Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  She put her hand on my chest, gently at first, then made a fist, bunching my Chain Suit up in her fingers.

  “And I’ve seen them do it. I don’t want them to do it to you. So go, okay?”

  “Protecting me is worth losing the town?”

  “Would you please just go?”

  “What if I told you I knew where Roman was? That if I stayed I could get him to the council meeting on time?”

  Her grip on my jumpsuit relaxed.

  “Could you really?” she asked. Setting her jaw and shaking her head, she continued. “Go, Floyd. The longer you’re here, the more you risk them coming down on you.”

  “I can take it.”

  “Yeah? What about Morrison? What if they decide to take him too?”

  It was my turn to doubt.

  “Would they?”

  “Yes.”

  I grabbed Wanda’s hand. “You’re wrinkling the suit,” I said. “And Morrison can make his own decisions. I’m pretty sure he’d want us to find Roman.”

  Surrender, relief, happiness, and I don’t know what other emotions flickered across Wanda’s face, and she unclenched her fist and smoothed out my jumpsuit.

  Then she put her arms around me and gave me a hug, resting her fuzzy face in the crook of my neck.

  “Thanks for staying,” she whispered into my ear.

  I laughed.

  Wanda pulled away from me with an annoyed expression on her face.

  “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “Sorry, your mustache tickled,” I told her.

  Wanda raised her hand to cover her mouth and blushed.

  I laughed again, which made the blush worse.

  “Don’t worry, I like it,” I said.

  “You know where Roman is?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Well, no, not exactly. But I think I know how to find him.”

  And that was the moment when the Colonel came up to the two of us, putting one hand on each of our shoulders.

  “What is going on here you two? Eh?”

  “Good news!” Wanda said, turning to him. “Floyd was just telling me he thinks he knows how to find Roman in time for the council meeting.”

  The Colonel’s smile took on a forced quality.

  “Vidunderlig!” he said through clenched teeth.

  He dropped his hands from our shoulders and rested them on his fur-clad hips.

  “Vidunderlig,” he repeated. “But I must insist that Detective Flooytje remove himself from the Kresge Field. Immediately.”

  “Why?” asked Wanda.

  “Because our friend the Colonel here is hiding Roman’s whereabouts and doesn’t want me to question him about it,” I answered.

  Wanda’s Sheriff Kresge persona took over.

  “Colonel, if you’ve prevented Roman from attending the council meeting, or have anything to do with his disappearance, I’ll arrest you for unlawful restraint, or even kidnapping.”

  The Colonel dropped any pretense of being a civil community leader.

  “Nej! I’ve done nothing like that! No more threats, you hairy freak. Do your duty. This is a private event. Take the Elvis man off the field or arrest him.”

  Sheriff Kresge stood straighter and her eyes went steely. I thought she was going to drop kick the Colonel in all his Viking splendor. But then she turned to me.

  “I’m sorry, Floyd. You have to leave the field. If you refuse, I’ll have to arrest you.”

  “No so fast!” Ernesto the Guatemalan yelled out.

  He strode over to us in his guerilla militant version of Oostender armor and felt up my biceps. Then he punched me once, not too lightly, in the chest.

  “You know to fight? Combatirse?” he asked.

  “You mean like a Viking?” I asked.

  “Sheriff,” the Colonel interrupted. “Get him off the field. Now!”

  “Cállate!” Ernesto turned on the Colonel and poked him forcefully in the chest.

  The Colonel was easily two feet taller than the Guatemalan, but he took a half step back with each poke.

  “Recojo mis propios guerreros! Elvis a Oostende warrior now!”

  Ernesto turned away from the Colonel, muttering under his breath, “Estúpido hijo de puta.”

  He took the mangled cigar out of his mouth and squinted one eye, taking my measure. The Colonel, the sheriff and I stayed silent. That was when I realized that nearly every man, woman and child on Kresge Field had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the four of us.

  “You fight for me!” Ernesto said. “You fight for the people!”

  He put the cigar back in his mouth, chewed it for a moment, then spit out a piece that had come loose. Gesturing with the chewed up stogie for emphasis, he recruited me.

  “The Colonel like the Vikings,” he said. “He like the pillaging! Stealing from the people. The people with no power. But brave men. Hombres! Hermanos! We stand against tiranía!”

  Ernesto raised his hands to the sky.

  “The people liberate themselves. Elvis was un hombre de la gente! He grew up poor. No money. He was a hero to the people. Now you, too, must be a hero. The revolution is not an apple that falls when it is ripe. You have to make it fall. Join us, Comrade Elvis!”

  Ernesto put the cigar back in his mouth, clasped his hands behind his back, and waited.

  I didn’t know what to say. Elvis was good with words. So was Ernesto. But I’m not. Before I could say anything, though, the Colonel broke the silence that had descended on the field.

  “He’s not eligible to participate. Now, Sheriff, do your duty!”

  Wanda looked from Ernesto, to me, to the Colonel.

  “Actually, if Floyd paid the five bucks to join the Historical Society, he could stay.”

  “He no tell you what you want. You and I, we beat what you want out of the Colonel, eh?” Ernesto dug into his fatigues and pulled out a wad of crumpled up dollar bills. He stuffed the money into my hand.

  I looked at the money, then held it up in the air.

  “Anyone have an extra breastplate?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A small cheer went up through the ranks of the Oostende defenders as I walked to the armory that had been set up inside a large canvas tent. Goliath trotted over, spilling his open Schlitz in the process and fell into step beside me.

  “You’ve got balls, Liberace!” he said. “You have any idea what that blowhard Viking is going to do to you?”

  “Thump me with his club?” I asked.

  “If you’re lucky!”

  He stopped short as I reached the tent.

  “Come see me when you’re suited up, I’ll give you some pointers.” He gulped down the beer, crushed the can on his head, belched and walked back to the coolers.

  I stepped through the open tent flap. Inside were a dozen or so different pieces of armor like the ones I’d seen the defenders wearing. A young redheaded woman, about 22 or 23, was looking through the armor and making a “tsking” sound.

  “Excuse me, new recruit,” I said.

  “I heard our little revolutionary give his speech. Gets ’em every time,” she said without turning around. “What are you, a large?”

  “Extra.”

  “All outta those, so today you’re a large.” She held up a gold chainmail coat and sized it against me. “You’ll have to suck in your gut a bit, but it’ll do.”

  She laid the mail out on a folding chair to inspect it. That was when I noticed the peach fuzz covering her face.

  “Are you any relation to the sheriff?” I asked.

  “Little sister,” she said. “Clever detective, aren’t you? Figured that one out pretty quick. What was it, the eyes give me away?”

 
“Uh, no, not exactly.”

  “The nose then? Both of our noses are kind of cute, turned-up little numbers, don’t ya think?”

  Mischievousness danced in her eyes as she had her fun with me. She moved over to the weapons and started sorting through the swords.

  “No, not the nose either.”

  She looked back at me over her shoulder.

  “Well then, what was it? How did you deduce our relationship?”

  “You both have nice teeth,” I said. “Much better than most of the other locals.”

  She let out snort and pulled a sword from the pile.

  “Good answer,” she told me. “I can see why Wanda likes you.”

  She walked over to a small table covered in leather cords, patches and large sewing needles. She selected one of the cords and wrapped it around the handle of the sword.

  “I’m Floyd.”

  She laughed again. “No! Really? Not like the whole town doesn’t know who you are. We don’t get a lot of Elvis-impersonating detectives ’round here. Even fewer brave enough to romance Wanda.”

  She tied off the leather on the handle and inspected it. “I’m Gretchen.”

  “So Wanda likes me?” I asked.

  Gretchen handed me the sword, handle first, and cocked her head to the side.

  “Would you like me to ask her if she’ll go to the prom with you?” she asked with mock sincerity.

  “No, I want you to tell her if she asks me, I’ll say yes,” I told her, taking the sword.

  That earned another snort. Gretchen turned to the shield pile next.

  “Do you know how to use any of this stuff?” she asked.

  “No,” I admitted, swinging the sword around awkwardly and narrowly missing the pole supporting the center of the tent. “But how hard can it be? Swing, block. It’s not like these are real weapons.”

  She returned with a bright green wooden shield with a rusty iron center and handed it to me.

  “Floyd, you’re nice. But you’re stupid. You just pissed off Mister High-and-Mighty Viking Hero out there. He’s going to take that big metal ball on a stick of his and beat the crap out of you, first chance he gets. A good blow on this shield will break your arm. Put down that sword and I’ll get the mail on you.”

  “Goliath told me it can turn into a brawl.”

  “That’s an understatement. You’re going to have to take off that jumpsuit to get this on,” she said, holding it up.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  Gretchen shook her head, but complied.

  I took off the Chain Suit and pulled on the brown cotton pants she handed me. They were a bit too long, and dirtier than I would have liked, but it was better than messing up the jumpsuit.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Gretchen turned around. “A modest Elvis impersonator, who’d a thought,” she said slipping the mail over my head.

  “Lifestyle Elvis,” I corrected her.

  “Whatever.”

  Gretchen adjusted the suit and buttoned up the back of it. Then she picked up a pointed helmet with a sweat-stained cotton lining and put it down over my head. Stepping back, she inspected her work.

  “Good enough.”

  She handed me the shield, handle first.

  “Put your arm through the loop and hold onto the handle,” she instructed. “If Goliath told you it can turn into a brawl, he lied. Thirty minutes into this thing, every year, it turns into all-out war. No, grip it lower, there,” she said, adjusting my grip on the shield.

  Gretchen picked up the sword from where I’d set it down. “The guys out there are settling scores, not reenacting some old Viking battle. You get that?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I have a score to settle with the Colonel too.”

  She was about to hand me the sword, then paused.

  “If you’re going to take on Gorf you’re going to need a better weapon.”

  “The Colonel is supposed to be Gorf?”

  “Duh!” Gretchen said, stepping to a pile of dull brown and beige pants and long shirts. She slid them to the side, revealing a large wooden trunk. “You think he’d let anyone else be the hero?” she asked.

  I tried to peek over her shoulder as she rummaged around.

  “Are you doing this for yourself, for Wanda or for the town?” she asked.

  It was the first time her voice had taken on a serious tone since I’d met her.

  “All three,” I answered honestly.

  Gretchen turned around, clutching a sword. The long blade ended at a simple brass cross piece. She held the hilt close to her heart, gripping it with both hands. I don’t know much about weapons, but it looked like the real deal, not one of the dummy weapons in the pile on the floor.

  “You know our family was a Circus family?”

  “Wanda mentioned it.”

  “My great-grandfather, Guerrero Kresge, was a famous sword swallower. Probably the greatest sword swallower in history. Most swallowers can take a sixteen- or seventeen-inch sword. The good ones can swallow twenty-four inches. I think the world record is twenty-six, but my great-grandfather, he could swallow a thirty-inch blade.”

  Gretchen was smiling and looking down at the sword wistfully.

  “Wanda and I used to sit in Nonno’s lap together. He was a good man. You probably would have liked him.”

  When she looked up her eyes were wet, but she was still smiling.

  “This is Pranzo,” she said, holding up the weapon proudly. “It was Nonno’s sword. He used it in all his performances. The edges are dull enough to be accepted for the battle, but Pranzo was originally designed for fighting,” she said, running her fingers down the side of the blade. “In 1409, our family performed for Signore Fiore Furlano de Civida d’Austria delli Liberi da Premariacco at his godson’s eighteenth birthday celebration. Signore Fiore was a very famous master at arms, and was so impressed by the display of sword swallowing that he gave our family this sword, which had been made especially for him. He’s the one who named it Pranzo,” she said laughing.

  “Why is that funny?” I asked.

  “It was a joke. Pranzo means meal in Italian.” She smiled at me again before handing the sword over. “If you’re going to fight for a Kresge, you should have the right weapon.”

  * * *

  I left the Chain Suit in Gretchen’s care and walked out of the armory in real chain mail, the shield on my left arm and Pranzo in my right hand. Morrison was standing just outside the tent with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  “I didn’t believe Goliath when he said you were going to fight,” he told me.

  “Where’s the midget? He said he’d give me some tips.”

  “No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings, Floyd,” Morrison answered.

  “What?”

  “You’re on your own,” he clarified. “That chick with the Oz fetish showed up and the two of them went off to find a cozy place to explore her Yellow Brick Road.”

  Unwanted thoughts of Goliath naked and rolling in the grass were banished by the blaring of an air horn out on the battlefield.

  “Five-minute warning,” Morrison said. “Better get to the fort. I’ll be on the sidelines.”

  Morrison ambled off toward the portable bleachers that had been dragged up to the field while I’d been getting outfitted. I made my way toward the naked scaffolding that was the interior of the fort I would be defending.

  “Floyd!”

  I turned to see Wanda running over to me. She stopped just a few feet away and stared at the sword.

  “Is that Pranzo?” she asked, surprised.

  I raised the sword so she could get a better look at it.

  “It is, do you mind?”

  “No, it’s fine.” She furrowed her
brow a bit and said, “Wait right here!”

  Wanda sprinted past me with a little pat on my mail-clad ass and ducked through the flap door of the armory tent. A few seconds later she came out holding a red silk scarf.

  “If you’re going to be my champion, you should probably have my token,” she explained as she wrapped the scarf around my hand and the hilt of the sword, tying it off in a loose knot.

  When she was finished she gave me a ticklish kiss on the cheek.

  “Does the Colonel really know where Roman is?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure he does. This isn’t how I usually go about getting information out of someone though.”

  The absurdity of the situation hit me like Goliath’s giant foot to my testicles. Wanda noticed.

  “You don’t have to do this. I could arrest the Colonel. Or we could try to figure out where he would hide Roman,” she said.

  I held up Pranzo and asked, “You really believe if I knock the guy around with this sword, he’ll talk?”

  “I realize how bizarre that sounds, but yes. The Colonel takes this Viking stuff seriously. If you challenge him on the field and he loses, according to his own rules you can compel him to tell you.”

  “Okay,” I sighed, wincing.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This stupid armor keeps pulling out my chest hair,” I said, readjusting the chain mail.

  “Give ’em hell, big boy.”

  Wanda gave me another chaste kiss on the cheek and walked off the field just as the air horn sounded a second time.

  * * *

  Elvis once said that the only thing worse than watching a bad movie was being in one. I mention this because as I stood there behind the scaffolding and the drying paper mache, equipped in chain mail and sword, I felt like a bit player in a bad fantasy film. And then I thought, this must have been how Elvis felt strutting his stuff around Lunakan in Harum Scarum.

  My introspection was cut short by an obnoxiously loud “beep!” somewhere behind me.

  Pino the Clown had abandoned most of his usual get up for period attire, dull beige cotton pants, a brown leather jerkin and a light mail vest. He had, however, kept the face paint. In his hand he had an inflatable toy sword.