Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  “Mah daddy, he loved Elvis. Named me for ’im,” he said as he bent over and tried to brush the icing off the seat. “Gerald Elvis Bixby. When he gave me the car, he had that plate put on it.”

  Gerald stood up, waving his arms at Morrison. “Look what cha done! This car ain’t got but three thousand miles on it and yuh got frosting all over the seat there.” He turned to me. “If you boys don’t wanna buy a truck, what the hell do yuh want from me?”

  “The Colonel says Drika brought her Cadillac in here for service then disappeared. All we want to know is if she was here, was she okay when she left, and any idea where she might have gone?”

  “Yuh sure this is on the up-an-up?” he asked skeptically.

  “God as our witness, man. Who do you think gave us this picture?” he asked, holding up the photo of Drika, which was now covered in chocolate fingerprints.

  At my nod, Morrison went back to the doughnut table for napkins.

  Gerald apparently decided talking would get Morrison out of his dealership more quickly than not talking.

  “Yeah, Drika was here. Drives a ’59 Fleetwood. Yuh know the one? With the big rear fins and spaceship rear end?”

  “And she seemed fine when she came in?” I asked.

  “Agitated as a bear-raided bee hive, actually. Ah let her sit behind the wheel of that ’69 here while she waited and cooled down.”

  “Any idea where she might have gone when she left?”

  “She didn’t say, and ah didn’t ask,” Gerald told me, trying to conduct us to the exit by walking that direction as he spoke. I held my ground.

  “That it?” he asked.

  “No. I’d also like to know if you’ve ever serviced a Cadillac, or sold one, to a guy named Jon Burrows.”

  Gerald looked at me like a man who’d answered the door expecting late guests, only to discover a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting, pamphlets in hand.

  “Maybe Ah should just turn over muh whole customer database to yuh. How do Ah know yur even a real P.I.? Ya don’t look like one. He don’t act like one.”

  Morrison was sucking the last remains of the doughnut off of his finger. “Sorry,” he said.

  Getting information out of a lead is easy if you know something about them. Annoying a lead, the way Morrison had, was almost always a bad way to start. But we’d gotten lucky. Gerald wanted us out and we’d learned all there was to know about Mamma Viking. He wasn’t going to keep talking about his customers without a good reason though. So I gave him one.

  “You’re an Elvis fan, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Do you know what name he used when he traveled the country? The name he’d put on a guest register so he wouldn’t be mobbed by fans?”

  Gerald just lifted his hands and gave his head a half shake, as if to say, “No ah don’t, but yur gonna to tell me aren’t yuh?”

  “Jon Burrows.”

  “You sayin’ Elvis is this Jon Burrows yur lookin’ for?”

  “He might be.”

  The annoyed look was slowly replaced with curiosity and the memory of the sprinkle-splattered seat faded.

  “And Elvis loved his Cadillacs.” Gerald was nodding and smiling as he put it together.

  “And Elvis loved his Cadillacs,” I repeated. “So, ever do business with a guy named Jon Burrows?”

  Gerald contemplatively cradled his chin in his hand. “Let me go check with the manager,” he said, and quickly stepped toward the only office with blinds. The word MANAGER was painted in big black letters in the window. Halfway there, he stopped and turned around sheepishly.

  “Sorry. Habit. Little negotiatin’ tactic Ah employ when the offer’s a bit too low. ‘Gotta check with the manager!’ Ah’ll jes go check muh files and see if we got a Burrows in there.”

  Gerald winked, turned again, and completed the trek to the manager’s office.

  Morrison went for another doughnut while we waited. I fondled the ’69’s headlamps. Gerald came back out in under five minutes holding a manila folder and reading the contents.

  “We got one Jon Burrows here,” he said looking up at me. “Ah remember this guy now. ’Bout six years ago. Feller called me up. Said he wanted the nicest Caddy on the lot. All the features. Problem was Ah was fresh outta Caddies! We don’t sell a lot of ’em. Aside from the ’69 here, only one Ah had was muh personal driver, a ’70 Coupe deVille.” Gerald trailed off and looked back down at the folder.

  “And?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, looking back up. “Strangest sale Ah ever made. Told ’im the only two Caddys on the lot were the ’69 and my Coupe. He had taste, wanted the. Ah said no way. He said, ‘How much for the Coupe?’ Now, Ah didn’t really want ta sell that car, but Ah figured Ah’d quote a highball price and the feller would back off. Didn’t though. Bought the damn car sight unseen! Bank check showed up the next day and Ah had the Coupe delivered to his house.”

  I’ve interviewed more than a dozen Cadillac dealers on Burrows hunts. Most of them don’t know their connection to Elvis. The ones who do don’t care. All of them get a little curious when I tell the Jon Burrows story, but every time, without fail, I’ve come away empty-handed. Except this time.

  “Can I see that file?”

  Gerald wasn’t listening. He walked over to a small table with Ford pamphlets and sat down heavily in the rolling chair next to it.

  “Ah sold mah Cadillac to Elvis and Ah never even got to see ’em.” He placed the folder on the table and sat there, staring at it. The cigar, still stuck in the corner of his mouth, dipped lower.

  I moved to the table and picked up the folder. “I don’t know for sure that this Jon Burrows is Elvis,” I told him.

  Gerald raised his head. He looked like he had indigestion. “Ya know, Ah lose money on this Caddy franchise every year. Why? ’Cause Ah figure if there’s anyplace, anywhere, that Elvis is gonna walk onto a car lot and need a Caddy, it’d be here in Kresge.” He shook his head again. “And Ah done sold it to him over the phone.”

  “Your file says you had the car delivered to an address on Sycamore.”

  “If that’s what it says, that’s what Ah did.”

  “Nobody else has come looking for this guy, have they?” I was thinking about Cougar Watts.

  “Nope. Just you.”

  Good news. I handed the file back to Gerald.

  “Thanks for all your help. We’ll let you get back to your work.”

  Gerald stood up and the inextinguishable car dealer enthusiasm was back. “Ah sold mah car to Elvis.” He walked over to Morrison and clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah sold mah car to Elvis!”

  The cigar pointed toward the heavens again.

  Morrison clapped him back. “You sure did, Gerald!”

  “Ah knew that scalawag didn’t die on the can!” His grin was ear to ear.

  “Thanks again, Gerald,” I said.

  I had what I really wanted and motioned Morrison to the exit, but Gerald wasn’t ready to let us go yet.

  “Hey, yuh sure yuh don’t wanna trade in that Camaro for a Silverado?”

  “Not really a truck man.”

  “Amen to that brother,” he said.

  For just a moment, Gerald dropped the car-dealer persona and took the cigar out of his mouth.

  “Floyd, if yuh find that Jon Burrows feller, you tell ’im old Gerald Elvis Bixby can keep his mouth zipped, he ever needs that old Coupe tuned up.”

  I reached my hand out to Gerald. He put the cigar back in the corner of his mouth and took my hand in a firm grasp.

  We shook, and I told him, “I will.”

  * * *

  “Where’s Sycamore?” I asked Morrison on the way to the car.

  “Other side of town,” he told me. “But l
et’s get some lunch first, I’m starved.”

  I stopped mid-stride and looked at Morrison to see if he was kidding.

  This is the closest I had ever come to finding any Jon Burrows, let alone one that might actually be Elvis. And he wanted food.

  “Did I just grow an ear out of my forehead? You’re staring at me like you never heard of lunch, Floyd.”

  “I have a real lead on Burrows. We’re going to this address.”

  “It’s a six-year-old address for some guy who isn’t a very smart shopper. It can wait until after we eat, man.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve been looking for this guy for decades. Every lead has turned out to be a dead end. This could be...it could be him.”

  “Yeah, it could be. The building could have burned down in six years too. Look, the guy’s probably not going to be home in the middle of the afternoon anyway. We have a better shot of catching him if we wait until this evening. Come on. Let’s get some chow. Besides, if this guy is Elvis, you don’t want to go over there on an empty stomach.”

  “Tell me where Sycamore is,” I said.

  “Heh. No way.”

  “Alright,” I said, “then tell me why Gerald would think that if Elvis was going to walk into a car dealership it would be in Kresge?”

  Morrison answered my question with one of his own.

  “Do you know how many people are abducted by aliens every year?”

  “What?”

  “Hundreds. Maybe thousands,” Morrison said. “A lot of those alien abductees end up here in Kresge. Maybe that’s what he meant.”

  I genuinely didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I was an alien abductee, why not Elvis?”

  “You’re kidding?” I asked.

  “You’re the one that thinks he’s still alive,” he answered, casually looking at his nails. “Let’s go by Mel’s, there’s probably a few other hungry abductees there now.”

  Kresge wasn’t so big that it would be hard to find a street called Sycamore without Morrison’s help, but I thought back to what the Goon Number Three had said. It was starting to look like Elvis might really be living in Kresge, and I didn’t want to be run out of town before I found him. And Morrison had a point, the address was old. I’ve had three apartments in the time since Jon Burrows had bought Gerald Bixby’s Coupe deVille. As long as I wasn’t obviously looking for Elvis, I figured I could avoid another visit from the Goons. A chance to publicly establish I was busy looking for Roman was probably worth the delay.

  “You’re flush now, you’re buying lunch.”

  Chapter Ten

  The whole town was still hungry. Customers milled about outside Mel’s waiting for a spot at the counter or one of the booths. I was about to suggest we try someplace else, but Morrison insisted he could always get a table. We went up the steps, past ravenous patrons and through the door.

  Inside, Mel’s hummed and clanked with the sound of talking, laughing, and knives and forks scraping against plates. Bettie Mae was behind the register ringing up a customer and looked up as we entered. She smiled at us and her wrinkles winked hello.

  “Sorry, hon, cute as your outfit is, you’ll have to wait outside just like everybody else. But I’ll put you on the list!”

  Morrison wasn’t put off.

  “Are you getting younger, Bettie Mae? I’d swear your silhouette gets curvier every day,” he said.

  Bettie Mae managed a blush.

  “Thanks, tiger, but you still have to wait,” she told him.

  “Aw, honey! I wasn’t buttering you up. We’re dining with the sheriff. Come on, Floyd.”

  I hadn’t seen Wanda when we entered. But Morrison had used his chat with Bettie Mae to look for someone to squat with and had spotted her at a booth toward the rear of the diner.

  “What is now provided was only once imagined, Floyd. I told you, I always get a table,” he said, and led me back.

  Wanda looked up and smiled at me. Okay, us. And I found myself suddenly more interested in her company than food.

  “Wanda. Mind if we join you?” Morrison asked, already scooting into the booth across from her. “We have an update on the case.”

  Wanda ignored him.

  “I didn’t know you had a sidekick, Floyd,” she said.

  “Partner,” Morrison corrected her, picking up a menu.

  I started to slide in beside him when he put his hand down on the seat.

  “Why are you trying to sit next to me when you could be sitting across from me? Boy girl, boy girl?” he asked.

  I blushed. That doesn’t happen often.

  But Wanda just rolled her eyes and said, “I’m sure you don’t have cooties, you can sit over here.”

  “Thanks.” I think I said it out loud, but it may have come out as more of a bleat.

  She scooted to the side and I sat down next to her.

  Morrison was still looking the menu over. “What are you having, Wanda?”

  “Sheriff Kresge. And I’m having a salad.”

  “Sounds good.” Morrison turned toward the kitchen. “Mel! Two more salads over here for me and the King, huh?”

  “So you’re making progress on locating Roman?” she asked me.

  “Yes we are,” Morrison answered.

  “I was asking Floyd.”

  “I don’t know if I would call it progress.” I told her. “Do you know the Colonel?”

  Wanda’s beard couldn’t hide her scowl. “He’s practically in bed with the developer trying to turn Kresge into Denmarkland,” she said.

  I told Wanda about our visit with the Viking, omitting the source of the tip. I’d just finished telling her about Thora when Bettie Mae brought over a slab of rare steak. The bloody hunk of meat literally oozed over the sides of the plate.

  “Here you go, Sheriff! Your boys’ salads will be up in two shakes of a bunny’s tail.”

  Morrison was eyeing the steak, barely containing his drool. “I thought you were getting a salad?”

  “I lied,” Wanda replied, then turned to me. “So do you think he’s abducted Roman or something? I could arrest him. Or get a search warrant.”

  “No. He clearly doesn’t like Roman, but he didn’t say or do anything that made me suspicious. His daughter was pretty sure we wouldn’t find him before the vote, though. So she either knows something, or she’s a typical bratty teenager.”

  “Thora’s a delinquent,” she said. “I’ve caught her defacing property in Old Kresge a half dozen times. Her dad just pays the fine and damages. I think he encourages it.”

  Wanda cut into her steak. “I wouldn’t put it past her to try to abduct Roman, though. Only thing is, she’s not too bright, or I wouldn’t keep catching her. I’d be pretty surprised if she was involved in anything more criminal than vandalism.”

  “Me, too.” I said.

  Bettie Mae brought over two large salad bowls and put them in front of me and Morrison. “Trying to lose a little weight, fellas?” She gave me a conspiratorial wink and went back to the register.

  The salad in front of me was a Cobb, flowing over with bacon, chicken, avocado and egg. Morrison’s was a big plate of lettuce, a few croutons and Thousand Island dressing.

  Wanda put a thumb-sized piece of steak in her mouth and said between chews, “So you’re nowhere?”

  The movement of her jaw made the ringlets on her chin bounce up and down.

  “Well, no,” I said. “I went to Whispers.”

  Morrison and Wanda both snickered.

  “Midge treat you right?” she asked.

  “She was very...nice.”

  Morrison and Wanda snickered again.

  “But I did get something from her.”

  “A disease?” asked Morrison.

 
More snickering. I ignored him.

  “Midge told me Roman does go there. Meets up with a woman. Any idea who that might be?”

  Wanda thought about it as she chewed. “Roman is quite a ladies’ man. One of the names on the list I gave you, Miss Penelope.” Chew. “Dog trainer from the circus. Lives in Old Kresge.” Chew. “Roman was sweet on her. You can probably find her at the Roustabout.” Swallow.

  Morrison was picking through the leaves on his plate. “We have another missing person though. Drika disappeared.”

  “The Colonel’s mother?”

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “Yes. Why are you looking for her when you should be looking for Roman?” Bits of steak flew out of her mouth.

  “We’re not,” I told her.

  “Good! That Viking bitch can stay lost as far as I’m concerned,” she said.

  It was clear that Wanda wasn’t going to be singing a duet of “Let’s be friends” with Drika or the Colonel any time soon.

  “Why would Roman need to meet Miss Penelope out at Whispers?” I asked.

  “Luigi. And the rest of the Magnanini brothers. Luigi and Miss Penelope were sort of an item. He threatened to knock Roman’s teeth in if he even looked at her. I wouldn’t put it past them to teach Roman a lesson.”

  “So they’re dangerous?” I asked.

  Morrison pushed his salad away, laughing. “Maybe if you’re eighty.”

  “They’re retired Circus, like Miss Penelope. Back in the day they had an act where the four of them would get together, lock arms and legs, and form a ball. They could get it rolling faster than a man could run. Morrison may not think much of them, but they’re worth following up on.”

  And I’d thought Kresge couldn’t get any weirder.

  “Have you dug up anything on Burrows?” I asked.

  Sheriff Kresge carefully cut another piece of steak and put it in her mouth. “I might have something by tonight,” she answered after a few seconds.

  “You going to eat all of that?” Morrison asked, eyeing the steak.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I found something myself,” I told her. “An old address of his here in Kresge. We’re headed there next.”