thrashed away at Elvis Costello tunes, The Jam, The Clash, some power-pop originals. The look in the eyes of the audience that night was a lot like the look the AFA men gave him now – sour peanuts, stale Budweiser and loathing. The patrolman directed Rolly to the detainees in the back of the truck. Their leader looked down at him. A fresh scratch of blood ran across the old man’s forehead. Drying splatters of red, white and blue covered his shirt.
“Este hombre allí,” said the patrolman, indicating Rolly. “¿Usted lo ha visto antes?”
The old man looked at Rolly, then back to the patrolman. His eyes looked tired.
“Sí.”
“¿Usted le conoce?”
“No le conozco,” the man shook his head.
“¿Es él un coyote?”
“No.”
“¿Es seguro?” The patrolman pressed the man.
“Sí, Soy seguro. No estaba con nosotros. Nunca lo he visto antes.”
“What’d he say?” asked Nuge.
“He says this guy wasn’t with them,” replied the patrolman. “He says he’s not a coyote.”
“You’re gonna take the word of some wetback over me?”
Richie Blackmore’s guitar riff from “Lazy” played inside Rolly’s left pocket.
“Okay if I answer that?” he asked the patrolman. “It might be my police contact.”
The patrolman nodded. Rolly took the phone out of his pocket, checked the name. It was Bonnie. He put the phone up to his ear.
“Hey,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Bonnie asked. “You didn’t sound too good.”
“It’s that guy. From yesterday. He took my car. The Mexican doctor guy. And that Burdon guy too. He was driving the hearse. He went into the house with that woman on the album cover.”
“Hang on. Slow down. Are you okay?”
“I got arrested by the Border Patrol.”
“What for?”
“I ran into some illegals, crossing the border. Some of the AFA guys stopped me. They think I’m a smuggler.”
“Where are you?”
“Monument Road, at the entrance to Smuggler’s
Canyon.”
“Is the Border Patrol there with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me talk to them.”
“Umm... OK.”
Rolly held out his phone for the border patrolman.
“She wants to talk to you.”
The patrolman furrowed his brow, took the phone from Rolly.
“Hello,” he said. “Who’s this?”
The patrolman took a few steps away from the group, keeping an eye on both Rolly and Nuge as he continued the phone conversation. Bonnie seemed to be doing most of the talking. Nuge stared at Rolly. Rolly averted his eyes, then brought them back.
“You still got that short-wave radio in your truck?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Nuge. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“The patrolman told me somebody called in a fake emergency on Friday night.”
“So?”
“Did you hear the call?”
“I wasn’t on duty that night, remember?”
“Call said there was an officer down. Over by the water plant.”
“So?”
“He said only someone with the scramble codes would be able to make a call like that.”
“I expect he’s right.”
“Don’t I remember you telling me something about having the codes?”
“You remember wrong.”
“I think you know something about Friday night.”
“Yeah? I think you’re an asshole.”
The patrolman returned with the phone, handed it to Rolly.
“Looks like you’re off the hook,” he said.
“You’re gonna let him go?” said Nuge.
“His story checks out. He’s not a coyote.”
“We saw one of the illegals talking to him.”
“Maybe you did. That’s not a crime.”
“I caught him yesterday, at the park, breaking into the bird sanctuary.”
“That’s for the rangers to deal with. File a report with the parks.”
“This is such bullshit,” said Nuge, taking a step towards the patrolman. “The guy’s an asshole.”
The patrolman glared at Nuge.
“Step away, sir, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with a Federal Officer.”
Nuge stopped in his tracks, glared at Rolly.
“Whatever,” he said retreating to his truck. “Let’s process these fuckers so I can go home.”
The patrolman reached into his belt, pulled out a small pad of paper.
“I have to write you a citation, Mr. Waters.”
“What for?”
“Trespassing on Restricted Federal Land.”
“You mean up by the fence?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the guy who stole my car?”
“You say your car was down here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not my jurisdiction. Sorry. Talk to Officer Hammond when she gets here.”
“She’s coming down here?”
“That’s what she said. Can I see your license again?”
Rolly handed the patrolman his license, and walked out to the edge of Monument Road. He looked across it, over the rough field that led to a rundown shack and corral. Jaime’s green pickup sat in front of the shack. Four horses stood inside the corral.
“Mr. Waters?”
Rolly turned back to the patrolman.
“Need your signature.”
Rolly signed the citation. The patrolman tore off a copy, handed it to Rolly.
“Talk to your friend about that,” he said.
“You think I can get out of it?”
“There’s channels sometimes. Check with your friend.”
“I will,” Rolly said. “Can I go now?”
“Officer Hammond asked me to keep you here.”
“I’m not going far,” Rolly said. “I don’t have a car.” He pointed towards Jaime’s house. “I want to talk to the guy that lives over there.”
A second border patrol truck appeared from around the bend of the road, pulled up next to Nuge’s truck.
“You do what you want,” the patrolman said. “I gotta process these UDAs.”
The patrolman turned and walked back to the group. Rolly trudged down to the road, stopped by the entry gate to Tangerine’s house, looked up the driveway. The hearse was gone. He rang the bell. No one answered. No one was home at The Honeytrap. He walked across Monument Road, then down the dirt track that led to Jaime’s house. He hoped the old cowboy was home. He hoped the old cowboy was sober.
El Río
(The River)
As Rolly hiked past Jaime’s corral, the palomino perked up its ears and stared at him. It whinnied once, then went back to whatever horses do to kill time. The other horses paid him no mind. He walked past Jaime’s truck, stepped onto the porch, knocked on the front door. No one answered. Even in the fading light, you could see the house needed repair. Patches of bare wood showed through flaking paint. He knocked again, looked through the windows for signs of life, didn’t see any. He grabbed the doorknob, gave it a twist. The door latch clicked. He pushed on the door, watched it swing open.
“Hello,” he called, squinting into the dark interior. “Anyone home?”
No one answered. Rolly turned away. He surveyed the fields for anyone working them. He looked back towards Smuggler’s Canyon, checking to see if any AFA goons or Border Patrolmen were watching him. The lights of Tijuana began to blink on above the border hills, floating on a shadow horizon. The sky had turned violet. He turned back to the open doorway. It was a black hole.
“Jaime?” he called through the doorway. “Señor Velasquez?”
A horse whinnied. Rolly looked back at the corral. The palomino raised its head again, and looked towards the river, its ears pricked as if someone might be approaching from that direction. Rolly walked to the edge of the porch, peeked around the corner. He didn’t see anyone. He looked back at the horse corral. The palomino stood alert, sniffing the air, staring down towards the river. Rolly stepped off the porch, crept down towards the back of the house. A light wind blew through the valley, whiffling through the dry grasses. Clouds of willows rustled along the river’s edge thirty yards away. The faint smell of stale water, perhaps sewage, tingled his nose. The land was empty. His mouth itched.
Night would be falling soon, a darker shade than he was accustomed to. It never got dark in the city. The light sources just changed. He’d spent his life in the forlorn illumination of dive bars and clubs, the neon glare of twenty-four-hour diners and taco stands, the gnawing fluorescence of empty streets after closing time. That was his darkness. He owned it. Not this. The darkness was different down here.
He turned the corner of the house, examined Jaime’s backyard. It was filled with junk, a repository for wooden boxes and old tools, large metal shapes of indeterminate function, some hard to identify in the fading light. The screen door on the back of the house clattered, unlatched in the wind. Two wooden steps led up to the door. He walked to the edge of the steps, called into the house again.
“Hello,” he said. “Is anyone home?”
A fluttering sound, like bird’s wings, or a skittering rodent, came from inside the house. There must be all sorts of vermin out here - rats and mice, maybe opossums or raccoons. He paused at the doorway, waiting for some wild creature to snarl at him.
“Hello,” he called. “Is anyone here?”
No one answered, not even the rodents. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out more of the room - a kitchen table and chairs, the sink and a countertop running out to the edge of the doorway. An irregular patch on the floor looked like motor oil. He reached a hand inside the doorjamb, felt along the wall, found a pair of switches, flicked on the closest one. The porch light above his head enrobed him in bug-safe yellow. He flicked the second switch. A naked light bulb glared from below the ceiling fan. He looked down at the floor.
It glimmered because it was covered in blood, a deep w
et red congealing to brittle purple at the margins. It flowed down towards the doorway, smeared with footprints along the edges, where it had dried. The smell flowed along with it. He covered his nose and mouth with his left hand, reached back inside the door and flipped off the lights. He pulled out his cell phone, stepped down into the yard. He punched in Bonnie’s number, lifted the phone to his ear. He couldn’t go into the house, not until the police and paramedics had checked it out first. As he waited for Bonnie, he considered the possibility that Jaime had butchered some animal, that a man of the backcountry might kill and dress his own meat.
A red light blinked, down by the river. It blinked again. He watched the light blink on and off in a steady pulse. A dark wing cut through him, blacker than the primeval night. He shut the phone, put it away, and listened to the sounds of the river valley. His straining ears could make out the faint tink-tink of a car turn signal that came from the riverbank.
There were other sounds too, ones he couldn’t identify, scratches and whispers. Wild animals came out of hiding at night, coyotes and whatever coyotes ate. Wild humans too, desperate, running away from their old life, in search of a new one, nocturnal creatures moving in darkness where the world would not see them. Trying hard not to think about coyotes, or any large predators, he crept down to the river, towards the blinking red light.
He arrived at a shallow embankment leading down to the riverbed, heard water trickling through it in delicate streams. At the bottom of the embankment sat his Volvo. The driver side door leaned halfway open, caught on the bent support of a willow’s branches. As the wind caught the door, it swung wider, as if someone were trying to get out, only to be pushed back by the branches as each gust of wind died. A creaking sound accompanied each push and pull.
Rolly sighed, shifted his weight. He was dirty already, from the dried sweat and dust he’d collected in Smuggler’s Canyon. A little extra mud was fair exchange for getting his car back, assuming he could drive it out of the river. He slid down the embankment, placed a hand on the roof of the Volvo to steady himself. The ground under his feet felt slick and slippery. He grabbed the back door handle for support, inched his way down to the driver’s side door in small, careful steps. The river mud slurped at his feet as if he had suction cups attached to his shoes.
The willow resisted as he pulled the door open. The branches crackled as they bent, complaining against the intrusion. He looked inside. A squirrel ran across the front seat, scampered up his arm and past his right cheek. He screamed, then steadied himself, and peered into the cabin. There was a dark shape inside – a man in a cowboy hat.
Border Field Blues Page 12
