Pino’s crocodile tears didn’t stop him from fishing a small white business card out of his pocket and handing it to me. Bold block letters read:
I want to help.
“You want to help us find Roman?” I asked.
“Beep-beep.”
“I don’t have a gun, but I do have a Swiss Army knife and I’m sure the corkscrew would hurt a lot, Pino. What do you want to help us do?”
More tears. Another pre-printed card from inside his jacket.
I want to help you find Roman AND Elvis!
“Morrison, get back in.”
Morrison slid into the passenger seat and I handed him the cards Pino had given me.
“How did you know I was looking for Elvis?” I asked Pino.
Pino just shrugged and gave me a big clown grin.
“So you want to come to the zoo with us?”
“Beep-beep.”
“Do you know where either of these guys is?”
“Beep-beep.”
“Do you know someone who might know where one of these guys is?”
“Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!”
“That was a lot more than one or two beeps,” Morrison noted.
“I think he was just excited.”
“Beep.”
“Are you going to tell us who this person is, or where to find him?”
“Beep-beep.”
I really hate clowns.
“Pino, I know you can talk. Just tell me or I’m going to hurt you, I swear it.”
Pino pulled out another card.
Do you really want to hurt me?
I really, really did. “No,” I told him. “Just tell me where you want me to go.”
Pino pulled out yet another card. This one was different. On one side, it said Madame Zora, Palm Reader and Fortune Teller, and on the other, it had handwritten directions to her shop.
“You want me to go to a fortune teller?”
“Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!”
“Shut the door, Morrison, we’re going to get our palms read.”
* * *
Law enforcement officers consulting with psychic advisors is another one of the clichés that come up endlessly in police and detective shows. I don’t know if cops really work with “psychics,” but I can tell you suspicious spouses certainly do. Thanks to my clients, I’ve met more than a few astrologers, palm readers and fortune-tellers over the years. They seem to offer reasonable, if generic, advice. “Today is not a good day for making important decisions.” Or “Things are going to go your way.”
I’ve even worked for a number of psychics, mainly tracking down their spouses. I never did ask any of them why a palm reader would need a detective to look for someone who wasn’t paying their alimony. I always thought the answer was pretty self-evident.
Based on this personal experience with those gifted with “the sight,” I knew what to expect from Madame Zora. It usually goes something like this:
Middle-aged woman, a little fat, but not overly much. Long hair, usually done up in some Gypsy-like scarves. Petticoats, or multilayered skirts. A beaded or colorfully decorated blouse. Speaks with grand gestures. Keeps her sanctum rife with burning incense. Doorways filled with beaded strings that she parts dramatically. She would crowd us into some confined space and spill whatever info she had, or wanted us to think she had, through cryptic references that could be interpreted a dozen ways. And then she would ask for twenty bucks.
Pino was probably her shill, working up a profile and providing her some key information so her predictions could seem more accurate. After all, who pays attention to what they say around a clown?
Roman had a pattern of spending time with the ladies. It’s mostly ladies who spend time with psychics and the donahs at the Roustabout seemed like perfect targets for a fake psychic scam. I doubted Madam Zora would have any real clues to offer in the search for Jon Burrows, but she might actually know something, thanks to her paranormal sessions, that could help me find Roman. For that matter, she might even be another one of Roman’s conquests.
I followed Pino’s directions to a row of shops in Old Kresge, a few blocks away from the Roustabout Lodge. Madame Zora’s turned out to be Zora’s Nail and Beauty, nestled between Boiko’s Barber Shop and Lyubitshka’s Donuts.
The rich smell of crullers coming out of the fryer followed us into Zora’s. The cheery yellow sponge-painted walls covered with pictures of The Old Country—I couldn’t tell you which one—and bright lights of the salon were not what I was expecting from a crystal gazer’s place of business. The only person in the salon at the moment was a young woman, maybe twenty-five, reading The Capitalist and lounging in one of four powder blue recliners lining the wall. Her long, dark, curly hair spilled down over her shoulders like black lava flowing from a volcano.
Pino beeped his nose and she looked up, flashing a brilliant smile. Sparkling blue eyes shined brightly from behind a thin veil of bangs.
The clown pushed passed us to kneel at the woman’s feet, pulled a bright red rose out of his Coat of Many Pockets and handed it her. She took the rose and kissed Pino on the forehead.
I guess not everybody hated Pino the way I do.
“It’s good to see you, too. Who are your friends?” she asked, standing to face Morrison and me.
Before I could answer the question, Pino stood up, leaned close to the woman, cupped his hand around her ear and whispered into it. When he was done, she pulled away from him with a look that said, “You’re kidding!”
Pino shook his head no.
The woman looked at me. “Pino tells me you’re some kind of private detective. That you’re helping Wanda find Roman?”
“That’s right,” I told her. “My name’s Floyd.”
“What did he say about me?” Morrison asked.
“Just that he didn’t know who the Jerry Lewis wannabe is,” she answered.
Morrison turned on the clown. “I thought you only spoke in beeps.”
Pino shrugged. Then he gave the woman a little smack on her ass before cartwheeling out of the nail salon and away down the block.
I pretended to be unimpressed.
“You’re Madame Zora?” I asked.
She sighed and shook her head. “Just Zora. Pino likes to play up the whole psychic-madame thing,” she said, mocking the idea with the tone of her voice. “He’s got the circus in his blood and sees everything through a performer’s glasses.”
When Zora frowned, I swear it made me feel sad too.
“Did he bring you here for me to tell you your fortunes? ’Cause that’s not really something I do, you know?”
Okay, so Madame Zora wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.
“I don’t know why the clown brought us here.” I pulled out the card Pino had given me and handed it to her. “He seemed to think you might be able to help.”
“More importantly, what was that whole rose ceremony about? You two are seeing each other?” Morrison interrupted.
“Yes. We are.” There was a touch of impatience in her answer, as if she got asked that question on a regular basis.
Turning back to me she said, “I can’t believe he printed up Madame Zora cards. He’s very sweet, but mildly obsessed. What did he think I could help you with?”
I told her who I was, about my search for Jon Burrows, all about the case the sheriff had given me and our general lack of solid leads. She asked questions, but—surprisingly for such a seemingly normal person—none of them were about the jumpsuit.
“Well,” she said, “I doubt very much I can do anything for you. I’m a pretty good manicurist, and sometimes when I’m working on someone’s nails I get impressions or feelings that I share with my clients. But I’m no psychic.”
“I haven’t had a good m
anicure in years,” Morrison said. “And by the look of Floyd’s cuticles, I’d bet he’s never had one. So how about you take care of the two of us and let us know if you have any visions?”
Zora looked at the empty seats, turned back to Morrison and said, “Sure. Twenty bucks each.”
At least I’d been right about the fee.
* * *
Morrison and I sat side by side in the recliners, our hands soaking in some prepping fluid, while Zora got set up.
I felt silly. I decided to take it out on Morrison.
“You’re paying for this,” I said.
“Hey, we’re getting information. This is a business expense. You should be paying,” he replied, leaning back a bit more and adjusting one of the cucumbers Zora had placed on his eyelids. I’d passed on the salad fixings.
Zora sat down on the stool next to me and took my left hand in hers for a closer inspection.
“He’s right, your nails look terrible,” she told me. “I can fix them up for you though, no worries! Just relax and leave the work to me.”
Zora took out a tray of sharp, jagged-edged stainless steel torture implements. I’d swear one of them was designed to file through bone. She selected a particularly gruesome device with a hook on the end and started gouging at my fingers. It didn’t really hurt, but it looked scary as hell, so I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling.
“So have you ever met Roman? Dated him maybe?” I asked.
Zora let out a snort and kept gouging. “Are you kidding? That dirty old man? I know him, which is exactly why I’d never, ever, date him. I’ve had at least a dozen of his conquests in here telling me about their evenings together. I can’t believe the old geezer has such an active love life.”
Zora switched tools and I heard a filing sound, but still didn’t look down. Morrison had started to snore.
“You wouldn’t have any idea where I can find him? Maybe one of your clients knows?” I asked.
“Sorry. I saw him at Mel’s one night a few weeks ago.” She stopped filing for a moment. “Who was he with? Yeah! Miss Penelope! She’s been seeing him a bit lately, might ask her. I don’t know what she does that messes up her nails so much, but she’s in here every week.”
Zora moved on to the next finger with her dental instruments. She stopped mid-dig.
“You know, Norma used to see Roman pretty regularly. She always came in for a pedicure and facial before their dates. She hadn’t been in since the two of them broke it off, but she was in earlier this week. You might ask her if she’s put him back on her social calendar.”
The scraping and digging resumed.
“What about Burrows? Any of your clients ever mention him?”
Zora stopped picking at my finger, but didn’t say anything.
“Zora?”
Nothing.
I worked up my nerve and looked down at her. She was sitting rigid in her seat, still holding my hand, implement at the ready. But she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes had rolled up under her fluttering eyelids.
“Zora?”
Her eyes rolled back down and she jerked spastically, jabbing a stainless steel spike deep under the nail of my right ring finger.
“Ow!”
I snatched my hand back and pulled her tool out of my finger. Blood squirted from the puncture wound and across the wide armrest of the chair.
Zora was shaking her head, like she’d just tossed back a shot of cheap tequila.
My cry woke Morrison from his nap. He sat up, removing the cucumbers from his eyes and popping one in his mouth.
“Man, you know you’re bleeding there?” he asked between crunches.
Zora recovered her wits and realized she’d stabbed me.
I know I’m being a bit melodramatic, but it hurt.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Let me get something for that!”
She grabbed some gauze out of her manicure tray and pressed it into my finger.
“Ow. OW!”
“Sorry! This will stop the bleeding though.” She pressed the gauze hard against my wound again. I acted more manly this time and said nothing.
“I’m really so sorry, I’ve never had a vision hit me like that before,” she apologized, winding a bandage around my finger.
“Did I miss something?” asked Morrison, eating his other cucumber.
“No. Nothing,” I said.
Zora was wiping up the blood from the armrest. Fortunately none of it had gotten onto my jumpsuit or cape. She seemed genuinely contrite.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” I told her.
“You said you had a vision?” asked Morrison.
Zora finished cleaning up the mess and turned back to me. “I did. You should stop looking for Jon Burrows.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. And James, you should stop helping him,” she added.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Is he here?” I asked.
She hesitated before answering.
“He is, isn’t he,” I said.
“I think so,” she admitted.
“Then why shouldn’t I look for him?”
Zora shook her head. “It wasn’t anything specific. I just got an overwhelming feeling of danger.”
“About me? I’m in danger?” I asked.
Zora looked at Morrison. “No. He is,” she said. “If you keep looking for Burrows you’re going to put Morrison in grave danger.”
Morrison, who I expected to chime in, was strangely quiet.
The three of us sat there, saying nothing, for nearly a minute. Zora broke the silence.
“My visions aren’t usually like this—I’ve never hurt anyone before. Why don’t you let me finish up your manicures, on the house?”
“I like the sound of that. Got any more cucumbers?” asked Morrison.
“Sure!” she said with relief, jumping up to go get them.
Once she was out of earshot, I told Morrison there was no way she was finishing my manicure.
“You have to let the poor girl finish, Floyd. Besides, you don’t want a couple nails looking clean and even and the rest looking like you’re a farmhand. I’ll bet the sheriff will like them.”
“You’re not concerned about Zora’s warning?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in psychics.” He lay back, closing his eyes. Discussion over, as far as he was concerned.
Zora returned with two more cucumber slices.
“Just slap ’em on,” he told her.
Zora gently placed the slices over Morrison’s eyes then sat down beside me.
“Let’s take a look at that finger I gouged, huh? It should be okay now and we’ll finish up on it. I’ll be gentle, I promise!”
* * *
Zora finished my manicure without any more incidents. I hated to admit it, but my nails looked a lot better. Morrison made an appointment to come back to have his feet done.
“You’re still going to look for Jon Burrows, aren’t you?” she asked me as she cleaned up.
“Yep.”
“And you’re still going to help him?” she asked Morrison.
Morrison stopped admiring his nails long enough to respond. “A fool who persists in his folly becomes wise. Besides, what kind of partner would I be if I didn’t?”
Zora finished putting away her manicure tools and fixed me with a sad look. Then she came over and gave me a big hug.
Being hugged by a beautiful twenty-something psychic manicurist should have been a thrill, but I found myself thinking about Wanda.
“I could tell from my vision that you’re a good man, Floyd,” she whispered into my ear. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”
She let me go and smoothed out my cape. Morrison held his arms out wide for a hug as well, but Zora just went behind the counter of the reception desk and got out a pad and pencil.
“Since you’re going to keep looking no matter what I say, you should go visit Norma. This is her address,” she said, pulling a slip of paper off the pad. “She might be able to help you.”
“Thanks Zora,” I said.
Morrison raised his arms hopefully.
“Do you want a hug too?” she asked him.
“Well he got one,” he pouted.
Zora’s naturally cheery personality broke through prophecy-induced gloom.
“Oookay!” she said, coming out from behind the reception desk. Morrison was just about to get his hug when they were interrupted by an emphatic “Beep-BEEP!”
Pino the Clown had slipped back in at some point without drawing anyone’s attention. Zora covered her mouth, giggling, and Morrison dropped his arms in surrender.
Pino raised his arms for a hug, mocking Morrison’s hangdog look. Zora stepped into his arms and Pino gave her a passionate open-mouthed kiss and an enthusiastic “BEEP!”
Watching Pino tongue wrestle with Zora was nearly as disturbing as toweling off a decrepit old circus acrobat.
“Save something for later, handsome,” Zora said, breaking off their embrace. Pino leered at her and beeped in response.
Zora handed me the address, putting both hands over mine as she looked into my eyes.
I took the paper from her, squeezed one of her hands in goodbye, and walked out the door of Zora’s Nails and Beauty with my first and only manicure.
Chapter Thirteen
Morrison looked in the back seat of the Camaro before he got in.
“I just wanted to make sure that damn clown wasn’t still following us. Bastard sneaks around like a ninja,” he said.
I had Morrison direct me to Norma’s address. I’d been wrong about Zora being another one of Roman’s elderly trysts, but it wasn’t a waste of time—I’d gotten a lead on someone who was involved with him at some point, and might even be the current love affair in Roman’s busy schedule. If I could get a solid line on the missing councilman, maybe even find him, I could use that to push Wanda on the search for Burrows. I didn’t really want to do that to her, but if I couldn’t look for him openly, maybe she could do it for me.
Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery) Page 12
