The pain and nausea that radiated out from my stomach like an impact crater kept me curled up in a ball as the two gentlemen discussed the etiquette involved with roughing me up. The slugger, Deep Throat, addressed me next.
“Roll over and let’s have a talk, Shamus.”
Who says Shamus?
“I think I am going to be curled up like this for a while,” I told them. “If you want to have a face-to-face conversation you’re going to have to come around to the other side of the bed.”
It was true; I couldn’t have rolled over if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to. I was comfortably miserable where I was.
I heard the click of the switch when one of the bruisers turned on the lights, but all I could see were stars. My eyes were still squeezed shut, holding back tears of pain. Then I heard the shuffle of feet as two men rounded the bed.
“You’re going to get more of the same if you’re trying to be funny, Mister Floyd.”
I blinked open my eyes and looked at the Voices. My first impression was that Elwood Blues had been cloned. Two white guys in dark suits, white shirts, black ties and black sunglasses were standing across from me. Each man held the same pose, hands clasped in front of them at the waist, feet set at shoulder width. I would have asked the Goons if they were on a mission from God but neither wore a hat.
“You two big Corey Hart fans?” I asked instead.
After being hit really hard I don’t usually try to be a clever guy, but it had been a long day. Neither one of them got the reference though, and the one on the right just looked at the guy on the left in confusion.
“You know, ‘I wear my sunglasses at night.’” I sang a couple lines.
What? Just ’cause I live my life the way Elvis would means I never listened to the radio? Okay. You’re right. I don’t listen to the radio. But the song had played on the jukebox when I ate at Mel’s.
“Stop looking for Elvis. He’s not here,” said Nasal Voice, aka Sinus Goon.
“Elvis Aaron Presley died August 16, 1977, at the age of 42 of a heart attack,” said Deep Throat.
“He was buried at Forest Hill Cemetery in Memphis on August 18th.” Back to Sinus Goon.
“After someone tried to steal his dead body, he was moved to Graceland and again interred on August 28th.” That was Deep Throat.
“Elvis Presley’s cousin Bobby Mann secretly took photos of the corpse which later appeared on the cover of the National Enquirer.” Sinus Goon spoke on cue.
It was like watching elementary students reciting facts as part of their report on Elvis, but far more confusing with two nearly identical looking and sounding tough guys delivering the oration.
“Elvis is dead, Mister Floyd. And if he were alive, he wouldn’t be living in Kresge. For the sake of your own health, I highly recommend that you leave town tomorrow.”
“Leave, or my pugilistic partner will be back to pummel you again.” Sinus Goon must have Word-of-the-Day toilet paper.
“Don’t switch the blade on the guy in shades, Mister Floyd,” Deep Throat said.
I guess I was wrong. At least one of them had gotten the reference. He just didn’t have a sense of humor.
The two Goons turned in unison and walked around the bed, back toward the door. It occurred to me they must practice their routine a lot to have it down so pat. One of them turned out the lights. As the door closed behind them, I heard Sinus Goon ask, “What was that about switch the blade?”
* * *
I woke up to the sound of someone flushing the toilet. My stomach was feeling fine, but I was still curled up in bed on top of the comforter. I rolled over just in time to see one of the Goons walk out of the bathroom, fastening his belt.
“You’re awake. Good.”
What was it with this town and hygiene? “Wash now or eat it later,” I said.
“I’m allergic to soap,” he said defensively.
Hearing his voice a second time, I realized this was a third Goon visiting my room. He finished straightening out his apparel and pulled a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket. He made a production of squirting some into one palm and rubbing his hands together until it was gone. Done, he stood across from me in the same hands clasped in front of his waist pose the other Goons had struck during their routine the night before.
“I have a message for you. Don’t stop looking.”
“Your nocturnal Goon friends had another idea. I believe they gave me the classic ‘Get out of town’ line.”
“They have been informed by our superior that you are no longer pursuing your quarry and are now in the employ of the sheriff. As long as you aren’t observed investigating your original target, you won’t be interfered with again. So, my message—Don’t stop looking.”
“Is he here?” I asked.
“I don’t know who you’re looking for.”
Goon Number Three turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Hey!” I called angrily. “Two goons come into my room, rough me up, tell me the person I’m looking for isn’t here, and now you show up telling me to keep looking. I have to say, I’m getting mixed messages.”
He ignored me.
“Who are you guys? Do you work for Elvis? His estate?”
He stopped at the door, his hand on the knob.
“We’re the government, Mister Floyd. F.B.R.M.”
“Then I’ll take the first Goons’ advice,” I told him. “I’m packing my bag and I’ll be on the highway after breakfast.”
It was a lie. I wouldn’t leave until I’d run down Buddy’s lead, but I thought I’d see where my announcement might take me.
Goon Number Three looked back over his shoulder. “I am authorized to tell you we are aware of the land development proposal. We’re not supporters of the deal. Go see the Colonel. I’d imagine he’d like to see Roman disappeared until after the vote.”
He turned the handle and opened the door to go.
“It would be a pity if all those nice circus people lost their homes, wouldn’t it? Use the search for Roman as cover. Don’t stop looking. Tell no one I was here.” And with that he was gone.
I rolled over on my back and lay in bed a few more minutes. I didn’t need a little voice to tell me something was going on in Kresge. Some government acronym I’d never heard of simultaneously wanted me to stop and continue looking for Jon Burrows. I’d also been given a lead on the councilman, which was more than I had when I walked into Deep Throat’s fist last night. Why hadn’t Wanda mentioned the Colonel to me? Or the men in suits? I filed the questions away to be answered after breakfast.
After a very long, hot shower and a couple of the painkillers I’d gotten at the hospital, I picked out a blue denim jump suit with a Western rhinestone pattern on the chest and a matching blue denim cape with a white silk liner. I pulled on my lucky pair of white leather boots and went out the door with thoughts of huevos rancheros.
* * *
Mel’s was the only restaurant in Kresge I knew, so I went back. Evidently, I wasn’t the only hungry man in town.
“Hiya, handsome,” Bettie Mae said in greeting. “Morrison’s down that way somewhere. Said you’d be looking for him.”
The only empty seat was a stool at the counter next to an older Asian man in a yellow tracksuit with black stripes on the sides. I’d seen the tracksuit somewhere before, but couldn’t place it.
“This stool taken?” I asked him.
“All yours,” he said.
I thanked him and sat down, waiting for Bettie Mae. Since he was also waiting, either for his food or a menu, I introduced myself.
“Call me Jun Fan,” he told me. “It is nice to meet you, Floyd. Goliath speaks well of you.”
The surprise on my face must have been obvious.
Jun Fan’
s smile revealed a matching pair of crow’s-feet around his eyes and deep wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. He was older than the traces of gray his close-cropped hair suggested.
“Goliath is a student of mine. He shared with the class this morning that you managed to punch him. I was very disappointed to hear it.”
“What do you teach?”
Jun Fan balled his fists, thumbed his nose, and did a rapid show of shadowboxing. Even through his tracksuit I could see he was in better shape that I’d ever been in my whole life.
“Jeet Kune Do. You might fare better against Goliath after a few classes with me.”
“No thanks. I’m a Judo man. Besides, I’m not sure anything would help me against the midget.”
“Be formless, Floyd...shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle. You put it into a teapot—”
“I get it. It becomes a teapot.”
He continued as if there had been no interruption.
“Water can flow, Floyd, and it can crash. Be water, my friend. Hold out a quarter.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the quarter requested, and showed it to him. Jun Fan held up a quarter almost at the exact same instant.
“That is a penny.”
I looked at the quarter in my hand, and it was a penny.
“Speed is in the mind, Floyd. Remember that in your next fight.”
I looked back at the penny and it was a quarter again. Bettie Mae floated over to the counter with a plate of corned beef hash and placed it in front of Jun Fan, who grunted hungrily and dug in.
“What can I get for you, honey?”
“That hash looks good. Can I get an order with an egg on it?”
“Coming right up.”
I turned back to Jun Fan, whose plate was already empty. Apparently, speed was in the fork as well. He touched a napkin to the corners of his mouth.
“Delicious!” he said.
I decided to take the shotgun approach. “This may seem like an odd question. Any chance you’ve seen a guy named Roman around? Or a guy named Jon Burrows?”
“I know Roman. He came to me for training,” he said.
First the Colonel, now this. The morning was turning into a bonanza of leads. “He did? When?”
“Many months ago.”
Or maybe not. “Do you know where I could find him now?”
“I am not my brother’s keeper, Floyd, but you are welcome to join us tomorrow for training. Perhaps he’ll be there.”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned away from Jun Fan to look up into Morrison’s face.
“Buy a partner breakfast?”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, turning back to Jun Fan. “Do you know...”
But Jun Fan was already slipping out the door. The only evidence he’d been sitting next to me was the nearly spotless plate he’d left behind, along with a note.
“There was a guy just sitting here a second ago—”
“Older Asian guy who looks wise beyond his years, talks nonsense and stole a quarter from you?”
“Yeah, that would describe him.”
Morrison sat down in the now-vacant seat and handed me the slip of paper. “Bruce moves faster than the wind.” Morrison picked up the plate and sniffed at it. “Hey, this was hash, right? Smells good. What’s in the note?”
“He says I’ve had my first lesson and I should pay for his breakfast.”
“At this rate you’re going to be buying hash for the whole town.”
Bettie Mae brought out my hash with the egg on top and Morrison ordered a plate of his own. Then he asked if I got lucky at Whispers.
“No. And thanks for the warning.”
Morrison snickered. “Aw, come on. A visit to Midge is like a trip snipe hunting. You learn by experience.”
“What’s a snipe?”
“Are you sure you’re a detective, Floyd? Solve the case and I’ll take you snipe hunting. So, any leads?”
“Do you know who the Colonel is? I got a tip he might have something to do with Roman’s disappearance.”
“Everybody knows Colonel Sanders,” he told me. “His eleven herbs and spices make for some fine fried chicken.”
I blinked. Fried chicken?
“I’m just kidding. The Colonel you’re talking about is a crazy Dane, kinda runs what’s left of Old Oksvang. After you pay for my breakfast I’ll take you over to see him.”
Chapter Eight
Two full stomachs later we were in the Camaro on our way to see the Colonel.
“Head down Main to the Danish area, I’ll tell you where to go from there,” Morrison instructed.
I reversed the trip I’d taken into town. It was only minutes until we’d left behind the small-town homes and shops of Main Street and were transported back in time to a traditional Danish village. “So tell me about this Colonel.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you. I’ve never met the guy, but I’ve seen him plenty. Real nut for everything Danish. Someone told me his family was in the first wave of settlers. Him and his mom are the main agitators for an independent Oksvang. He never runs for office, but he sort of runs a shadow Viking government in town.”
“And he’s called the Colonel why?”
Morrison frowned, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know anyone who knows. Turn right up there on Zwart Street.”
“So everyone knows he’s a player, but nobody knows how he got his name?”
“Kresge’s a small town. Everything is either an open secret or a complete secret. The Colonel’s place is that big Danish house on the corner.”
It was more like a mansion. The two-story building was un-plastered brick topped by a steep thatched roof. A sword crossing the front of a round shield was embossed on an ancient-looking gable stone that had been mortared into place above the doorway.
The Camaro made crunching sounds on the loose gravel driveway as we coasted to a stop.
“So how do we handle the interrogation?” Morrison asked.
“We don’t. I said you can come along, but you don’t say anything, okay?”
“Right, boss.”
“I’m not your boss,” I said.
“Right. Partners!” Morrison lowered his voice and leaned into me conspiratorially. “You know, I think I’m going to enjoy being a detective. I’ve been looking to get out of music for a while and I think this could be my new thing. So am I the good cop, or the bad cop?”
Morrison had definitely watched one too many episodes of Hawaii Five-O.
“Just...shut up and come on,” I said with resignation.
We got out of the car and walked up to the entry, past a running fountain with five chubby maidens pouring splashing water from bottomless vessels. Our shoes made the same crunching sound on the sharp rocks as the Camaro’s tires. There’s something about the sound of boots on gravel that always puts a little bounce in my step and a float in the half cape. I don’t know why. And despite Morrison’s irritating enthusiasm for our work, I was in a good mood when I knocked on the wide carved door.
The door opened a few inches. Enough to reveal a six-foot-six Viking in full armor and a peaked iron helmet with two curved ivory horns rising up from the sides. A fat red face with bright blue eyes and a brushy blonde mustache peered out at me from below the helm’s white fur fringe. The first thing I thought of was Sergeant Schultz starring in some bizarre adaptation of a Wagnerian opera. I assumed this was the Colonel.
“Good afternoon—”
“I’m not buying! Get off of my property, or I will sic the hounds upon you!”
I’m sure it was my mind playing tricks on me, but he even sounded a bit like Schultz.
I didn’t hear any hounds in the back
ground, so I stuck my foot in the door before he could shut it. Even a small man can put a lot of force behind a slamming door, which is why I only buy steel-toed boots. Despite the reinforced toes, the Colonel shut his door hard enough for me to feel it.
“I’m a private detective! I’m not selling anything, Mr....Colonel.”
That got his interest. The pressure on my foot let up as the door swung open about half way. Enough for me to see the rest of the Colonel’s outfit. For such a burly man, I was surprised to see he was wearing a fur-trimmed leather skirt. I could also see he had a seven-foot spear clutched in one hand and a long knife on a belt at his waist. The weapons looked real enough to make me wish I’d let him shut the door. But I made the best of it.
“I’m investigating a missing person case and I’d like to speak to you about it.”
He was skeptical. He moved his left eyebrow lower, Schultz-like, to emphasize that.
“You don’t look like a private detective.”
“If I looked like a private detective, that would make it a lot harder for me to sneak around and do detectively things, don’t you think?” I asked.
His right eyebrow joined his left one.
“Whatever you may think I do look like, I am also a P.I. I swear.”
“Prove it!”
I fished my wallet out of the jumpsuit and handed him my credentials. Every state has different requirements for licensing a P.I., which can make it challenging to operate legally in multiple states. I’d gotten mine through the Grochmal Correspondence Program, though. Instead of providing state-by-state accreditation, they had a single program that served entire territories. My license is good in the Pacific Northwest, Wyoming, Montana and Utah.
It was a pretty simple document, but the Colonel inspected it like a suspect hundred dollar bill. His face was a window into the workings of his mind, and I could see his thoughts move slowly from skepticism to delight.
“Come in! Come in, detective! You are just the man I am looking for!”
The Colonel ushered us in with his spear. We passed through the threshold and Morrison whispered to me, “Am I tripping, or is he wearing armor?”
Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery) Page 7