Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  We all three sat there quietly now, pondering our drinks while the band practiced a Mariachi version of “Fly Me to the Moon.”

  “Who else was in this program?” I asked.

  “The Kennedy brothers,” Morrison said.

  “Jimi Hendrix. He has an organic farm just outside of town,” Goliath said.

  “You already met Norma Jean,” Morrison added.

  “Bettie Mae’s haircut look familiar?” Goliath asked. “Think tiger-stripe swimsuit.”

  “And that’s just a few of us,” Morrison said.

  If Morrison and Goliath weren’t pulling a massive practical joke on me, then all those grocery store tabloids had gotten things a lot more right than wrong. Happiness, U.S.A. would explain so much about all the dead celebrity sightings over the years, not just the Elvis ones. And even if he was a little bit past his prime, I could see how the Soviets would view taking down the King of Rock and Roll as a knockout blow to western music. Having him go out as an overdosing junkie on a toilet would be the ultimate repudiation of American exceptionalism.

  All of the sudden, I believed them.

  The F.B.R.M., or at least someone there, wanted me to find Jon Burrows, though. If he’d been in the program, it seemed like they would have known where he was. Unless he’d somehow escaped? But then why would he stay in Kresge? And if he wasn’t part of the program, why did they want me to find him? Too many questions. I’d never know the answers without getting inside the F.B.R.M. offices and looking through their files.

  “We need to break into F.B.R.M. headquarters.”

  “Whoa there, spangle boy, that’s a terrible idea,” Goliath said.

  “No kidding,” Morrison said. “If you get caught, they won’t just beat you up and give you a warning. More importantly, they’ll ship me back to Siberia to spend my golden years freezing my nuts off.”

  “If Elvis was part of this program, I have to know. Don’t worry though, you don’t have to take me. I’ll find it by myself, just point me in the right direction.” Morrison was about to cave. “If I do get caught, I won’t say anything about you two,” I added.

  “Okay! Fine. We’ll go,” Morrison said. “If we leave after eight all the agents should be gone. But we’re not breaking in! I’m only showing you the place so you’ll know just how dumb it is to even think about breaking in.” He finished his drink in a gulp. “And you have to swear we look for Roman tomorrow,” he added.

  “Deal. Tomorrow we find Roman,” I agreed.

  “Great. I’m going to go practice with the new band. I’ll meet you in front later.”

  He stood up just a bit unsteadily and I watched him wobble his way over to the other dead rock stars. I turned back to Goliath to ask him how the circus folk fit into the story, but the midget bastard had slunk off and taken the bottle of Mezcal with him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Most people think hotel rooms are fairly secure. The truth is there are at least twenty ways for a person like me to get into a room without a key. And none of them require special tools or abilities. Just a little cleverness and some decent acting. The Drunken Guest is my favorite approach. Down a shot of cheap bourbon, a bottle of seltzer, and belch in the face of any hotel maid and suggest you might throw up. Then be unable to get “your” door open. Works every time.

  I guess my detective instincts were working again, because that was what I was thinking about when I opened my door to find Thora the Teenage Maiden in her best Danish bondage lingerie, pouring two drinks from a bottle of Beerenburg.

  “Hello, Floyd,” she said. “I think you’ve been naughty. I’ve come to punish you.” She laughed a very dominant laugh.

  The Distressed Maiden routine works even better than The Drunken Guest, but you have to actually be a maiden to pull it off. Cower outside a room in a robe, no shoes, and tell a hotel employee you left your key inside. The trench coat draped over the chair in the corner made me think Thora had used a variant called The Sexy Surprise. Put on your favorite boudoir outfit, wear a loose fitting coat with lots of gaps in it, then tell a male hotel employee you’re surprising your boyfriend. But only after giving said male hotel employee a little peek at the goods.

  “Thora—”

  “Einde!” she nearly shouted, and stomped her boot heel. “You will call me Mistress Thora.”

  Mistress Thora, the Danish Teenage Maiden—I reminded myself she was a teenager because she certainly didn’t look it—handed me a glass of Beerenburg.

  “Drink,” she commanded.

  I did. Not because she told me to. Because I needed it. I must have been used to all the harsh drink in Kresge, because that time it went down pretty easy. Although the room was starting to swim.

  “Okay, Mistress Thora—”

  “Einde! You will speak only when spoken to!”

  I didn’t know what to say to that particular command, so I ended up following orders by default.

  “Okay, you may speak now,” she said, tossing back her shot.

  “Mistress Thora, you should probably go.”

  She ignored me and traced a line along one of the many bruises on my face with a fingernail.

  “I see someone else has been punishing you already. Don’t worry, Floyd, I won’t be too rough on you.”

  I should have been expecting it.

  Thora swung her arm back, then gave me an open-palmed smack on the face.

  The hit was hard enough to stun me for a moment. While I was cupping my stinging cheek, she managed to push me onto the bed and climb up on top of me. Before I could stop her, Thora had me spread-eagled, my arms pinned down by her hands and my legs pinned down by her thighs.

  “Tell me I’m pretty,” she ordered.

  I probably would have been squealing in pain if it weren’t for the Beerenburg and Mezcal and painkillers, but thanks to them the whole scene was playing out like some absurd French performance art.

  “You’re pretty forward,” I said.

  “I’m going to grant you special favors tonight, Floyd, even though you kept me waiting for so, so long.”

  “Thora—”

  She leaned forward and put her tongue in my mouth, cutting me short. I know there are guys out there who fantasize about young girls wanting to get it on with them, but underage just isn’t my thing.

  I pushed her off, rolling on top of her and pinning her arms and legs to the bed the way she’d pinned mine.

  “Oh, so that’s how you like it.” She laughed. “It’s a good thing I brought ropes.”

  I started thinking that I could enjoy this little adventure if it were a different authority figure wanting to tie me down. But it wasn’t Wanda in my bed. It was Thora and it was just weird.

  “Thora, what the hell are you doing in my room?” I asked, keeping her pinned. I hoped that I’d shut the door. It would be bad for someone to come in now.

  “I told you,” she said. “I saw how you looked at me today. Now I’m going to offer you the kind of night you only dream of.”

  Then she rolled back over on top of me. She really was very strong.

  “Rowr!” she said, laughing again.

  “And what else?” I asked.

  “What else could you want?” she asked me, a little confused.

  “Not me. What do you want?” I said. “You’re not here to have Danish leather sex with an out-of-shape private detective.”

  The smile on her face froze in place, artificial.

  “You’re going to have the night of your life. And you’re going to stop looking for my grandma,” she said through the forced grin.

  I considered telling her that I wasn’t looking for her grandma, but I don’t take well to being bribed not to investigate something. Even if I’m not investigating it in the first place.

  “Sorry,” I s
aid. “Can’t do that.” I pushed her off of me and stood up unsteadily.

  “But you didn’t even want to take the case!” she yelled.

  “I don’t take bribes. Besides, your grandma could be in trouble.”

  “My grandma is fine!”

  She switched back to entrapment mode.

  “Come on, Floyd. A night with me, you’ll be too worn out in the morning to go looking for any little old ladies.”

  Thora sprang off the bed and came at me. I was expecting another slap, but she grabbed on to one of my hands and held it up to her cheek, rubbing her face against the back of my palm.

  “You’re a lovely girl, Thora, but I don’t play bondage games with teenagers and nobody buys me off of a case.”

  The soft, sexy, kitten before me abruptly transformed into a raging feral cat. She put my hand in her mouth and bit down hard.

  “OW!” I yelled, yanking my hand back and clutching it to my chest. Blood ran down my wrist from the bite marks she’d left behind.

  Thora wiped my blood from her lips.

  “You’ll be sorry you turned me down!” She pouted, spitting red saliva across the front of my jumpsuit.

  I kept my distance, pressing down on my wound, and watched Thora walk over to her coat. She thrust her arms into the sleeves and pulled it on in silent fury, glaring at me. She didn’t even bother to button it up as she stormed across the room and out the door.

  Alone, finally, I stepped into the room’s tiny bathroom to take stock. Thora’s spittle had been the final insult to my outfit. My own blood was splattered across the white silk interior of the cape. The jumpsuit was dirty from rolling around on the ground while the Goons kicked the crap out of me. More than a few of the rhinestones that had made the pattern across the chest had been lost while I was dragged across the parking lot. And the boots, well, they were functionally still boots, but no well-dressed man would be caught in a rainstorm with scuffs like that.

  I stripped, stuffing the outfit into the bathroom’s small garbage can, and took a long, long shower.

  Toweling off, I felt refreshed, but the bite in my hand was still bleeding lightly, and the blows to my face and chest were starting to bruise up.

  Physical altercations doing P.I. work are fairly rare. I spend most of my time taking boudoir photos without the subjects’ knowledge. Not much risk there. When clients get angry, they hit the wall or the desk, not me. On the rare occasions when I do have to confront a subject, the result is often anger, but just as often it’s relief. But even an angry philandering spouse thinks twice about hitting a private detective. Repossessors get beaten up all the time, but not detectives. The last 36 hours in Kresge had done me more physical harm than ten years of detective work.

  I’d been angry when I came into my room, but it had been at a low smolder. Not any more though. I was pissed. At Thora, for breaking into my room and biting my hand. For thinking I could be bribed. At the Goons, for clobbering me. At Morrison for not telling me what was going on. At Wanda, for forcing me onto her case. At Buddy, for waiting so long to tell me about his cancer. But I was really furious with myself. I had wanted to please Wanda so I let her convince me to put my search on hold. And all the while Jon Burrows had been out there, waiting for me, in a squalid little apartment filled with flies.

  During his Kenpo enthusiast days, Elvis was known to repeat a phrase his Master had taught him: “Anger is just frustration looking for a sparring partner.” Despite sounding like something from a fortune cookie, it was advice I could use. Normally I would just track down a dojo and get a workout, but not this time. Thora would be my first sparring partner. I didn’t want to beat her up, just find a way to make her as angry as I felt. As soon as I found Roman, I’d track down her grandma and teach the brat a lesson. Dealing with the Goons would be a bit tougher. But taking a look at their office, maybe exposing their cover-up, would be a start. And I couldn’t stay angry at Wanda. My feelings for her, though strong, went in a different direction.

  Then there was Buddy. Sooner or later I would have to call and tell him where the hunt had ended. Just thinking about that drained all the anger away and left my stomach feeling the way it had when the goon slugged me last night. But that call was something I could put off.

  My mood was dark so I pulled my Black Outfit out of the closet. Elvis went through a period where he liked the color black. A lot. Black clothes. Black cars. Black guitars. Even a black horse. My Black Outfit was inspired by one Elvis wore in 1975. The silk shirt is long sleeved, jet black, and has lapels out to the shoulders. Black doesn’t mean plain, though. The stitches across the lapels, the sleeves and chest are arranged in an ornate Oriental pattern, a nod to Elvis’s interest in martial arts. The pants are jet black as well, but made of well-worn soft leather. The shoes, also black, are more utilitarian than showy, with steel reinforced toes, deep rubber treads and arch support, perfect for spending a long time standing or crouching in wait. The finishing touch is the belt, although utility belt might be a better description. It’s wide, black of course, and has a dozen small pockets filled with items that come in handy on a case.

  The one part of the Black Outfit that isn’t black is the large silver buckle that holds the belt in place. It’s made from an actual 1950s U.S. Marshall’s shield. A few years ago, Buddy had found a reference to Joel Ladesma in some estate papers. He was a silver worker who’d been hired by Elvis to do some custom designs shortly before his “death.” Buddy figured that there was a chance Elvis might have come by posthumously to pick up whatever he’d given the man to design. It never happened. In fact, Joel had passed just a year or two after Elvis. His son, Joel Jr., took over the business. I told him what we were looking for and he found the belt buckle and four other pieces in a cabinet full of commissions paid in full, but unclaimed.

  Joel Jr. hadn’t even known his father worked for Elvis, but like a lot of people, he enjoyed the King’s music, so discovering this new connection to Joel Sr. was a happy surprise. He gave me one belt buckle in thanks, kept one for himself, and sold the other pieces to Buddy. The buckle doesn’t get taken out too often. It is the only piece of memorabilia I own that was directly connected to Elvis.

  But it ties the Black Outfit together and I look like a badass when I wear it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Morrison was waiting for me in front of the Bombay Club when I pulled the Camaro around at 8:00 p.m. He was standing next to a child’s car seat.

  I put the car in park and he carried the car seat with all its dangling straps and buckles around to the passenger door.

  “You wanna help me with this?” he asked, opening the door.

  “Why do you have that?”

  “You don’t expect Goliath to sit in my lap do you? Get out and help me.”

  I got out of the car to watch Morrison wrestle the contraption into the back of the Camaro.

  “Goliath sits in a baby seat?”

  “You going to make something of it, fairy king?” Goliath asked.

  He was standing just outside the door of the Bombay Club, chomping on his cigar.

  “No,” I said. “I just picture you as more of a booster kind of guy.”

  I’d swear Goliath growled at me.

  “Who’s watching the bar while you’re gone?” I asked.

  “Dot can handle it ’til I get back.”

  I was about to make a joke about a midget calling someone Dot, but I thought better of it.

  “Hey, this seat doesn’t fit!” yelled Morrison.

  Goliath walked around me to inspect the Camaro.

  “What the hell kind of death trap do you drive, Liberace? That rust bucket barely has seat belts and it sure as hell won’t have a LATCH system.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “What’s a LATCH system?”

  “Never mind,” he grumbled. “Morrison, out o
f there!”

  Morrison laboriously pulled himself out of the back seat of the Camaro. Goliath stepped to the side of the car, grabbed onto the seatbelt and pulled himself up to the doorsill. He expertly threaded the rear passenger lap belt through the child seat and secured it in place.

  Goliath climbed onto his throne and belted himself in as Morrison and I watched from outside.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Goliath. “We going or you two getting a room?”

  Morrison shrugged at me and pushed back the passenger seat.

  When I got into the car, the cabin was filled with drifting smoke from Goliath’s cigar.

  “Toss the stogie or you and your baby seat can stay behind,” I warned him.

  “This isn’t a stogie, it is an El Durante, and I’m not done with it.”

  I turned to look back at the imp. “Don’t make me come back there.”

  Morrison snickered.

  Goliath’s face turned bright red.

  “Goliath, stogie.”

  Goliath plucked the cigar out of his mouth and ground it out on the back of Morrison’s seat.

  The smell of smoldering pleather filled the car.

  “Stogie’s out, pops,” he said, smiling spitefully.

  I grabbed the two cigars sticking out of his shirt pocket and broke them into pieces.

  “Hey!” Goliath protested, but the straps of the car seat kept him from retaliating.

  “Smoking will stunt your growth.”

  * * *

  I drove out past the Kresge city limits and Morrison directed me onto a dirt road.

  “It’s the only way to get there without driving past the front gate,” Morrison explained as the Camaro lunged from one pothole to the next.

  A bone jarring twenty minutes later, I turned onto a paved rural route.

  “This will take us back into town. Nobody lives on this side of the tracks, but when we get closer, turn out your lights so the F.B.R.M. guards don’t see us coming.”