Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

“What the hell were you doing in this apartment, Floyd?” she demanded.

  “Looking for Jon Burrows.”

  “We agreed. You’d look for Roman first, then Burrows. That was the deal. You know how important it is to find him! Did you just lie straight to my face? Is that it?”

  The anger in her voice made it clear she was all Sherrif Kresge now.

  “Leave him alone. We spent the day looking for that Roman dude.”

  Morrison had come back into the room and had verbally inserted himself between me and the sheriff.

  “Stay out of this, Morrison.”

  “Hey, Floyd and I have been all over this town. We followed every lead we could dig up and found no sign of your councilman, okay?”

  “Then you should have been looking harder instead of breaking into houses.”

  Morrison would have continued to defend me but I couldn’t let him keep taking the brunt of the sheriff’s ire.

  “We did a thorough investigation,” I said, standing up. “We followed every lead to a dead end. With cases like this, sometimes you just have to stop for a while, see if something else comes up so you can move forward again. If nothing does, then we go back and re-interview the old leads.”

  “So you didn’t find anything?”

  “Did I say that?”

  Sheriff Kresge stopped for a moment. “No. Then you did find something?”

  “You told me Roman is a ladies’ man. We talked to lots of former girlfriends, the most recent of whom, Norma, felt quite certain that Roman was seeing someone new.”

  “So what?” she asked.

  “Roman seems to run hot or cold. No in between. My guess is right now he’s deep in the arms of love with some new fling and just forgot about the ‘appointment’ he missed.”

  “And we’re just supposed to hope he gets tired of his new floozy in time for the vote tomorrow?”

  “I didn’t say that either. If you think I’m right, it changes the way we look for Roman. A new theory means new leads.”

  I thought I sounded very much the big shot private detective, but the sheriff wasn’t impressed.

  “Then why aren’t you checking up on your theory instead of stalking dead men?”

  I’d had it. I’d put the most important case of my life on hold for her and she was still treating me like a hired gun.

  “Because we just ran down our last lead forty-five minutes ago!” I said angrily. “This isn’t paint by numbers. It takes a while to figure things out and I needed a mental break from your womanizing council member. Besides, finding Burrows was what I came to Kresge for, and you haven’t exactly delivered on your end of our bargain.”

  We stared each other down hotly.

  Sheriff Kresge was clenching and unclenching her fists and her cheeks were as bright red as her hair. Morrison just stood there looking uncomfortable.

  “We had a deal. You shouldn’t have come here.” she said quietly, her beard curls bouncing with just a touch of ferocity.

  “I had a real lead and I’m dealing with a time limit. Did you really expect me not to come?”

  There was another uncomfortable silence between us.

  “So is that Jon Burrows in there?” asked Morrison.

  The sheriff shifted her stare to him. It was a relief not to be on the receiving end of it for a minute.

  “I assume so. His neighbor hasn’t seen him in over a month and Doc Johnson thinks the body has been there about three weeks. We can’t make a visual ID, so we’ll have to locate some dental records or something to confirm it, but for now the name going on the death certificate is Jon Burrows.”

  I’d heard enough and stepped toward the exit. Sheriff Kresge grabbed me by the arm before I could pass.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

  “I just found the guy I’ve spent years looking for, and he’s been dead for who knows how long. I’m going back to the Bombay Club for a drink. Unless I’m a suspect?”

  Her grip on my arm loosened. I could have shaken it free if I wanted to.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that,” Wanda said. “I’m going to need to talk to you about this some more though.”

  “You know where to find me,” I said without much enthusiasm.

  “Okay. I’ll be by the bar later tonight.”

  “Fine.”

  Her hand dropped from my arm. I turned away from her and continued toward the door.

  “Come on, Morrison,” I said.

  The two of us stepped out onto the porch. The air was fresh and cool in the fading light of day.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For what?” asked Morrison.

  “For being a good partner in there.” I meant it.

  “Hey, that’s what partners are for right? Let’s get back to the Bombay and have a bottle of Mezcal, huh?”

  “I like the way you drink, Morrison.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun was just beginning to dip on the horizon and the shadows were stretching their arms.

  In other words, it was happy hour.

  “You drive,” I said, tossing Morrison the keys to the Camaro as I walked to the passenger side door.

  Morrison got behind the wheel and started up the engine, then sat there staring at the dash.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Where’s the switch for the headlights?”

  “Knob on the left. Pull it out a notch to turn them on. High beams are a push button on the floor by your left foot.”

  Morrison turned on the lights and pulled away from Jon Burrow’s place. We drove in silence and I watched as the daylight rapidly became reddish dusk.

  “Are you sure it was him?” Morrison asked.

  “Burrows or Elvis?”

  “Either. Both,” Morrison said.

  “The guitar with the badge on it is the one Buddy sold. I’ve seen pictures of my dad playing it. It must be Burrows.”

  “And Elvis?”

  “He could have just been an Elvis fan. Or Burrows could have really been the King, but I’ll never be sure.”

  “You could lie, say you never found him,” he suggested, turning the car onto Main Street.

  I’d spent years looking for Burrows. Buddy had spent half his life on it. And I’d found him. Dead and rotting. It didn’t matter if he was Elvis or not. I’m not a violent man, but this was all too much.

  “Aaaaagh!” I slammed my fist into the dash.

  Morrison kept his eyes on the road.

  “So?” he prompted. “What are you going to tell him?”

  I nursed my fist and mulled it over. If I told Buddy that I’d spoken to Burrows, that he admitted he was Elvis, he’d die a happy man. But I’d be a liar. Not what Elvis would do.

  “I’ll tell Buddy the truth,” I said. “That the Burrows I found was dead.”

  “What about the Elvis part?”

  “I’ll tell him maybe, maybe it was him.”

  We were approaching Mel’s diner.

  “Want to get a bite to eat first?” asked Morrison.

  “No. Just alcohol,” I said.

  “So, the Burrows-Elvis connection, I’m guessing that’s something we don’t talk about with others. Sort of a private eye code of silence?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You know any other secrets the tabloids would pay millions to get their hands on?” Morrison asked.

  “No I don’t. But there’s something going on in this town. I haven’t asked you about it yet, not outright, but now I want answers.”

  Morrison stared resolutely at the road ahead and said nothing.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Morrison became visibly angry. “This is bullshit!”
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  “No it isn’t. You’re keeping secrets and I think it’s time you shared a few with me.”

  Morrison braked to a stop just below the Butterworth’s marquee and got out of the car.

  “That pip-squeak, pygmy bastard can’t do this!” he yelled, looking up at the sign.

  The Morrison comeback tour lettering was gone, replaced by a new message:

  The Bombay Club welcomes the Mariachi stylings of Ricardo Valenzuela.

  1/2 off Margaritas

  Morrison turned back to me and threw his arms in the air. “He’s replacing me with a fucking Mariachi band? I’m James Morrison!”

  “Calm down,” I said, not really expecting him to. “We’ll go in and get your gig back.”

  Morrison went from red-faced thunder to white-faced stillness in seconds. He slowly placed both hands on the roof of the Camaro and leaned against it.

  “Good evening, Mister Morrison,” said a slightly familiar voice behind me.

  “A good evening to you, too, Mister Floyd,” said a second, also slightly familiar voice.

  I turned around to face Sinus Goon and Deep Throat.

  “No sucker punches today, boys? Don’t like a fair fight?” I asked.

  Finding Burrows had made me angry and I still owed these guys for last night. This time we were evenly matched.

  “You’re such a clever guy, I’d think you would have taken our warning to heart, Mister Floyd,” Sinus Goon said in his nasally voice.

  “You were warned I’d have to get pernicious with you,” Deep Throat said.

  “We told you to stop looking for Elvis, but you just didn’t listen, did you?” added Sinus Goon.

  I noticed for the first time that the two Goons each held something black and metallic-looking in their right hands. I couldn’t make out what it was, but it crossed my mind they might be carrying guns.

  “He’s not looking for him anymore, if that means anything to you,” Morrison told them. “So how about we just go into the bar, you leave us alone, and we all call it a day, huh?”

  Deep Throat turned back to Morrison. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Mister Morrison. You know the rules.”

  “Yeah, I know the rules,” Morrison replied coldly.

  “What are we going to do with you?” Sinus Goon asked, but I got the feeling he already knew the answer.

  “I really am done looking for Elvis,” I told them. “The only case I’m working on now is finding Roman Finney.”

  “Please be quiet, Mister Floyd,” said Sinus Goon.

  “You’ve put us in an awkward position,” said Deep Throat.

  “Now we’ll have to do something about it,” said Sinus Goon.

  They were doing their routine again. I put up my hands to stop the banter.

  “How can I convince you I’m done looking for Elvis?” I asked.

  In answer, both of the goons raised the little black boxes in their hands. One was pointed at me. The other at Morrison.

  There was no gunshot, but I fell to the ground. Head to toe waves of pain had me writhing in the gravel like a snake with its head cut off. I would have screamed if my jaw hadn’t been locked shut by the pulses of electricity coursing through my body. I couldn’t see Morrison, but I heard him on the other side of the car, thrashing.

  “Sorry to have to give you the zappers,” said Deep Throat.

  He didn’t mean it.

  “But there’s a protocol to follow,” said Sinus Goon.

  He sounded almost apologetic. Almost.

  “And we always follow protocol,” said Deep Throat.

  “Yep, always follow protocol,” said Sinus Goon.

  It seemed to me that at a time like this, a TV detective would shake off the zap he’d just gotten, make a witty retort, then kick some Goon ass. But I just lay in the dirt twitching, badly hoping I didn’t wet my pants.

  I heard Sinus and Deep Throat’s shoes crunched in the gravel and dirt as they walked around the car to Morrison.

  “Mister Morrison, you signed a form indicating you understood the rules of your relocation,” said Deep Throat.

  I think Morrison grunted a response, but it could have just been another wave of pain.

  “Despite this, you have flagrantly violated the rules, time and time again. We’ve looked the other way because you’ve largely been cooperative. You should have known helping Mister Floyd in an unauthorized pursuit was going to bring us down on you,” said Sinus Goon.

  “Nobody fucks with the F.B.R.M., Morrison,” said Deep Throat.

  There was a single muffled thump. Morrison groaned again and started to cough, but his thrashing subsided. The current from the zappers had run its course and my own twitching was becoming less spastic too.

  The Goons crunched back around the car until the two of them were towering over me.

  “This is your very last warning, Mister Floyd,” said Deep Throat.

  “There won’t be another one,” said Sinus Goon.

  “Stop looking for Elvis,” said Deep Throat.

  “Get out of town,” said Sinus Goon.

  “Our next visit won’t end so well for you,” said Deep Throat.

  “You could end up as dead as Elvis,” said Sinus Goon.

  The pain was almost gone, but I still hadn’t come up with a witty retort. Probably for the best. I didn’t want to keep them around any longer than necessary.

  “And please try to remember you brought this on yourself,” said Deep Throat. “Go.”

  Sinus Goon smiled a very nasty, very mean, very not-nice smile. He bent down, grabbed a handful of the front of my jumpsuit and pulled me about a foot off of the ground. He cocked his right arm and I watched in slow motion as he brought it down on my face. Then I watched as he did it again. And again. And again.

  He dropped me to the ground, where I stayed, laying on my side, staring at his black leather shoes. I don’t know why, but I noticed they were quite scuffed.

  “You need a shoe shine,” I croaked.

  Yeah, I know. Not much of a riposte, but it was the best I could come up with.

  Sinus said something I couldn’t make out. The next thing I saw was the scuffed toe swinging back, and then swinging quickly forward toward my face.

  * * *

  My head hurt. I was lying on my back on something cold and flat, so I wasn’t in the parking lot anymore. I blinked my eyes open. A bullet-headed Lilliputian with a satanic goatee and a flowing Hawaiian shirt was leaning over me. I was in Goliath’s bar.

  “Get the hell off my bar, Sleeping Beauty. You’re bleeding where customers should be drinking.”

  Goliath stood back up, shaking his head.

  “Man, you’re a pussy,” he said, and did a flip off the bar, back into the well.

  Showoff.

  I closed my eyes again and rubbed my forehead gingerly. I could feel a lump forming just above my left eye, right where Sinus Goon’s shoe must have connected. As I sat up on the bar, a wave of nausea rose up from the pit of my stomach.

  “Drink!”

  Jun Fan’s stern blue eyes were peering into mine. In his hand was a small cup with something aromatic and steamy in it.

  My ribs hurt so I got out a few painkillers. The bottle said not to take them with alcohol, but I accepted the cup and raised it to my lips for a drink.

  “Oh my God!” I said, nearly choking on the biting liquid. “What did you give me?”

  Jun Fan smiled.

  “Ancient Chinese secret.”

  “I’m not drinking monkey piss or something, am I?”

  Jun Fan grunted a laugh.

  “Morrison said you wanted Mezcal. This is a special recipe of mine. I call it a Hot Mexican. Good huh?”

  “You drink this?”
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  Jun Fan wrinkled his nose at the idea. “I don’t drink alcohol. I put nothing in my body that isn’t good for it. But I like tending bar. Have some more!”

  I pretended to take another drink of the Hot Mexican. “Thanks. It’s really very tasty,” I said.

  A sharp pain in my side made me wince.

  “Two broken ribs,” Jun Fan informed me.

  “They’re cracked. I got those from Goliath yesterday.”

  “Then they cracked them more,” Jun Fan added.

  “Great. Any lessons on avoiding a beating like this in the future?”

  “The stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “You should learn how to take a punch.”

  “What happened to the two Goons?” I asked.

  “Goliath. He said he heard you screaming like a schoolgirl outside. Went out and chased off the F.B.R.M. boys. Hauled you in here. Ruined your shoes.”

  I looked down at my feet. The toes of my boots had deep gouges in them from the concrete and gravel. They looked exactly like they’d been dragged across a parking lot.

  “I really liked these boots.”

  “It’s not the daily increase, but daily decrease. Hack away at the unessential, Floyd.”

  “You don’t like the shoes?”

  “Your gi makes you look like a sissy. Always be yourself, Floyd. Express yourself, have faith in yourself. Do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it.”

  “Dressing like this doesn’t make me not myself,” I told him testily. “But thanks for the wise words.”

  “You owe me twelve dollars.”

  “What, for the lesson?” I asked incredulously.

  “No, for the Hot Mexican. That doesn’t include the tip.”

  I set down the drink and took out my wallet, fished out a twenty, and handed it to Jun Fan.

  “Sorry, I don’t have change,” he told me.

  “Is there some law around here about not having change that I should know about?”

  “Where would I keep change?” asked Jun Fan, slipping the twenty into some corner of his tracksuit.

  “Where’s Morrison?”

  Jun Fan wrinkled his face again.