Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

“Something Moogus told me,” said Rolly. “I showed him the CD cover. He remembered giving this girl a ride one night. We used to play down there. It was the same night Big Jimmy got stabbed.”

  “This is the same club where Mr. Bodeans worked?”

  Rolly nodded.

  “You played at Pelicans?” said Chacon.

  “Yeah. A long time ago.”

  “That place was crazy. We used to hang out there sometimes after our shift. What was the name of your band?”

  “The Creatures.”

  “No shit. What’s your name again?”

  “Rolly Waters.”

  “I remember them. You were the guitar player, right?”

  Rolly nodded.

  “Well, shit,” Chacon said. “I thought you seemed familiar.” He raised his glass to Rolly. “You survived Pelicans, you must be tougher than you look, college boy.”

  “Thanks,” said Rolly, grateful for whatever respect Chacon granted him.

  “Anyway, Danny found some panties in the cowboy’s truck, had some blood on ‘em. Combine that with my story, I guess Danny figured Velasquez for some kind of sex killer.”

  “But they dropped all the charges,” said Bonnie.

  Chacon shrugged.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “It wasn’t my case. The last thing I remember about it was Eddie showing me that album. That’s when I found out he’d been keeping up with the case. Actually, it was Eddie that told me a lot of that stuff I been telling you. You oughta talk to him.”

  “Would that be the Officer Sanchez who’s listed in the report?” Bonnie asked.

  “Yeah. Eduardo Sanchez.”

  “You know if he’s still on the force?”

  “Nah. Eddie’s a preacher, now. He got religion.”

  “You know how we can contact him?”

  “He’s got a storefront place, over on Island and Seventeenth.”

  “That’s his church?”

  “Yeah. Reverend Eddie. He got fired, you know. He was crazy about that chick.”

  “Did his firing have something to do with the case?”

  “Eddie lost himself a little bit. You should talk to him.”

  “Thanks for your help, Captain,” said Bonnie, rising from the table. Rolly stood up. Bonnie and Chacon shook hands.

  “Hey college boy,” said Chacon, turning to Rolly and extending his hand. “You’re okay. We had some good times there at Pelicans. You’re okay by me.”

  “Thanks,” Rolly said, shaking hands, trying not to wince under Chacon’s crushing grip.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Bonnie. “That drunk and disorderly, when you picked up Velasquez. That was about a year later, right?”

  “I guess, if that’s what it says.”

  “You remember anything about it?”

  “Not much. We ran into Velasquez walking up the canyon, singing like a fool, carrying a tequila bottle.”

  “You remember anything else? Something he might have said?”

  “Nah. Wait. That’s weird.”

  “What?”

  “That song he was singing. I think it’s on that record, the one Eddie showed me.”

  “Jungle Love?” Rolly said. “Was that the song?”

  “How’s it go?”

  Rolly sang the chorus from the song Marley had played for him at the Cantina last night.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” said Chacon. “That’s the song.”

  La Iglesia

  (The Church)

  As Bonnie pulled into the yellow zone near the corner of 17th Street and Imperial Avenue, church had just let out. Ragged old men and plump middle-aged women milled about on the sidewalk, sharing farewell amens as they headed home or back to the streets. It was not the best part of town - an empty, uncomfortable triangle of city blocks crammed in between the historic barrio to the south, the shipping district on the bay, and the newly developed East Village and ballpark. A dim yellow light from inside the storefront spilled out on the sidewalk, a pallid beacon of heavenly grace.

  “You awake?” said Bonnie.

  Rolly jerked to attention. He’d slumped down in his seat, drifted off somewhere that wasn’t quite sleep. He sat up, looked around.

  “Yeth,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “This must be the place,” Bonnie said. She opened the door and climbed out, walked around the front of the car to the sidewalk. Rolly opened the door, stepped out on the sidewalk, stumbled into Bonnie. She caught him by the arm, supporting his weight.

  “Take it easy,” she said.

  “Tha’ wath weird.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Give me a thecond...” said Rolly. He shook his head, trying to clear out the pile of cotton someone had stuffed inside it.

  “You feel faint?”

  “I think ith the drugth kicking in.”

  “You’re talking kinda funny.”

  “I am?”

  “Maybe you should wait in the car.”

  “Nah. I wanna talk to thith guy,” Rolly said, shaking his head again. “I’m okay, juth a little high.”

  “Perfect,” said Bonnie. She studied Rolly’s eyes for a moment, then shrugged and set off for the front door. Rolly followed, on his vigilance. They walked through the crowd, stepped into the light of the storefront. The folks outside probably thought he was one of them, a drunken bum, brought in by the police for salvation.

  A few devotees still lingered inside, gathered around a small man dressed in navy blue trousers, with a loose blue tie dangling from the collar of his sweat-stained white dress shirt. There were four rows of folding chairs inside the room, a raised platform in back. Above the platform, along the back wall, hung two crosses on either side of a sign reading “Iglesia del Perdido”. The man in the trousers glanced up as they approached.

  “Welcome to God’s place, my friends,” he said, extending both hands.

  “Thank you,” said Bonnie. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a badge. “I’m Detective Bonnie Hammond from the San Diego Police Department. This is Rolly Waters. He’s a private detective.”

  “I am Pastor Eduardo Sanchez,” said the man. “How can I be of service?”

  “You used to be on the force, I understand?”

  “Yes. Many years ago.”

  “We’ve just been talking to Ricardo Chacon. He said you might be able to help us.”

  “I have not spoken to Captain Chacon in many years.”

  “It’s about a murder case, back when you were both working the border. A cold case involving a young girl and her father.”

  The pastor’s eyes turned to black holes for a moment.

  “That was a long time ago,” he said. “In a different life.”

  “I’d still like to ask you some things, if you don’t mind?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Let me finish here with my flock. I won’t be long.”

  Bonnie nodded her head. Pastor Sanchez guided the remaining parishioners to the front doorway, cast verbal loaves to those still lingering on the sidewalk before closing the door and returning.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, indicating the plastic folding chairs. He grabbed a chair, swung it around and sat down, facing across the back of it, an informal pose, and a defensive one. Bonnie and Rolly did as instructed, pulling up seats in front of him, the three of them forming points on a perfect isosceles.

  “What did Captain Chacon tell you about me?” Sanchez asked.

  “He said you took a special interest in the case. He thought you might have some more information for us.”

  “Is that what he said? That I had a special interest?”

  “He said you followed the case more closely than he did, after Detective Walters took over.”

  “That is what he said? Exactly?”

  “He said,” Bonnie replied, making air quotes with her fingers, “Eddie was crazy about that chick.”

  Sanchez smiled and looked down at the floor.

  “It is true,”
he said. “I was crazy. Loco. Out of control. Why do you ask about the girl?”

  “Jaime Velasquez was killed tonight. Murdered.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a decent man. He carried a large burden.”

  “You mean his drinking?”

  “That was an escape from his burden. I prayed he would find God as I did.”

  “Was this burden in any way related to the girl, or her father?”

  “What did Captain Chacon tell you?”

  Bonnie related the story Chacon had told them.

  “That is all true,” Sanchez said, nodding his head when Bonnie had finished.

  “Can you tell us any more?” she asked.

  “You think this is connected to Señor Velasquez’s death?”

  “Two nights ago, a stolen car was recovered at Border Field Park. Inside the car was a case of old records. Jungle Love by Serpent.”

  Sanchez furrowed his eyebrows.

  “This is strange,” he said.

  “Mr. Waters here thinks they’re worth a lot of money.”

  “How much?”

  “Five-thouthand dollarth,” said Rolly. “Thrink-wrapped with the orithinal panties.”

  “¡Mi dios!” said Sanchez, crossing his heart.

  “You remember showing Chacon the record?” said Bonnie.

  “Yes. Captain Chacon is correct. I was the one who showed it to him. I pray Señor Velasquez was not killed for these records.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I do not know. I fear it is possible. What more can you tell me?”

  “Before he died, Mr. Velasquez told Mr. Waters there was a woman, a ghost, living in that house, the one on Smuggler’s Canyon. He gave Mr. Waters a pair of panties like those that were packaged with this album. He claimed that he and this woman had engaged in carnal relations the night before.”

  “His mind was gone, from the liquor. He was repeating the old story.”

  “Mr. Waters went to the house. He met the woman. He says she bears a strong resemblance to the girl on the cover of the album.”

  “You spoke to her?” Sanchez asked Rolly.

  “Yeth. Thee told me her name. Tantherine.”

  “What else did she say to you?”

  “Thee thaid I was a thnake.”

  “Show him the pictures,” said Bonnie. Rolly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, scrolled to the pictures he’d taken of Tangerine by the pool. He passed the phone over to Sanchez. The pastor shifted in his chair as he looked at the photograph.

  “Who is this man in the picture?”

  “Have you seen him before?” said Bonnie.

  “No. I do not know him.”

  “He threatened Mr. Waters earlier today, tried to kill him.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “It’s not a very good picture,” said Sanchez, checking again.

  “Here,” Rolly said, taking the phone back. He scrolled to the second picture, the zoomed-in one. He handed the phone to Sanchez.

  “You must understand,” Sanchez said. “I do not enjoy looking at these kind of pictures.”

  “I understand, sir, but this is important to our case.”

  “There is someone else here, inside the house.”

  “His name’s Sayer Burdon. His car was stolen two nights ago, ended up down at Border Field Park. Have you seen him before?”

  “There was a man like this, here, several nights ago.”

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “No. He left before the service had ended. Only now have I realized the purpose of his visit.”

  “What was that?”

  Pastor Sanchez stood up, handed the phone back to Rolly.

  “I will show you. Wait here.”

  Sanchez walked behind the stage, out of view, returned a moment later, carrying a familiar cardboard box. He placed the box on the floor between them, opened the flaps. Rolly reached in the box, pulled out a shrink-wrapped copy of one of the records inside.

  “Where’d you get these?” Bonnie asked.

  “The man left them, under his chair. One of my parishioners discovered them and brought them to me.”

  “When was this?”

  “Wednesday night. I was disconcerted at first. I did not understand. There was a note on the box - To The Priest. From The Pallbearer. It was a postcard. Of Border Field Park.”

  “You still have the card?”

  “I thought it was a cruel joke. To put this woman in front of me. To bring up my past. I thought the man came to haunt me, that he was an agent of the devil.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I do not think so now. I believe he intended these as a donation, a gift to my house of worship. To pay the rent. To keep our light shining. So that the sins of the past might be turned to God’s glory. That is what I believe now. I only hope they were not purchased with Señor Velasquez’s life.”

  “Mr. Velasquez was alive yesterday,” said Bonnie. “Do you have the postcard?”

  “It disturbed me very much. I threw it away.”

  “But the man in the photograph, you’re sure he’s the one who gave these to you.”

  “Let me see it again.”

  Rolly passed his phone over to Sanchez.

  “I believe it is him,” said the pastor, looking at the picture. “I am not sure.”

  “And the woman? Do you think she could be the girl from the album cover?”

  “I cannot deny it.”

  “Captain Chacon said you were fired from the police force.”

  “That is true.”

  “Did it have something to do with this case?”

  Pastor Sanchez rubbed his forehead. He looked out the window, into the night.

  “I have renounced the serpent,” he said. “I am saved.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “She was married to him.”

  Rolly and Bonnie glanced at each other. Neither of them was much for religion. They preferred facts.

  La Serpiente

  (The Serpent)

  “Pastor Sanchez,” said Bonnie, “Do you know what happened to this girl?”

  “The serpent’s fire was in me,” said Sanchez, still staring into the darkness outside. “The Prince of Darkness used me as his agent.”

  “Could you maybe be more specific?”

  Eddie turned back to them. His eyes had gone black again, looking inside. A trace of moisture covered them.

  “Captain Chacon has told you of my interest in the girl.”

  “You were crazy about her.”

  “Yes.”

  “He indicated that she was often out by the pool.”

  “That is how it began. I was young then, full of my masculinity. I was anxious for glory, for adulation in the eyes of women. I joined the police force, but it was not the life I expected. It was drudgery - the rules and the forms. The criminals we arrested were mostly drunks and drug addicts. Sad, depleted men. That is who we put in jail.”

  “Yeah,” Bonnie nodded. “That’s the life sometimes.”

  “That’s why I signed up with Captain Chacon. He was going to get the real bad guys. And we did. Some of them. Rapists and murderers. There were gunfights some nights. I shot two men. I killed one of them.”

  “I’ve read the book,” said Bonnie. “It sounds pretty crazy.”

  “Many nights, though, nothing happened. We would wait. All night. Eight hours alone in the hills. I think that is when I first lost myself. I did not know why I had chosen this path, my place in this world. Until the girl appeared. I would watch her, many nights, through my binoculars. She became my reason for continuance, for doing my job. It was not, for me, a sexual thing. Not then. I was married. She seemed like a child of Eden to me then, living in an innocent, pure world, a golden angel in blue water. My job was to protect her, to keep her safe. I could manage my travails so long as I could keep her there, safe. She lived on an island of bliss
in this dark world. That is what I thought, anyway.”

  “Captain Chacon indicated you were very concerned about her, when you found her father dead.”

  “I had seen women, in the canyon, who had been raped by gangs of men. Raped and killed. I feared the same, that somehow I had failed to protect her. There was blood in the house.”

  “Captain Chacon suggested you might have lost your job because of this case.”

  Sanchez flattened his hands against each other for a moment, as if in prayer, then reached into the box and pulled out an album.

  “I have wished often never to have seen this,” he said. “I went to a concert, where the band was playing.”

  “When was this?”

  “After the album came out, not quite a year later. I went backstage, to talk to them, to ask about the girl. They were reluctant, at first. I used my badge to threaten them, with statutory rape, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, whatever I could think of. They directed me to their lawyers. From the music company. In Los Angeles. The lawyers took me to the girl.”

  “You found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why isn’t that in the report?”

  “I was not on official police business. No one knew of my quest. I was a serpent in service to the Devil.”

  “Where was the girl?”

  “She was in rehab, one of those expensive movie star places out by the ocean, in Malibu. The music company lawyers put her up there. She had become addicted to cocaine. To sex. They were protecting the band members.”

  “Because she was underage?”

  “Yes. And because of the child.”

  “Some guy in the band got her pregnant?”

  “She had carnal relations with all of them. The lawyers took care of everything. They kept it a secret. The child was placed in a foster home.”

  “Cleaned up nice and tidy,” said Bonnie.

  “Yes. They set up a trust fund for the child, using royalties from the song.”

  “Jungle Love?” Rolly asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you report any of this?”

  “I began to visit her, you see,” Sanchez continued. “No one else knew. Every weekend, I would drive up to Malibu. I lied to my wife. I convinced myself that I was doing police work, for the case. I wanted to help this girl. I told her about my old job, on the border, how I used to watch her from above, in the hills, how I had failed to protect her. She began to accept me. She told me of her father, how he had tried to protect her, after the serpent had married her. How he lay in wait and struggled with the serpent each night. Until he was killed.”