I put an elbow into his ribs and nudged him along.
The Colonel led us into a wood-paneled den and instructed us to “Sit! Sit please!”
Morrison and I each fell into deep, overstuffed brown leather chairs. The Colonel went behind a small minibar. The front of it was an ornate rectangular long shield and the four legs were miniature versions of the Colonel’s spear, points down.
“I am so glad you are here! But before business, we will drink to the good fortune that brought you to my door,” he said, pulling out a bottle and three glasses.
“About that,” I said. “I’m looking for—”
“Ach! First the drink!” He finished pouring a finger of clear liquid into each of the glasses and brought them around to us. “Skål!” he said, tossing his back.
“Skål!” Morrison followed suit, that big grin plastered across his face.
“I suppose it’s five o’clock somewhere,” I said, and drank.
The harsh liqueur hit my throat like fire, and I gasped for air as it burned its way down to my stomach. The Colonel crossed the room to clap me solidly on the back.
“First rate Beerenburg! Imported from Friesland! Now to business!”
I was laboring to hold back tears as the Colonel pulled up his own chair.
“I want you to find my Mamma. She has gone missing.” He leaned into his statement, then sat back to punctuate it. “You will find her!”
The Beerenburg, whatever it was, had stopped scalding my sinuses and was simmering in my stomach, so I was finally able to get a word in. “I’m not here to look for your mommy, Colonel, I’m trying to locate a city councilman, a guy named Roman Finney.”
“Gedeknepper!” The Colonel turned his head to the right and spat on the floor. “Finney would stand in the way of progress! He’s no circus freak, but he’s voting with those...those vanskabning!”
The Colonel returned to the bar, poured himself another jigger of Beerenburg and knocked it back. Just watching made my eyes smart.
“Colonel—”
He was looking down at his glass but held up his hand to stop me from continuing. When he finally looked up again, there was a tear running down his cheek.
A crying Viking? Really?
“My dear, poor Mamma. She is lost, out there, somewhere,” the Colonel moaned, and gestured to the cold, hard world with his drinking hand. Then his soft, longing expression hardened into a grim scowl. “No doubt some vanskabning is sullying her reputation.” His smile returned. “You will find her and bring her home!”
“Colonel, I’m not looking for a new case. I’m just trying to find this Roman guy. Based on your own admission you’d like to see him out of the way, so I’ll just put it to you—any idea where he is?”
I’d stood up as I spoke and was facing the Colonel from across the minibar.
He stared back at me intently for a moment, then raised his left eyebrow and said, “No. And I don’t care where he is.”
He poured another Beerenburg shot and walked around the bar.
“Now, about my dear Mamma.”
“If your mother is missing, why don’t you call the police?”
“Pah! That bearded sæk couldn’t find her fat ass with both hands.”
I’d had a pretty good view of that ass from my hospital bed. It was not fat.
The Colonel puffed his cheeks, pursed his lips and exhaled. “Me and Momma, we fought. She was angry and left. She told me she was going to take the Cadillac in for service. That was two days ago!” he continued. “You will help, yes?”
I was about to say no when Morrison, who’d been quiet through the entire exchange, stood up and said, “Don’t worry Colonel, we’ll find her.”
“No, we won’t!” I objected, too late.
“Vidunderlig!” The Colonel said, ignoring me. “Honning, kommer her!” he shouted down the hallway, then turned back to face me, all business. “I will give you fifty dollars a day. No more. And no expenses, you are already on a case, they cover your expenses.”
“I’m not taking the case, Colonel.”
“Come on, take the case, it’s his mom!” Morrison pleaded on the Colonel’s behalf.
This is why I’d never had a sidekick before.
The Colonel paced into the hallway and shouted “Honning!” again, just as a short, fat, ruddy-cheeked lady in red-and-blue skirts wearing a bonnet as white as snow popped into view.
Imagine a Danish Mrs. Claus.
“Hvad er uro?” she asked, huffing.
“Ah, Griet! This man is a detective! He will find Mamma for us!”
“Gudskelov!” Griet hustled over to me and wedged my face between her hands, giving it a good squeeze and shake. “You are an engel!”
“Wait a minute—”
The Colonel put an animal-skin-clad arm around his wife’s shoulders. “He will start immediately! We will get our Mamma back, eh? Ach! Look at the time!”
Turning on his heel, the Colonel picked up his spear and a round shield and beelined for the door, pausing before he turned the corner. “Griet! Give Detective...eh...?”
“Floyd,” I said glumly.
“Yes! Detective Floyd. Give him a picture of Mamma and fifty dollars. I must go. I am late for pillaging practice.”
And with that he was gone.
“Flooytje is a good Danish name, eh?” Griet asked.
She let go of my face and stepped to the bookcase. From an array of framed photos she selected a prosaic picture of an older woman in traditional Danish dress. The woman had graying blond hair and the clear complexion and high cheekbones you’d expect of Nordic stock.
She held the photo to her bosom, closed her eyes, held up her head and mumbled something in Danish. Opening her eyes, she looked at me, saying, “This is our dear, dear Mamma. Mamma and the Colonel are so much alike. That is why they fight.” She held out the frame to me. “You must find her!”
I was about to protest, again, that I hadn’t taken the case when Morrison stepped forward to accept the photo.
“Don’t worry, Griet, we’ll find her.”
She favored Morrison with a pleased look and pinched his cheek. “You are a good boy. I have liver pie in the oven. You will stay for lunch?”
“We really have to get going, Griet,” I said.
I got to the door, dragging Morrison along behind me, and almost made it out, with Griet beaming after us, when she realized she hadn’t paid me.
“Flooytje! Your fifty dollars!” Griet hustled over to us, pulling a wad of cash out of her blouse. “Tak, Flooytje!” she said, pressing the cash into my palm.
“Sure,” I said, retrieving my hand and stepping back out over the threshold.
“Consider Mamma found,” Morrison said, giving Griet a big hug.
Griet gave his cheek another pinch before Morrison followed me through the door.
* * *
“It’s really decent of you to take on the missing Viking Mamma case.”
I didn’t say anything until we got into the Camaro.
“I’m not taking the case.”
“But you took her money!” he said.
“I’ll mail it back to them,” I told him, starting the engine.
“Floyd, man, it’s their Mamma, ya gotta help ’em out.”
“Why do you care if we look for his mother? She’ll cool off and come back.”
Morrison paused for a moment, then said, “Let’s just say I had a few mother issues of my own. Come on, we can at least look into the Cadillac dealership, right?”
“Okay.” I sighed. “I usually stop by the local Caddy dealership on a Burrows hunt anyway, so yeah, we can stop by there to check on Mamma Viking.”
“Great, man! Can I have my cut now? I’m a bit short on cash.”<
br />
“You want half of the money Griet gave me?”
“Well...yeah. We’re partners, right?”
I handed Morrison the crumpled wad of tens.
“Keep it all,” I said, pulling out of the driveway. “It’s your case.”
Morrison was too busy counting the bills to put on his seat belt, so when I stopped short, he whipped forward, knocking his knee into the dash.
“Ow! No one is going to get upset if you run down squirrels out here, ya know.”
“Do you know who that girl is, hiding over by the fountain?”
Morrison rubbed his knee and looked into the Colonel’s yard. My Danish Welcome Girl from yesterday was trying to hide behind the plump lines of the fountain’s water bearers.
“Yeah, that’s the Colonel’s daughter, I think.”
I left the car in idle and got out.
“Hello. Remember me?” I called.
Danish Welcome Girl reluctantly emerged from behind the fountain. She stared me down now, hands on hips, as I walked over to her.
“Circus freak with the cape. Why were you talking to Mom and Dad?”
“I’m looking for a missing person.”
“She’s not missing.”
“You’re talking about your grandma?”
“Isn’t that who you’re looking for?” she asked.
“No, but your parents would like me to be. Why do you think she isn’t missing?”
“Gran and Dad fight all the time. It’s hardly something new.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Thora.”
“Thora, I really don’t care what your grandma is doing, where she’s doing it, or who she’s doing it with. I’m looking for this guy named Roman. City councilman. You know anything about him?”
A wicked smirk that said “I know something you don’t know” slid across her face. “I know who he is. I know Dad is pretty glad he’s gone missing.” She put extra emphasis on the “gone missing.”
“And I hope you never find him, freak!” She turned and ran off behind the house.
Morrison was still rubbing his knee when I got back in the car. “Did you ask her about Mamma?”
“She said not to worry about her. Says her dad is pretty happy Roman is missing, too.”
“Yeah, I got that from him,” Morrison noted wryly.
“The Colonel didn’t give me the impression he had anything to do with Roman’s disappearance, but now I wonder. Let’s go see a man about a Cadillac.”
Chapter Nine
Elvis once said that driving down the highway with the top down and a beautiful girl by your side was as close to Heaven as you could get before you die. He liked all kinds of cars, but he had a soft spot for Cadillacs, which he bought for himself, for friends and for family.
There are rarely any real leads to follow up on a Burrows hunt. Most of the work is instinct or guesswork. Since I’d never found him, I suppose you could say both my instinct and guesswork aren’t so good. But since no one else has found him either, I didn’t feel too bad about it. My gut was telling me that checking in with the local Cadillac dealership was as good a way as any to look for Jon Burrows. Following up on Mamma at the dealership took me where I wanted to go anyway, and gave me cover if the Goons were watching.
The dealership was in Old Kresge. As we made our way through town, Morrison pointed out the sights. The high school. The grade school. City Hall. The Tiger Hut.
“And what exactly is a Tiger Hut?” I asked.
“Pizza parlor.”
“Why is it called The Tiger Hut?”
“How should I know?”
“Is the pizza any good?”
“Nope. Car dealerships are down 22nd Street, make a right up at the light.”
I turned the corner and hit Auto Row. Two smallish dealerships lined one side of the road, and one giant dealership, the one we were heading to, occupied the other.
The Kresge Motors Cadillac dealership also sold Fords, Chevrolets and Toyotas. That might seem like an odd combination if you’ve never spent time in small towns in the West. But if one of these things is not like the others, Cadillac is the one that’s not the same. So what do Ford, Chevy and Toyota have in common? Pick-up trucks. The people in small Western towns drive pick-ups, and the top three sellers in this fine nation are the Toyota Tacoma, Ford F-150 and Chevy Silverado. I was surprised Kresge even had a Cadillac dealership, especially since their truck sucks.
Kresge Motors was typical of small town auto sales everywhere. Three trucks to every car. Multi-colored pennants hung from guidelines and a massive red, white and blue American flag flapped lazily from a fifty-foot pole. Below it, the Wyoming state flag hung limply. A large Cadillac logo graced the third flag, which was held out to its full width by a rigid supporting arm guaranteeing that breeze or not, you’d be able to see exactly what it was.
We pulled into the customer parking area and got out of the Camaro. Morrison was recounting his cash when a salesman cheerfully stepped out of the showroom’s large sliding-glass doors and waved to us. He was short, maybe five-foot-six if he was lucky, stocky, and dressed head to toe in Western wear. Cowboy boots. Brown chaps with leather fringe. A blue button-up shirt with a rhinestone pattern—not unlike the design on my jumpsuit—and a brown leather vest. His ten-gallon hat added at least eight inches to his stature.
He spread his arms in greeting as he approached.
“Welcome! Welcome to Kresge Motors! Ah’m Gerald Bixby and Ah gow-ron-tee yuh won’t find a better deal on a pick-up truck east of the Rockies!” A chewed up, unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth bounced as spoke.
Gerald Bixby stopped, turned his head a bit to the side, and looked me up and down. The giant sales grin plastered across his puss became a gaping O, and the mauled cigar dropped to the ground. Falling to his knees, Gerald clasped his hands together, as if in prayer.
“Ah knew yuh’d come. Ah knew if Ah opened a Caddy dealership yuh’d come! The King. Is. Alive!”
He threw his arms wide and shouted that last bit to the sky like a Pentacostal proclaiming the second coming of Jesus.
“Mr. Bixby, my name is Floyd.”
Gerald turned his eyes from the heavens and brought them level on me.
“But yuh look like Elvis. A little younger than ah’d expect, though.”
Doubt was starting to edge into his hosannas, but he wasn’t quite willing to abandon his faith just yet.
“Yuh sure yer not Elvis?”
Morrison let him down easy. “He ain’t Elvis. That hip look like it could shake a million girls into hormonal overdrive? Really, man. Get off your knees before you embarrass yourself.”
Gerald stood and brushed himself off with his cowboy hat, revealing an ear-to-ear combover.
“What can Ah do ya for, gentlemen?” he asked, replacing a stray lock of hair and capping it with the hat. “We got great deals on that Silverado over there.” He gestured to a gray-and-silver king cab.
Morrison decided to take the lead before I could say anything. It was getting to be a habit for him.
“We’re looking for an old lady. Her name is...I don’t know what her name is. They just called her Mamma. Floyd, you know her name?”
“Just go get her picture from the car.”
“Right!”
Morrison went back to the Camaro for the photo that Griet had given us.
“Mr. Bixby, I’m a private detective. Morrison there, he’s my partner. Sort of. Anyway, we’re looking for a woman, she’s the mother of some local big shot named the Colonel, maybe you know him?”
Morrison returned with the picture frame and thrust it at Gerald. “Her, we’re looking for her!”
“Well, call me Gerald. Why are yuh looking for Drika?” Gerald asked.
“The Colonel asked us to find her,” I told him.
Gerald looked us both over, and then the car-dealership grin sprang back onto his face.
“Why don’t yuh boys come on in. Ah’ll get another cigar. Wife won’t let me smoke ’em, but Ah still like chewin’ ’em,” he told us conspiratorially. “Then we can talk Drika and Ah can tell yuh all about the financing options we have on that Silverado!”
* * *
Three walls of the showroom floor were pane glass, giving passers-by and prospective buyers a good look at the latest models on display inside. The back of the dealership was small cubicles, a tiny office and wood paneling. Across the wall was a series of “Employee of the Month” photo plaques going back almost a decade. Every one of them had been presented to Gerald Bixby, by Gerald Bixby, for the quality of his work as lead salesman, janitor and sales manager. Kresge Motors was a one-man show.
A high-end truck from each of the auto lines sat in waxed and detailed repose on the floor of the dealership, waiting for their new owners. A fourth vehicle, a 1962 candy apple red ragtop Series 62 Cadillac, was on a raised platform under spotlights. Oiled whitewall tires supported the flawless body. Chromed bumpers and accents cast back stray rays of light. The Wyoming plates read 4 Elvis.
“This is a beauty of a car, Gerald,” I said, running my hand along one of the rear wings. Morrison was over by the coffee machine, pawing through the box of doughnuts.
Gerald had replaced the unlit cigar and crossed his arms in smug satisfaction as he chewed on it.
“That she is. Mah pride and joy. Mah daddy was a car dealer—followed in his footsteps, don’tcha know—and when that car came in, he had it set aside and said to the boys, ‘Boys, this car is a piece a’ art. Ah’d hang it on mah wall if Ah could.’ Had a way with words, mah daddy. Gave it to me when Ah opened my first dealership.”
He beamed with pride as he recounted his story.
Morrison poked his head into the cabin, a chocolate-covered doughnut in his hand.
“Watch the sprinkles!”
Gerald was pulling Morrison away from the car in a belated attempt to keep the doughnut off the blue leather interior.
“What’s with the Elvis license plate?” I asked.
Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery) Page 8
