Twenty feet away a car was parked in the lot behind the restaurant. It was a huge old model, dull red. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Edwin Sharp. Through the open window, he called, “Hey, Kayleigh! Check out my wheels! It’s not a Cadillac, just a Buick. Like it?” He didn’t seem to expect an answer. He added, “Don’t worry, I’ll never put my car ahead of you!”
“My Red Cadillac” was one of Kayleigh’s smash hits. It was about a girl who loves her old car … and dumps any man who doesn’t care for the big, battered vehicle.
Bobby Prescott stormed forward and raged, “Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch! And don’t even think about following us to find out where Kayleigh lives. You try that and I’m calling the cops.”
Edwin nodded, smiling, and drove off.
With the sun’s glare and the unsure kinesics of someone she’d just met, Dance couldn’t be certain but her impression was that the stalker’s face had registered a hint of confusion when Bobby spoke—as if of course he knew where Kayleigh lived. Why wouldn’t he?
Chapter 5
NO SURPRISE, CALIFORNIA has always been home to Latino music, some Salvadoran, Honduran and Nicaraguan, but the bulk of the sounds are mexicana: traditional mariachi, banda, ranchera, norte?o and sones. Plenty of pop and rock too and even South of the Border’s own brand of ska and hip-hop.
These sounds flowed from the many Spanish-language stations up and down the Central Valley into the homes, businesses and fields here, taking up half the airwaves—the rest of the bandwidth split between Anglo music and check-seeking religious stations spouting incoherent theology.
It was close to 9:00 P.M. and Dance was now getting a firsthand taste of this musical sound in the sweltering garage of Jose Villalobos, on the outskirts of Fresno. The family’s two Toyotas had been banished from the small, detached structure, which was usually a rehearsal hall. Tonight, though, it was a recording studio. The six musicians of Los Trabajadores were just finishing up the last number for Dance’s digital recorder. The men, ranging in age from twenty-five to sixty, had been playing together for some years, both traditional Mexican folk music and their own material.
The recording had gone well, though the men hadn’t been too focused at first—largely because of whom Dance had brought with her: Kayleigh Towne, hair looped in an elaborately braided bun atop her head, in faded jeans, T-shirt and denim vest.
The musicians had been awed and two had scurried into the house to return with wives and children for autographs. One of the women had tearfully said, “You know, your song ‘Leaving Home’—we all love it. God bless you for writing it.”
This was a ballad about an older woman who’s packing up her belongings and leaving the house where she and her husband raised their children. The listener wonders if she’s just become a widow or if the house has been foreclosed on by the bank.
Now I’m starting over, starting over once again,
To try to make a new life, without family or friends.
In all my years on earth, there’s one thing that I know:
Nothing can be harder than to leave behind your home.
Only at the end is it revealed that she’s undocumented and is being deported, though she’s spent her whole life in the United States. Just after the woman is dropped off alone at a bus station in Mexico, she sings the coda: “America The Beautiful” in Spanish. It was Kayleigh’s most controversial song, earning her the anger of those taking a hard line on immigration reform. But it was also hugely popular and had become an anthem among Latino workers and those preaching a more open border policy.
As they were packing up, Dance explained how the songs would be uploaded onto her and Martine’s website. She couldn’t guarantee what might happen but given that the band was so good they’d probably sell a fair number of downloads. And it was possible, with the growth of Latino radio throughout the United States and independent record labels specializing in that sound, that they might draw some producers’ or ad agencies’ attention.
Curiously, becoming successful didn’t interest them in the least. Oh, they wouldn’t mind making some money with their music but with the downloads only. Villalobos said, “Yeah, we don’t want that kind of life—on the road. We won’t travel. We have jobs, families, bebés. Jesus has twins—he got to go change diapers now.” A glance toward the grinning, handsome young man who was packing away his old battered Gibson Hummingbird guitar.
They said good-bye and Dance and Kayleigh climbed into her dark green Suburban. Dance had left her Pathfinder at the Mountain View and had ridden here with Kayleigh in her SUV. Darthur Morgan began the drive back to Dance’s motel. He’d stayed out in the SUV to keep an eye on the street. Six or seven small hardcover books, leather bound, were in the front seat. The titles were stamped in gold, on the spine only. Classics, Dance guessed. He didn’t seem to read them when he was on guard duty itself. Maybe they were his pleasure when he was in his room at night. A portal to take him away from the persistence of threat.
Kayleigh was looking out the window at the dimly lit or black landscape. “I envy them,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“It’s like a lot of the musicians on your website. They play at night and on weekends for their friends and families. It’s not for the money. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so good. Ha, modesty alert … But you know what I mean. I never really wanted to be a star. I wanted to have a husband and”—she nodded back toward Villalobos’s—“babies and sing to them and friends…. It just all got away from me.”
She was silent and Dance supposed she was thinking: If I wasn’t famous I wouldn’t have Edwin Sharp in my life.
Dance could see Kayleigh’s reflection and noted her jaw was set and there were possibly tears in her eyes. Then Kayleigh turned back, shoving her troubled thoughts away, it seemed, and said with a sly grin, “So. Tell me. Dish.”
“Men?”