Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  Sheriff Kresge swallowed the half-chewed piece of meat and glared at me. Hard.

  “We agreed, Roman was your priority. You focus on him, I help you with Burrows.”

  “You’re not my client, Sheriff. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “And I was doing you a favor by not throwing you in jail.”

  The fire in her cheeks nearly matched the red in her beard.

  “I thought I wasn’t being threatened. Are you going to arrest me if I go to Burrows’s place?” I asked.

  Wanda wiped her face with a napkin and changed tactics. “No. I’m sorry, Floyd. But I don’t think you understand what this vote means to me and the people of Kresge.”

  Wiping her face had rubbed the grease into her beard, making it glisten and catch the light when she talked.

  “My parents would lose the house I grew up in. My friends and neighbors would lose their homes and businesses.”

  Wanda pushed her plate over to Morrison, who dug in. “You’re our only hope,” she said, grabbing my arm just above the elbow. “Please, Floyd. We need you, I need you, to find Roman before the vote.”

  I was unconvinced. Wanda bounced back and forth between the hard-as-nails sheriff and the vulnerable woman too easily. “I’ll beg you, if that’s what it takes. And after you find Roman, I promise, I will devote every resource I have to helping you find Burrows,” she pleaded.

  I tried to pull away, but her grip on my elbow tightened and her eyes teared up. Just a bit.

  Feeling my resistance, she moved closer and pushed her case again.

  “I know you’re a good man, I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  She was just inches from me now. Which I liked enough to continue to resist her pleas.

  “Tell me why you think Roman is missing,” I said.

  Wanda’s cheek twitched, her ire rising, but she held it back. “He missed an appointment,” she answered.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “I really can’t tell you any more.” Wanda’s voice was flat and her grip on my arm was starting to hurt. “How I know he’s missing isn’t what’s important. The fact he is missing is what you need to focus on. Ask yourself, Floyd, what would Elvis do?”

  I ask myself that very question all the time. Wanda obviously already knew the answer. He would help the girl. Save the day. He always did.

  “I’ll look for Roman first,” I said, resigned.

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  That earned me a grin. The effect would have been more rewarding if she didn’t have steak stuck between her teeth. But I felt better about deciding to help her out anyway.

  “Thank you, Floyd.”

  Wanda pulled back, put her napkin on the table, and looked at Morrison.

  Morrison felt her stare and lifted his face up from the steak, which he’d nearly devoured.

  “Much better than a salad!” he said, juice dribbling down his chin.

  “You’re paying for that,” Wanda told him. “Excuse me, Floyd.”

  I stood up and Wanda slid out of the booth. Before I sat down again, she turned to me and grabbed both of my arms in her hands, pulling me closer, but not too close, and looked deeply into my eyes.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” she told me, and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.

  It tickled.

  Then Wanda turned and walked away. I watched her rear end as she left. I thought maybe this time she’d turn at the door for one goodbye look, but she just paused long enough to say something to Bettie Mae, then swept outside, her red hair and beard blazing in the sunlight.

  “Sit down, you look like an idiot,” Morrison said.

  This from a guy with steak all over his face. But I sat down anyway.

  Morrison finished off the last of the meat and belched quietly just as Bettie Mae walked up to our table. She smiled and laid the check down by his plate.

  “Sheriff said lunch is on you today.”

  Bettie Mae walked back to the register and Morrison glanced at the check.

  He let out a smaller burp and fished out the fifty bucks I’d given him earlier.

  “Shouldn’t you be expensing this or something?” he asked.

  I pretended to be absorbed by the chicken in my salad. Morrison got the message.

  “So are we going to Burrows’s place or following up on Roman?”

  I looked up from the Cobb. “Elvis said, ‘You don’t go back on your promises. Do it once, and you’ve lost folks’ trust forever.’”

  “So we’re going after Roman,” he confirmed.

  “Right after I powder my nose.”

  * * *

  When I came out of Mel’s, Morrison was behind the wheel of the Camaro. He had the seat pushed back and the radio tuned into some Rat Pack song. I think it was Dean Martin doing “Grazie, Prego, Scusi.”

  “You really should lock your car, you know. Just because Kresge’s a small town doesn’t mean you should trust everyone.”

  “Get in the passenger seat, Morrison.”

  “Music expresses the inexpressible, friend. Just trying to find something to aid the digestion,” he said, getting out.

  I punched a button on the 8-track to get it started. The cartridge in the deck was Elvis Live at Madison Square Garden and the tape started up in the middle of “Polk Salad Annie’s” fuzz guitar solo.

  “You forgot to introduce me to some of your fellow alien abductees at lunch,” I pointed out as I fiddled with the controls, trying to find “Love Me Tender.”

  Morrison slammed the passenger door shut in answer.

  I gave up on finding the song and let “Never Been To Spain” play.

  “So. Were you really abducted by aliens?” I asked.

  Morrison turned and looked me square in the eye.

  “Yes. I was abducted by aliens. When they were done with me, they dropped me off here in Kresge. I liked it here so I decided to stay.”

  I couldn’t tell if Morrison really believed what he was saying or if he was trying to get one over on me. I’ve actually investigated alien abductions—it’s the Elvis thing, people just assume I’ll believe anything—and they all turned out to be hoaxes or excuses for running off with the dental hygenist.

  “How long did they have you?” I asked, pushing the issue.

  “I don’t like to talk about it.” He looked away from me. “So where to?”

  I decided to drop the abductee angle for now.

  “Where did the sheriff say we could find Roman’s buddy Guido?”

  “Luigi. Guido is his brother. So’s Mario. And Carlo.”

  “So where will we find Luigi and Miss Penelope?” I asked.

  “Roustabout Lodge in Old Kresge. We’re going to Circus Town.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t know what I was expecting of Old Kresge. Monkeys in the trees. A juggler on every corner. A parade. Whatever it was, the bucolic tree-lined streets, old brick homes with porch swings and welcome mats, and general Rockwell-esque Americana was a letdown. The last of my fantastical expectations was shattered when we pulled up to the squat cinderblock building that was the Roustabout. One wall had recently been painted, the color just a slightly different white from the rest of the building. You could make out the ghosts of some past graffiti underneath. Thora’s work, I assumed, based on what the sheriff had told me about her penchant for defacing things.

  I turned off the engine and Morrison reached out and grabbed my arm before I could open the door.

  “You ever spend time around old circus folk?” he asked.

  “No. Spent time with carneys though, I can’t imagine they’re much different.”

  “I can’t say if they are or aren’t, but a lot of these old coots d
on’t much like outsiders.”

  “Noted,” I said, reaching for the door again.

  Morrison stopped me a second time. “And the Magnanini brothers, only one of them speaks English. If you could call it that.”

  “They’re old world Italian. I get it. Can we go in?”

  Morrison let go of my arm, but held my eyes with the intensity of his stare. “I’m just saying,” he nodded toward the door of the Lodge, “some of these circus people have a few screws loose.”

  I thought about the Dane we’d met that morning. And how his screws needed a little tightening.

  “So the Colonel was normal?” I asked.

  Morrison sighed. “Okay. You were warned.”

  He turned away from me and opened the passenger door. I got out and made my way past a black ’57 Buick, a 1942 Studebaker, and a badly beat up and well-worn ’70s Chevy pickup. The Camaro fit right in.

  The oversized door to the Lodge was covered in deep blue leather. Metal studs dimpled the padding, creating a diamond pattern. Screwed into the center of the door, right at eye level, was a bronzed sign with the words Members Only engraved into the metal.

  Private property had never been a deterrent to me before, so I twisted the handle to let myself in. Locked. Above the sign, in the center of the door, was a large iron knocker. I rapped twice and heard the echo reverberating inside.

  Morrison and I waited, staring silently at each other.

  It was several long minutes before we heard feet shuffling up to the door.

  “What’s the password?” asked a gruff male voice.

  “We don’t have a password,” I said.

  “Then you’re no member! Go away!”

  The shuffling feet started to retreat.

  “Sheriff Kresge sent me!”

  The shuffling stopped, but the speaker remained silent.

  “I’m helping the sheriff. She sent me to see Miss Penelope.”

  The man waited a moment before responding. “What do you want with Penny? You here to arrest her?”

  “I’m not a police officer. I just want to talk to her. It is very important.”

  “Alright. Wait here,” said the voice. The shuffling resumed, fading as the speaker walked away from the door. The next wait was shorter, and instead of a shuffle, we heard the approaching click-thump of hard boot heels.

  “Who calls upon the Rrroustabouts?”

  The speaker rolled the ‘R’ in roustabouts and over-enunciated the ‘ou’s. His deep baritone was colored by an Italian accent moderated by decades of speaking English.

  “Sheriff Kresge sent me to speak to Miss Penelope. It’s about a missing persons case.”

  “Wanda sent you? She’s not informed me she was sending visitors. When did you speak together?”

  “At lunch today.”

  “What did she eat? Tell me! Be quick!”

  “Steak. Bloody rare,” I answered.

  We heard the clicks of bolt locks sliding out of place. Morrison gave a shrug with a hint of “I told you so” in it. Then came the scrape of a cross beam being lifted and placed to the side. And, finally, the sound of a toe lock sliding out of place.

  The door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges and revealed our host. He was eighty if he was a day.

  “I am Rrringmaster Krrresge!” He rolled the ‘R’s in both Ringmaster and Kresge. A tall black top hat crowned his head, which he removed before bowing. Standing again, he squinted for a moment as he took me in. “I approve of your cape.”

  High praise from a man wearing a bright red top coat, a cravat, white spandex pants and riding boots.

  The Ringmaster cocked his head, looked away from me, and inspected Morrison. “You failed to inform me that you had a companion.”

  “This is—”

  “I’m his partner.” Morrison cut in.

  The Ringmaster sniffed at Morrison. “You. You I do not care for.”

  Then he moved to shut the door in our faces.

  I stuck my foot inside before he could close it completely and played a hunch. “Wanda was telling me just today about her favorite uncle. That wouldn’t be you would it?”

  The Ringmaster opened the door wide and smiled, delighted. He straightened his back, grabbed a lapel in each hand and said, “Indeed! I am Wanda’s uncle. And I was the rrringmaster of the Krrresge circus for over forty years! Wanda said I was her favorite?”

  “She did. She also said you would be just the man to help us,” I said.

  “Well of course! Who else could help you besides The Rrringmaster?” he asked with a flourish. “Come in!”

  The inside of the Roustabout Lodge smelled of cabbage and pipe tobacco. We followed the Ringmaster into a small office just inside the doorway. The click-thump of his boots kept time with accordion music piped in through tinny overhead speakers. The bare floors, cinderblock walls and the odd smell evoked suppressed memories of school gymnasiums, YMCAs and community centers.

  He motioned to two chairs, taking the seat behind the desk for himself and pulling out a bottle of cheap whiskey.

  “Can I offer you a drink? A little nip between friends?”

  “Maybe later. Do you know a guy named the Colonel?”

  “Vafanculo! A cock sucker!” he said, slamming the bottle on the desk. “He would tear down all of Old Krrresge. You work for him?”

  The old man balled up ancient fingers into a fist and waved it in the air in our general direction. I tried not to laugh.

  “No, I’m working for Sheriff Kresge. Remember?”

  He lowered the fist a little. “Yes. Right. So why are you here?”

  “I’m trying to find Councilman Roman Finney. The Sheriff is concerned that he might be missing and there is an important council meeting coming.”

  “Oh yes! Without his vote we’re merda.” The Ringmaster nodded gravely.

  “Well, the Sheriff thought maybe Miss Penelope and Carlo—”

  “Luigi,” Morrison corrected me.

  “Miss Penelope and Luigi might know something about it.”

  The Ringmaster lowered his fist altogether and sat back in his chair.

  “Then I shall take you to them! They are both in attendance today. Which of the two would you care to speak with first?”

  * * *

  The Ringmaster led us out of his office and down the stairs to a door with “Donahs” written on it in white script. “This is the ladies’ floor,” he explained.

  Stepping inside was like walking into a different building. Gone was the cabbage and tobacco smell, replaced by lavender and...wet dog. Gone was the dim lighting. The basement was the size of a basketball court and filled with bright incandescent light. Shafts of sunlight sneaked through a series of windows just above ground level. A few feet from the door was a green felt-covered gaming table. The four ladies playing cards all looked up when we entered.

  The Ringmaster held the door open for me and Morrison and then gestured to the card players.

  “Gentlemen, may I present to you the rrravishing performers of the Krrresge Circus. You could travel the globe and not find four more talented and captivating women. Ladies!” The Ringmaster clapped his hands twice and the women at the table stood up obligingly.

  “Angelita, Queen Consort of Andalusian Equestrians!” he said.

  A comely, slender woman in her seventies with straight, close-cropped hair doffed an imaginary hat and gave me a brief, straight-legged bow.

  “Born at the stroke of midnight in the royal stables, Angelita spoke to horses before she spoke to her parents. She learned to rrride before she learned to walk. The unbroken stallion bends a knee to Angelita, stunning mistress of hoofed potentates!”

  Angelita smiled at her big top introduction and sat down again.

&nbs
p; “Tsuritsa! A Gypsy princess! Her name literally means light of the dawn!” the Ringmaster continued. “From birth, her maternal grandmother folded her precious granddaughter into small baskets to protect her from the vicious hands of unspeakable villains who would extinguish the light. By the tender age of ten, Tsuritsa’s bones could bend like willows in the wind. Behold, the woman grrrown, revered by all Gypsy-kind! No other human on earth can match her feats of agility and contortion!”

  Introduction complete, she raised one leg up to her side, bending it at the knee, and placed the top of her foot beneath her chin like the back of a hand. She completed the move with a coy tilt of her head and a demure smile. If Tsuritsa were sixty years younger and a few hundred pounds lighter, I could imagine her drawing quite a crowd of interested men with that move.

  The Ringmaster was just getting warmed up. “Meet Verna, the Flying Funambulist!”

  Verna stood. She was older as well, although her lithe body showed few signs of the passing years and her clinging purple aerobics top revealed a still-athletic form. Verna’s graying hair was up in curlers and bobby pins, but she smiled proudly.

  “She stunned the crowds at Coney Island and thrilled the thrill seekers at the World Fair! Verna swings from the high wire—no net for her! Like a bird she soars through the air, grrravity defied!”

  Verna did a curtsey, stepped back from the table, and performed a backwards summersault. Returning to her place at the table, she curtseyed again before taking her seat.

  “Last but not least, the Astounding Miss Penelope and her fleet-footed Pomeranians!”

  Miss Penelope’s figure was emphasized by a tight flannel skirt and a colorful peasant blouse that gathered at the waist and puffed out at the wide neckline, revealing just a hint of cleavage.

  She made a short whistling sound. From the far corner of the room, a pack of small dogs that had been romping around a stack of pedestals and hoops, stopped playing and ran to their mistress, leaping up onto the card table, one by one.

  “Albert! Buster! Coco!” she shouted as the first three dogs lined up, side by side, in front of her. She let out a second, higher pitched whistle. The next two dogs climbed up onto the backs of the first three.