Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  Stepping through the doors of the Bombay Club was a blinding transition from the glare of the sun to dim mood lighting. I stood just inside the entrance waiting for my irises to admit enough light to get my bearings and listened to the band adjusting their instruments. I could pick out an electric guitar, a keyboard, a tenor sax and someone fiddling on a snare drum.

  I looked to my left and made out the dark shape of a large tiger, silently leaping just inches away from me. Holding up my arms to ward off the attack, I tumbled backwards onto my ass.

  Nothing happened. I lowered my arms and opened my eyes. The tiger was in the exact same position it’d been in when I walked through the door.

  “Sheila won’t hurt you, man, but if you’re looking for a gig, shop elsewhere. I got a contract with the Bombay Club, runs another eight months.”

  My eyes were beginning to adjust to the gloom and I could see that the speaker was an older man, mid-fifties, dressed in a somber black tuxedo. James Morrison, I presumed. His short, dark wavy hair was graying on the sides, giving him a distinguished look. A black bow tie hung undone at the collar of his crisp white shirt. He was twisting the large gold ring on his right ring finger with his left hand.

  “I’m just looking for a cold drink before I check in,” I said.

  “Right.” He reached down and helped me back up to my feet. He was about to say something, then paused. This time when he spoke there was surprise in his voice. “What’d they do to you, man? Older I expected, but you don’t even look like you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You’re Elvis right? I always wanted to meet you, man.”

  “I’m not him. The name is Floyd.” Why did everyone in this burg think I’m Elvis?

  Morrison stiffened slightly and I could see his expression hardening.

  “We don’t need any Elvis impersonators here. The Bombay Club’s crowd has a particular taste. They want the real thing. That’s why I’ve been booked for an extended engagement.”

  “I’m not an Elvis impersonator,” I grumbled.

  I could see him shifting mental gears as his curiosity kicked in.

  “If you’re not an Elvis impersonator looking for a booking, what’s with the star-spangled jump suit?”

  “Let’s start with a drink first, okay?”

  Morrison pushed his eyebrows down in concentration and regarded me for a moment. I must have come out okay in the end, because he reached out his hand.

  “Well, you’ve got the will to be weird. Impersonator or not, I love that outfit. Loved Elvis too. Let me buy you that drink.”

  Morrison gestured to a table littered with beer bottles and glasses and started toward it.

  “This is my office. Goliath’ll be by in a minute to get our orders. Now tell me what brings you to Kresge if it isn’t trying to steal my stage.”

  I’ve had this conversation a hundred times in a hundred different towns. I learned a long time ago that the best answer is a true, short, and simple one.

  “I’m looking for Elvis Presley,” I admitted. “I think he’s living here in Kresge under an assumed name.”

  I waited for the customary laughter. It didn’t come.

  “Man, I’d love to meet Elvis,” Morrison sat back in his chair with a wistful look on his face, then sat up quickly. “Maybe he’d join my band!”

  Before I could comment, Morrison shouted, “GOLIATH!” Then, turning to me: “I swear that guy wants to lose business.”

  “Okay, pal. You dress like Elvis, but you’re no impersonator, and you came to the middle of nowhere, Wyoming, looking for the man himself. I’m guessing this isn’t an existential quest you’re on.”

  I don’t know if it was because of the long drive, or that I was tired, or if Buddy’s cancer just still had me rattled, but I ended up telling Morrison about the signed photo, growing up wearing the suit, and how I try to live the way I think Elvis would want me to. Maybe I just needed someone to talk to.

  He inhaled deeply and nodded when I was done.

  “The most important kind of freedom is to be who you really are. You wear the cape well, man,” he said somberly. “Not many guys can pull that off. But, why are you looking for Elvis?”

  “Well—”

  “You guys going to order, or am I going to stand here all day?”

  The voice was coming from the far side of the table, but there was nobody there.

  “Goliath, man, don’t sneak up on us like that. You gotta say something,” Morrison said, addressing the floor.

  “I did say something. What do you want?”

  I leaned over and looked below the side of the table. A two-foot-tall man stood there, holding a bar towel. A little person. And when I say little person, I mean midget. Maybe the shortest midget I have ever met, and I’ve met more than you would think.

  Goliath had long black hair, receding at the forehead and tied back in a ponytail. On his upper lip and chin was a Satanic-looking goatee. A brightly colored Hawaiian shirt hung from his shoulders and stopped at his knees, which were exposed to the world by a pair of shorts that didn’t quite peek out from below the shirt’s hem. Thick hairy legs sloped down and ended at two feet that were easily half as long as he was tall.

  He turned to look at me. “Stare at me some more and I’m going to wipe my ass with that cape of yours, spangle boy.” Turning back to Morrison he said, “So, order?”

  “Just bring two more whiskeys, man. Then pull up a shoe box or whatever you use for a chair.”

  Goliath raised a hand that was just as oversized as his feet and gave Morrison the finger before he left to get the drinks.

  “You know what they say about guys with big hands and feet? Think that’s why he wears such a big shirt?” Morrison asked, sitting back in his chair, amused with himself. “Now let’s hear that Elvis hunting story! You don’t think he’s dead?”

  “I have reason to believe he may still be alive, yes,” I answered cautiously.

  “But why are you looking for him?” he pushed.

  “Buddy, the guy I told you about. His dying wish is to be proven right. That Elvis didn’t go out high on drugs.”

  Morrison shook his head. “Lot of people went out high on drugs in the seventies, man. How long have you been looking?”

  “Off and on for over a decade,” I said.

  Morrison laughed. “Your friend must have deep pockets to be able to keep you on the road this long,” he said.

  I told him about Vernon.

  “A Lifestyle Elvis like you?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Except she’s a girl.”

  “A woman named Vernon. She hot?”

  “Imagine Elvis as a girl.”

  Morrison’s eyes looked up toward the ceiling, imagining Elvis as a girl. “That’s hot,” he concluded. “Now let me hear these reasons for believing the King lives.”

  “Well. There’s a lot of inconsistencies about his death. First, he said less than a month before he died that he was getting tired of being Elvis Presley.”

  “Mr. Mojo Risin’,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing, go on.”

  “At the end of his last show, Indiana in ’77, he said, ‘adios.’ That’s Spanish for goodbye.”

  “I know that’s Spanish for goodbye. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Sorry. But it’s significant. He always closed his shows with some variation of ‘see you again real soon.’ Elvis had a lot more shows booked, but he cancelled orders for all of his show suits right before the one in Indiana. He also let four long-time employees go a few days before he supposedly died.”

  “That’s pretty thin, man.”

  “There’s more. He faked his death once before. Had a guy shoot him with blanks while he was wearing a blood pack
. And two hours after Elvis was reported dead, a man looking just liked him booked a plane ticket for Buenos Aires under the name Jon Burrows. That was his pseudonym. He used it to check into hotels whenever he toured.”

  “Better,” Morrison conceded.

  Despite my doubts, I did have to admit there was a fair bit of evidence to support Buddy’s belief.

  “You assholes want these drinks or what?” Goliath had snuck up on us again.

  Morrison looked over the side of the table. “You are a sneaky short man. Where’s your shoe box?”

  “Just take your drinks, Morrison.”

  Morrison reached down and came back up with a whiskey in each hand, setting one down in front of me.

  “You overhear his story, short man? You think Elvis is alive?”

  I leaned over the side of my chair to get a better look at Goliath, who turned his grapefruit-sized head toward me.

  “That fat, drugged-up, bacon-gobbling, talentless rip-off artist is rotting in his grave.”

  He had it coming, but I shouldn’t have hit the midget.

  Chapter Five

  “Doc said you cracked his ribs,” a woman’s voice said.

  “He swung first.” The little bastard sounded petulant.

  “Well, he was obviously no match for you.”

  “Liberace landed one on me. No one hits a Goliath and gets away with it.”

  I opened my eyes. I was lying on my back and staring up at a bank of fluorescent lights. Turning my head to the left, I saw heart rate and blood pressure monitors, the kind they have in hospitals. Assuming I was the one hooked up to the machines, I was in pretty good shape. I made a mental note to cancel my next doctor’s appointment.

  Turning to the right, I saw the back of a crisp, tan police uniform. Long, curly red hair rested on the shoulders, just below collar level. The shirt was tucked neatly into the top of a pair of tan pants that emphasized a narrow waist and round bottom. The ubiquitous black police utility belt hanging off Police Woman’s hips supported a large caliber pistol, a club and a pair of handcuffs. Waking up to that odd combination of the distinctly feminine and authoritarian was a bit of a turn-on.

  I blame it on the pummeling I’d taken.

  The midget was nowhere in sight, but I was sure he was lurking beneath my gurney or curled up in the bedpan.

  “What happened?” I asked, still somewhat bleary eyed.

  Police Woman turned around. My eyes traveled slowly up the line of buttons on her shirt, past the sheriff’s star on her chest, and to the soft red downy beard that covered what otherwise would have been one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen.

  “Glad you could join us, Mr. Floyd,” Police Woman said. “Goliath must like you. Most folks he takes exception to need a few days to wake up.”

  “The Bombay opens in an hour. And I ain’t paying for pansy britches’ hospital bill!” Goliath shouted.

  I still couldn’t see that damn midget, but I heard the pitter patter of giant feet and saw the door open and close. The imp had left the room.

  “I’m Sheriff Kresge. You’re a lucky man, sir. I convinced Goliath not to file any charges against you.”

  “Kresge. Like the town?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Floyd.”

  “Floyd is my first name.”

  “You could say thank you, Floyd.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’re appreciative,” she told me. “Now you can return the favor. Morrison says you’re a detective. I have a case for you.”

  I barely heard what she said. Watching the ringlets in the sheriff’s beard gently bounce up and down as she talked had me mesmerized.

  “My eyes are up here, Floyd. Never seen a bearded lady before?” she said.

  “Eh! Sorry I wasn’t looking at your...”

  “You weren’t looking at my beard?”

  “No!”

  “So you were looking at my chest? You know I can arrest you?”

  “No...NO! I wasn’t looking at...”

  Sheriff Kresge’s mustache couldn’t hide her roguish grin. “Don’t worry about it, Floyd, just having some fun with you. But I do want your help on a case,” she added seriously.

  “I’m not a murder solving kind of detective, if that’s what you’re looking for.” I tried not to sound peevish about being teased.

  “Has somebody been murdered?” she asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “I’m just saying that I don’t generally get involved in police investigations. I don’t go around solving murders or kidnappings or that kind of thing. I mostly follow cheating spouses or find people who’ve skipped town.”

  “Good. You sound like just the man for the job. Why don’t you get dressed?” The sheriff reached under my gurney and pulled out a large plain brown paper bag.

  I’d been so distracted by the sheriff and her beard that I hadn’t really noticed I was wearing a hospital gown.

  “Hmm,” she said, as she glanced at my lower half. “Looks like you don’t mind the beard too much after all.”

  I sat up, grabbed the bag and put it in my lap.

  “I’ll meet you at the Bombay Club in ninety minutes,” she said. “Morrison told me you’re here looking for some guy named Burrows? If you’re going to find him, you’ll need to stay out of jail, and to stay out of jail, you’re going to need to help me.”

  I pulled my purple cape out of the bag. The orderlies had just crammed it in and badly wrinkled the lining.

  “Always happy to help local law enforcement any way I can, Sheriff,” I told her, trying to straighten out my jumpsuit.

  “Glad to hear it, Floyd.”

  She turned and walked to the door of my room, pausing in the doorway. Looking back, she said, “Oh, hospital bill’s on the department. We’ll call it your fee. See you later.”

  * * *

  Before I left the hospital, the doc gave me a bottle of painkillers and a shot of Demerol so I was feeling fine when I returned to the Butterworth. The bored clerk at the counter didn’t look twice at my clothes, but he did mention the hotel had laundry service. When I got to my room I changed into a white rhinestone firebird jumpsuit and a crimson-lined cape and rang Vernon. Buddy was stable, but sleeping. I hung up, filled a dry cleaning bag then put it out for pick-up on my way over to the Bombay Club.

  Kresge had developed an afternoon layer of cloud cover, so the contrast in brightness between the outside and dim interior of the bar wasn’t as stark as it had been at noon. Standing in the entry, I got a better look at the club. Sheila was still guarding the door. Looking around the room I saw the heads of other animals stuffed and mounted on the wall. Bucks, zebras, two tigers and a rhino made up the majority of the disembodied menagerie. A whole elephant, although a rather small one, was posed rearing back on its hind legs in one corner of the room. Slow ceiling fans with oval wicker blades turned in unison above the tables in an apparent attempt to evoke the atmosphere of a club in Bombay while it was under English dominion.

  Despite the better visibility I still didn’t see the midget before he saw me.

  “Hey, Liberace! Get over here!”

  Gnome-like, the midget—I couldn’t bring myself to think of him as Goliath—was standing on the bar holding a whiskey bottle that was nearly as tall as he was. He poured out a jigger and expertly flipped the bottle right side up without spilling a drop. I don’t think I could hold a bottle of whiskey the size of me over my head, let alone flip it.

  My respect for the midget inched up slightly. At his height, a few extra inches of respect was really quite a bit.

  The midget—okay, Goliath—was standing next to the bottle waiting for me. I walked over and sat down at a stool across from him.

&n
bsp; “My name is Floyd.”

  “Call yourself Rumplestiltskin if you want. Not too many people willing to hit a little person. Even fewer who can manage to lay a hand on a Goliath.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Drink’s on me, Nancy. I like you. Look like a pansy in the cape, though.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking a sip. He’d poured the good stuff. “You’re not peeved I clocked you?”

  Goliath doubled over laughing. “Clocked me? Man, you just surprised the hell outta me! That’s why I went easy on ya!” He shook his head and laughed again. “Hatchet’s buried, Liberace. You’re welcome in my joint.”

  “Floyd.”

  He looked at me, shook his head once more, and did a back flip off the bar and into the well behind it. I could still hear him chuckling as he walked away.

  Taking another sip, I turned and scanned the tables. Morrison was sitting near the stage, head tilted back, eyes closed, a drink in his hand. His band was nowhere to be seen.

  I crossed the distance between us, not sure if he was asleep or awake. “Morrison?”

  He yawned. “I’m up. Being drunk is my disguise.”

  Morrison opened his eyes wide, dispelling drowsiness, and sat upright in his chair. “Have a seat, man, looking up at you is hurting my neck.”

  I put down my drink and sat in the chair opposite him. “Where’s your band?”

  “They split.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, the usual. Creative differences. I wanted to do Bali Hai, they wanted to do Rock and Roll High School.”

  “So?”

  “I’m sick of rock and roll. I’m into the classics now! Sinatra. Lee. Crosby. Martin. Maybe even a little Dick Haymes. That man’s version of ‘Cheek to Cheek’ gives me shivers. I underrated those guys when I was young.”