Border Field Blues

by Fayman, Corey Lynn

  “What kind of papers?”

  “I don’t know. Green card stuff, I assume. They were all sitting around at the table. I brought ‘em some coffee and conchas, up here. They were all speaking in Spanish. She was signing some things. I couldn’t follow most of what they were saying, except, I remember, Roberto saying something kinda grand-like. After she signed the papers, he took the pen from her, held it up like it was a religious object or something.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I don’t remember, it sounded all dramatic-like. You know Roberto?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “He likes being a lawyer. Everything’s a big drama. Wait, I remember now, what it was that he said.”

  “Yes?”

  “Con esta pluma...wait...It was ‘Con esta pluma, una niña destruye a fascistas.’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “With this pen, a little girl destroys fascists.”

  Vera’s phone rang. She glanced down at the display.

  “It’s Hector,” she said. She flipped the phone open, put it up to her ear.

  “Some guy just tried to fucking kill me,” she said to Hector. Then she burst into tears.

  El Circo

  (The Circus)

  Driving towards Border Field Park, Rolly hoped Jaime’s old truck would survive one more traverse of the cracked asphalt and potholes of Monument Road. It had to. He had to. He drove past Jaime’s house and The Honey Trap, through the narrow part of the road where the brambles and thickets closed in. The road opened out again near the entry to Border Field Park, the lower parking lot where he’d talked to Jaime two days ago. The gate to the park was open. There were cars parked at the top of Friendship Hill, human figures moving across the backdrop of blue sky and white border fence, the faded old bullring. He drove through the gate, turned onto the road that led up the hill.

  He didn’t know what kind of story Rio had told Hector’s lawyer, but he knew it wasn’t the whole story. Whatever confrontation they’d planned with the AFA could backfire on them. Hector and Roberto didn’t know about the video game, the one Sayer Burdon had built for himself, a shadow puzzle of his own existence, a ghost world to the real one. The game had its own logic, Burdon’s logic. Burdon adjusted the power of each character, gave them new powers if he wanted. He made up the rules. The kid was smart, a genius. He could program the game in a thousand different ways, but he couldn’t deal with real people. His emotional register just didn’t work right. Every word that came out of Burdon’s mouth had the same weird flatness. Except in the game. In the game, Sayer Burdon could be anybody – the Pallbearer, Red, The Cowboy, El Doctor. He took on the traits of whatever character he played. He spoke with their tongues. When the game ended, he went back to his normal voice – flat, unemotional. It was creepy.

  Psychiatrists probably had a name for Burdon’s condition, but Rolly didn’t care what it was called. He just wanted Rio to confirm a few things, to tell him which parts of the game were real. She was the only person available and, Rolly hoped, willing, to confirm what he’d learned. She knew who The Pallbearer was. She’d seen the game. She might even have played it.

  There was one character from the game Rolly couldn’t match in real life, an amorphous figure in a swirling black cape called The Ancestor. The Ancestor was omnipotent. Other characters could hide from him for a while; they could run, but they couldn’t destroy him. That was how Sayer Burdon set up the game. In the Border Field Blues game, The Ancestor always got you. You couldn’t win.

  Jaime’s truck sputtered as it climbed the hill, huffing and puffing like the little engine that could. The hill leveled off as it entered the upper parking lot. Rolly glanced over the scene, searching for Hector and his retinue. He spotted Nuge’s black pickup, along with other trucks of the same general model and style. A squad of paramilitary types, AFA members, milled about near the trucks, dressed in camouflage gear, brandishing paint guns and flags. They’d unrolled a sign near the fence that proclaimed ‘Americans First’ in large type. Rolly turned and drove to the other end of lot, where the automobiles varied more widely – compacts and a few beaters, a couple of nicely appointed low-riders and one shiny silver Mercedes.

  He pulled into a parking spot, climbed out of the truck. People at this end of the lot varied more widely as well, dressed in what looked like costume-party attire. Three men in bandito outfits stood under a tree. One of them walked over to Rolly.

  “Hey amigo,” said Hector. “Vera said you were coming down.”

  “I need to talk to the girl.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s she doing down here, anyway?”

  “We’re gonna nail these bastards.”

  “The AFA, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “I tried to call you last night, to tell you.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “It was them, the AFA guys. They assaulted her, killed the other girl.”

  “She told you that?”

  “In so many words. Roberto thinks she can collect on it.”

  “You’re going to sue them?”

  “Damn right. We’re going after the whole organization.”

  “That’s why you brought her down here?”

  “She’s gonna try to ID some of them.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I tried to call you last night to explain things.”

  “I need to talk to her. Just for a minute.”

  Hector stared at Rolly a moment, nodded his head.

  “C’mon,” he said.

  Hector led Rolly back along the sidewalk, walked up to driver’s side of the silver Mercedes. Two people sat in the front seat, a large man in a powder blue Dodger uniform and a woman in vestments, with a long scarf draped over her head. The man in the Dodger’s uniform lowered the window.

  “Roberto, this is Rolly,” said Hector. “The detective guy I told you about. Rolly, this is Roberto Torres, my lawyer.”

  “Hola,” said Roberto, extending a large hand.

  “That’s Fernando’s old number, right?” said Rolly, shaking hands.

  “El Toro. You got it,” said Roberto, looking pleased. He bore a puffy-faced resemblance to his Chicano hero.

  “Who’s she supposed to be?” Rolly said.

  “The Virgin of Guadalupe,” said Hector. “Whattya’ think?”

  “Cute.”

  Hector turned back to Roberto.

  “Rolly wants to ask her some questions,” he said. “I told him it was okay.”

  “Feel free to ask,” said Roberto. “But as her lawyer, all questions will have to go through me first. I may advise her on how to answer.”

  “I brought her to you guys, you know.”

  “That doesn’t mean you own her.”

  “Well, whatever you’re planning here, you may want to reconsider.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’ll see. Ask her if she speaks English.”

  “You know she doesn’t speak English,” said Hector.

  “We’ll see. Ask her.”

  Roberto gave Rolly a confrontational look, then turned to Rio.

  “¿Habla inglés?” he asked.

  Rio’s headscarf swished back and forth.

  “No,” she said.

  “Tell her I think she’s lying,” said Rolly. “I think she speaks English.”

  “¿No habla inglés?” Roberto asked her. “¿Es verdad?”

  “Sí. No hablo.”

  “Este hombre dice que usted habla inglés,” Roberto told her.

  Rio’s eyes fixed on Rolly.

  “No hablo inglés,” she said, daring him to take on the virgin patroness of Mexico.

  “Tell her I’ve met him, The Pall Bearer.”

  “Who?”

  “The Pall Bearer. El Deudo. I’ve talked to him. I’ve played the game with him.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Roberto.

  �
��She’ll know,” said Rolly. “She already knows.”

  He’d seen Rio’s eyes flash when he mentioned the name. She knew Sayer Burdon. They were in this together. She’d seen the game.

  “What’s this about?” Hector asked.

  “It’s an act. That’s what it’s about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s all a game.”

  “What about that doctor guy who came after you? And those dead girls you told me about? They’re not a game.”

  “They’re real enough, but she’s not telling us everything.”

  “What about the AFA guys?”

  “What about them?”

  “They paid for her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “You remember what I told you, about the sex slave trade, those rich Arabs who’ll pay for virgins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She told us it was the men in the masks.”

  “They were Arabs?”

  “No. The man in the mask, who came to the house. Don’t you see?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the AFA, man. They’re the buyers.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She described ‘em more. She said the men had camouflage suits. That they had paint guns.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yeah. I’m telling you. This is huge. We’re gonna expose them.”

  “We’re going to sue their asses off,” said Roberto. “That’s what we’re going to do.”

  Rolly looked at Rio. She stared back at him. Her eyes were dark and impassable.

  “That’s why you brought her down here?” said Rolly.

  “Yeah,” Hector said. “Roberto suggested it.”

  “It’ll strengthen our case if she can ID some of the guys specifically,” said Roberto.

  “How much will you make from this?” Rolly asked Roberto.

  “I’ll take my cut. She’ll make a fortune.”

  “If she wins.”

  “If she identifies any one of these guys, we can win.”

  “It didn’t take much to convince her, Rolly,” said Hector.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Rolly wasn’t sure how much of this Rio had planned, if any, but she was one of the best improvisers he’d ever met. She followed the changes without missing a note. Perhaps she’d run into the AFA Friday night. Perhaps they’d killed the other girl. But he wasn’t ready to believe it yet.

  “I want to know about the records,” he said to Roberto.

  “What?”

  “The record albums. Did the pallbearer give her any record albums?”

  “Who’s this pallbearer guy?”

  “El Deudo. Did he give her any record albums?”

  Robert spoke to Rio. She shook her head.

  “No entiendo,” she said.

  “She knows about the game,” Rolly said. “She’s seen the tokens. They look just like the records.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Hector asked.

  “You remember that CD we looked at with Marley?”

  “With the girls’ pictures?”

  “Yes. It’s all part of a video game. She’s in it. So am I. So is the doctor and everyone else I’ve talked to in the last two days.”

  “Am I in it?”

  “The restaurant is.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Listen, there’s these records, collector’s editions. The night she came by the house, with the cowboy, when they talked to my mother. They said something about the records. I think that’s what she wanted the money for.”

  “You want your money back?”

  “No, that’s not the point. These records keep showing up everywhere. In that car that was stolen. Somebody left a whole box of them at this church in the barrio. I want to know why. I want to know why they’re all in this game.”

  “You think she knows?”

  “You remember when we got the money for her last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much did she ask for, at first?”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  “And how much did I end up paying her?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “I talked to a friend of mine. The going price on the record is between one and two hundred dollars.”

  “I see where you’re going, I guess. What’s it got to do with this video game?”

  “The records are in the video game, too. It’s what the characters use for money. They’re tokens.”

  “This is some crazy shit, Rolly,” said Hector.

  “Crazy bullshit. That’s what it is,” said Roberto. “She told you she doesn’t know anything.”

  “Ask her if she knows who The Ancestor is.”

  “The Ancestor?”

  “Please. Just ask her.”

  Roberto asked. Rio shook her head again, looked Rolly in the eyes. She’d recovered from whatever small dent he’d made in her story. To be truthful, he didn’t know if she was from Guadalupe, Tijuana, or National City. She wasn’t going to tell him, either. Not now. Not with the money Roberto and Hector had promised her.

  One of the other Pancho Villas walked up to the car, tapped Hector on the shoulder.

  “Hey Hector,” he said, pointing to a white van that had pulled in on the other side of the parking lot. “The TV people are here.”

  La Batalla

  (The Battle)

  “Time to go,” said Roberto. He climbed out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door for Rio.

  “All right folks,” called Hector to the protestors milling around behind him. “Let’s keep to the plan, like we talked about. No calling names. Signs to the front. Heroes in back. Roberto and I will take the middle with Our Lady.”

  The sign-bearers scuffled past Rolly, arranging themselves in the middle of the parking lot, while those dressed in costumes hung back on the sidewalk. Hector moved to the point position. Rolly grabbed Rio’s arm as she passed.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he said.

  “Deseo mi dinero,” said Rio.

  “Tell me who The Ancestor is.”

  “Let her go,” said Roberto, stepping between them.

  Rolly let go. Roberto was too big for him. The whole situation was too big for him.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Hector.

  The group began to move, making its way towards the AFA line.

  “¡Para la raza!” Hector called.

  “Que viva la Raza!” the crowd echoed back.

  “¡Para el Chicano!”

  “¡Que viva Chicano!”

  Rolly stopped, let the group pass. The protestors paraded across the parking lot. They halted on Hector’s command, forming a line about ten feet from the AFA group. The TV cameras moved in. Hector moved out in front of the line and raised his hands. The chanting stopped. Someone handed him a megaphone.

  “Good afternoon,” Hector said, addressing the AFA and the TV cameras. “My name is Hector Villa. I am the great-great-grand-nephew of Pancho Villa, the liberator of Mexico. Today I am proud to present to you a cavalcade of Chicano heroes.”

  He dropped the megaphone to his side. No one said anything. No one on either side moved. Hector returned to his megaphone.

  “First on our list is the NASA astronaut and first Hispanic woman in space – Ellen Ochoa.”

  Hector’s crowd cheered as a woman in an astronaut suit stepped out from behind the line, took up a position to the left and behind Hector. Hector continued his roll call, introducing each hero in costume. Rolly knew some of the names, musicians like Carlos Santana and Sheila E., but there were others he’d never heard of. As the names were called, each costumed hero strode out from behind the sign bearers and took a position near Hector, each greeted by cheers from the group. The AFA members watched from behind their masks. They were silent.

  “And now,” said Hector, “the Cy Young award- winning pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers – Fernando Valenzuela.”


  Roberto walked out into no man’s land, stood next to Hector as Hector listed El Toro’s accomplishments.

  “And finally,” Hector began. “She who looks over all Mexico. Our patroness, she who crushes the serpent of tyranny – Coatlaxopeuh, better known to the world as Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

  Rio stepped forward, moved into position between the two men as Hector narrated.

  “The virgin comes here today as our protector, so that those who speak bigotry and hate will be shamed by their actions upon the innocent.”

  “America for Americans,” someone shouted from the AFA line. He shouted again. Another voice joined in. The rest of the AFA line began chanting, turning it into a chorus.

  “America. For Americans,” they shouted in three-over-four cadence. Hector raised his voice, soloing over the beat.

  “Today we come for justice,” he said. “Today we come for la gente.”

  Roberto handed Hector a sheaf of paper. Hector raised it over his head.

  “Tomorrow, on behalf of the virgin, in Federal court, we will file a civil suit against the AFA, charging your members with sexual trafficking, kidnapping, and harassment.”

  A large man stepped out of the line and moved towards them.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  Hector stood his ground.

  “Hate has no place here,” he said.

  The man raised his gun.

  “Hate on this, Pancho,” he said and shot Hector in the face.

  Hector screamed and raised his hands to his face. A shock of silence came over the crowd, like a punch to the gut. The earth and ocean seemed to pause as Hector dropped the paper, turned back to the crowd, and stumbled onto his knees. His hands and face dripped with red.

  “Get ‘em,” a voice screamed. Both sides of the crowd fell in on the middle, a swirling vortex sucking them in. Picket signs swung and paintballs flew as icons of Chicano culture wrestled with camouflaged storm troopers. Rolly retreated. He’d seen enough bar fights. He tried to stay out of them.

  A break in the crowd caught his eye. A large man, in camouflage, separated himself from the scrum. It was the man who’d shot Hector, trudging towards the edge of the parking lot, where the road led back down the hill. He carried a paint gun in one hand, a bundle of something under the opposite arm. The bundle squirmed. It was Rio.