Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

Doherty perked up at that.

  “We don’t have rooms! We have private bungalows, each with its own supply of piping-hot mineral water guaranteed to take away your aches and pains. Would you like to hear about the curative properties of our waters?”

  “Just tell me what bungalow they checked into,” I said.

  Doherty raised one hand, his index finger pointing in the air as if he was about to say something. His hand dipped a bit, but then shot back up.

  “I’ll get the register!”

  He reached under the counter, pulled out a thick leather bound book and flipped through until he found the page he wanted. Starting at the top of the page, he moved his finger left to right, line by line.

  I wanted to strangle him.

  “Mister and Missus Jon Burrows, Bungalow 3,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Jon Burrows?” I asked. “J-O-N Burrows?”

  Doherty bobbed his head once and said, “Uh-huh!”

  I grabbed the book and spun it around so I could see for myself. There, in bright blue ink, was the name Jon Burrows.

  The early believers in the Elvis is Alive movement became convinced that the King was still walking the byways of America because of some handwritten letters to former friends and family that surfaced “posthumously.” Buddy got me in to inspect these so called Dead Letters. I’m no handwriting expert, but I knew Elvis’s cramped handwriting as well as my own. The Dead Letters were either the real deal or an incredibly good forgery.

  And the handwriting of Mr. & Mrs. Jon Burrows scrawled in the registry was a perfect match.

  “Have they left yet?” I asked.

  “No, sir,” Doherty said. “They’ve made quite a little love nest, if you know what I mean. Had more than a few noise complaints from some of the nearby bungalows. Missus Burrows insisted Mister Burrows pay in advance. Didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  I grabbed the lapel of Doherty’s coat and pulled him closer to me.

  “Did Burrows pay cash?”

  Doherty’s face went blank and his eyes rolled up in the back of his head again. I thought maybe he was going to faint. But they rolled back down and a dumb smile replaced the blank expression.

  “Check!” he said.

  I let go of Doherty’s lapel and he stumbled back a little.

  “Do you still have it?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. We don’t deposit the checks until Wednesday.”

  “Get it,” I told him.

  “Uh.” He seemed hesitant.

  “Please!” I added.

  “Okay,” he said, then went into a little office on the far side of the registration desk.

  Morrison coughed to get my attention.

  “You think Roman is Jon Burrows?” he asked me.

  “I do,” I said excitedly.

  I picked up the picture of Roman and stared at it. There were similarities. The jawline for example. But there were also a lot of differences. It had been decades since a picture had been taken of Elvis, and I suppose the image I had of Jon Burrows in my mind was still tethered to the last ones taken before his so-called death. I still imagined him with a full head of black hair and wearing a jumpsuit. I showed the picture to Morrison.

  “If you showed me this photo, I wouldn’t think, ‘that’s Elvis.’ But if you showed me this picture and said it was Elvis, maybe I could see it.”

  “You’re not just doing some wishful thinking?” he asked me.

  “Only one way to find out,” I replied.

  Doherty came out of the office waving the check like a winning lottery ticket. “Got it!” he said.

  Doherty placed the check down on the counter, but kept a hold of it.

  “I can’t let you take this,” he said. “Mister Burrows paid for his room and I have to cash it.”

  It was a pre-printed bank check, the kind you’d find in any checkbook. The signature was Elvis’s cramped script. And the address in the top left corner was 1136 Sycamore, the house I’d found the body in just yesterday.

  Everything was finally starting to make sense. Sort of. Elvis decided to return to civilian life and became Jon Burrows and settles in an out of the way place called Kresge. At some point, Jon Burrows realizes he’s living in a town populated by other celebrities presumed dead by the world at large. He could take on an entirely new persona and no one would think twice about it. Roman Finney was Elvis.

  “It’s him!” I said, leaving Doherty behind and stepping back outside.

  Goliath was still trying to get out of the back seat of the Camaro and was pounding on the window.

  “What about the guy in the apartment?” asked Morrison, catching up to me.

  “No idea,” I said. “We can ask Elvis Aaron Presley when we see him.”

  Morrison followed me onto the path that wound through the grove. Bungalow 3 was about fifty feet down, to the left. I was nearly running when I made it to the front door. Morrison came up behind me as I knocked.

  Nothing. I was about to knock again when the knob started to turn. The door opened just a crack and the withered face of Viking Mamma peeked out.

  I pushed my way in and sent her stumbling back. Inside the room was a queen bed, a small table and chairs, and off to one side, a very impressive steam room and hot tub. The steam was off, and Roman sat, gagged and tied to a chair, inside.

  “Hold on to Viking Mamma,” I told Morrison.

  I ignored her squealing and went to Roman, pulling the gag down off his face.

  “Thanks, man,” he said with a nod. He paused and took in the Chain Suit. Furrowing his brow a bit, he thrust his chin at me.

  “That’s a really classy suit, man,” he said.

  And then I knew.

  The signature, the picture, the name. All circumstantial. Clues that might lead you to believe that Roman was Burrows/Elvis. But not proof.

  The voice, though. His voice is probably the most recognized one in history. Hearing him now, in person, I knew. I was face to face with Elvis Presley.

  And then I saw stars. Not the dead celebrities I’d been told made Kresge their home, but actual lights in front of my eyes. I felt a sudden, stabbing pain in the back of my head too. And everything went black.

  * * *

  I shook my head awake to the stinging smell of ammonia.

  I was in the Bombay Club. Goliath was standing on the table next to me, holding a broken smelling salt from a first aid kit in one hand and waving it in front of my face.

  Coming to in the bar after a beating was becoming a habit.

  I reached out and batted it away.

  “Ugh, enough!”

  He set the smelling salt down and handed me a glass.

  “Drink this,” he told me.

  I expected it to be vodka or gin, but it was clear, cold water. Possibly the first glass I’d had in Kresge and it tasted wonderful.

  My skull was throbbing. A lump was growing about two inches to the left of my ear. Touching it made it ache more. My fingers came away bloodied.

  “Clocked you good,” he told me. “But you’ll live.”

  “Found him,” I said. My head was still swimming and words weren’t coming easily.

  Goliath climbed off the table and flopped into the chair opposite me.

  “Yeah, you and Morrison found Roman. Congratulations.” He said it almost bitterly.

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “Bombay Club, dumbass,” he said.

  I shook my head to try and clear it.

  “I know that, I meant how’d I get here? What happened?”

  “Fucking F.B.R.M. got him. And it’s your fault!” Goliath said angrily, taking a cigar out of his shirt pocket.

  “They got Roman?” I asked.

  Goliath bit off the
end and spit it on the floor.

  “No. Roman drove you back here then went to the council meeting. They got Morrison!”

  Goliath slid down off his chair and waddled back toward the bar.

  I stood up to follow, but a wave of vertigo nearly sent the water I’d just had back up the way it had come. I sat back down.

  “What happened?” I yelled out after the dwarf.

  Goliath came back out with a bottle and two glasses. He handed them to me, wordlessly, still chewing on his unlit cigar, and climbed back up into his chair. Then he took them back and poured. He pushed one toward me, spilling it on the table, and took the other for himself.

  “Hundred-year-old Scotch,” he said. “Label’s worn off, but it’s the good, good stuff. And we’re drinking it neat!” he added with a flash of anger.

  He paused for a moment, then raised his glass.

  “To lost friends.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think happened?” Goliath yelled, slamming his drink on the table.

  “The damn F.B.R.M., they happened! By the time I’d made it to the cabin you were laid out like a gutted deer. Roman was trying to fight off two of the agents, Morrison was being dragged off by four others, and that Viking bitch was screaming her head off. If it wasn’t for me, they would have taken you and Roman,” he said. “Now raise a drink to Morrison or I’m going to break every one of your ribs!”

  Goliath’s stout little arms and legs tensed and his jaw muscle worked as he gritted his teeth.

  I raised my glass and took a drink. I’m sure the Scotch was every bit as good as Goliath said, but all I could taste was charcoal.

  “What happened after you came in?” I asked.

  Goliath had settled down a bit, but was still visibly upset.

  “Roman and I tag teamed the F.B.R.M.ers on him, but the others dragged off Morrison before I could do anything. Roman helped me get your sorry ass to the bar. Then he took off for the council meeting.”

  “So he made it to the vote?”

  “Are you deaf? Yes. He made it to the vote!”

  “Good,” I said. “Then let’s figure out how to get Morrison back.”

  Goliath stared at me like I’d just eaten a bug. Not that doing so would be very out of place in Kresge.

  “So, you and me, we just walk up, knock on the door, and say, hey, can Morrison come out and play?”

  “I think we’ll need a better plan than that,” I told him.

  Goliath slid off the chair and punched me in the kneecap.

  “Ow!” I yelled out. “What was that for?”

  “You don’t fuck with the F.B.R.M., Liberace!” Goliath said. “You want to disappear too?”

  I held my knee and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it actually did.

  “Elvis said, ‘If a cause is just, you fight for it. You gouge their eyes out if you have to.’ We should get our friend back.”

  “How?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, Goliath. I just got the crap kicked out of me by a guy with a mace and had some government Goons knock me flat. Give me a minute!”

  Goliath climbed back up into his chair and nursed his drink sullenly.

  I tried to think. It hurt.

  We both sat there, silently glaring at each other and sipping our drinks for several minutes.

  “What about Jun Fan’s class?” I asked. “Can they help us?”

  Goliath stared at me for a moment, then smiled.

  “Yeah. Yeah, they can help. I’ll be right back!”

  Goliath took about two steps before he turned back. He looked at me, and I thought maybe he was going to say something thoughtful, or at least not filled with vinegar, but instead he stood up on tiptoe and grabbed the bottle.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Goliath and I drove straight to the Federal Bureau of Relocation Management offices and parked the Camaro on the crest of the hill we’d used to spy from the night before.

  Fourteen hours ago, I’d been standing on this hill with Morrison, thinking about how to break into the place for a completely different reason. Despite my nighttime bravado that I could sneak past the guards, in the full light of day I knew the truth. I follow deadbeat husbands and cheating wives. I don’t break into government buildings.

  At least, I didn’t used to break into government buildings.

  “Beep-beep!”

  I groaned silently. Of course Pino would be a student of Jun Fan’s. Ever seen a combat clown? Pino was dressed in traditional green-and-black camo and wore giant black combat clown feet. On his head was a pointy camo clown hat with a red puffball on the top. His face makeup was black, tan and green. And he was wearing a bandolier of water balloons.

  Pino handed me a card.

  Zora warned you.

  “That’s helpful,” I told him.

  Pino gave me a wink and handed me another card.

  Zora also says good luck.

  And that you’ll make the right choice.

  I looked the card over, rubbed at the lettering.

  “You have to tell me how you do this,” I told him.

  Another card.

  It’s magic.

  He made a “Tell? Me? Never!” gesture before running off to pantomime Goliath’s every move. It annoyed the hell out of the midget. Maybe having Pino around wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  The arrival of an old ’70s truck drew my attention. It was the one from the Roustabout. Two of the Magnaninis tumbled out of the cab wearing their old circus uniforms. Carlo stumbled over to me while his brother Mario rested against the side of the truck.

  “Heya, Floyd! We answered da call! My odder bruders be here soon,” he said.

  Then he let out a beer belch that nearly made me faint.

  “We a little drunk,” he added. “Helps ta be limber. Ahm a gonna lie down ’til you need us, okay?”

  Carlo stumbled back to the pickup truck and flopped into the back of it. He was snoring by the time the truck bed had stopped bouncing. His brother just kept leaning against the truck, eyes half closed.

  “Great,” I said to no one. “A midget, a clown and drunk octogenarian tumblers.”

  “Respect for your elders, young man! The Magnanini boys were the best tumblers in any circus and the Rolling Magnani trick was second to none,” I heard Miss Penelope say.

  The dog trainer and Verna the acrobat were peddling up the hill on a bicycle built for two, accompanied by the Pomeranians. Albert, Buster and Coco were in a basket in front of Miss Penelope. Dante, Ernie and Fergie were in the basket in front of Verna.

  Miss Penelope brought the bicycle to a stop a few paces away from me. The dogs jumped out of their baskets and lined up in formation, three by three. Miss P. dismounted, straightened out her skirt, and looked up at me, resolute.

  “You helped save our town, so we’ve come to offer our assistance,” she said in her stiff British accent.

  “Not me, sugar! I came because that hunk of man in there is sweet on me,” added Verna.

  “Thank you, ladies,” I said. “But I’m not sure how you can help.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Liberace!” Goliath was weeble-wobbling over to us. “Penny trains the most vicious attack dogs in the state!”

  Miss P. looked at Goliath with distaste. I didn’t blame her.

  “True,” she said. Then she pointed at Goliath and commanded, “Dante! Fell!”

  The little Pomeranian broke formation and ran toward Goliath.

  Goliath raised his arms in front of him and tried backing off.

  “Cut it out! I’m sorry!” he yelled.

  About two feet from the imp, Dante crouched and leapt, hitting Goliath square in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Before h
e could get his freakishly large hands on the dog, Dante had Goliath’s throat between his strong little jaws. Then the dog froze.

  “Don’t move, Goliath,” Miss P. said. “Don’t even open that vitriol-filled mouth of yours.” She turned to me and smugly asked, “Do you see the value of my friends now, Floyd?”

  “I do,” I said. “You’re in. You, too, Verna.”

  “Thanks, sugar,” Verna said.

  Miss P. walked over to Goliath, who was lying still as a statue on the ground. Except for his eyes, which silently pleaded for mercy.

  “Dante. Guard!” she said with a wicked grin. Then Miss P. turned to the rest of her dogs, who hadn’t made a yip or moved a muscle during the demonstration. “Pack. Stay!” she said.

  She looked at me and blushed.

  “A single woman’s virtue is all she has,” she said. “So naturally I trained my little ones to protect mine.”

  Verna snorted at Miss P.’s explanation.

  “I’m glad to have you, Miss Penelope,” I said. “But would you mind, terribly, letting Goliath up?”

  Miss P.’s mouth twitched a bit, but she said, “Very well. Dante. Formation!” and the little dog took his jaws off Goliath’s throat and gave the imp a lick or two before falling into formation with his companions.

  I helped Goliath to his feet.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you.”

  “Just remember,” I told him, “one more smartass line about what I’m wearing and I’ll have Miss P.’s dogs on you again.”

  Goliath looked at me coldly for a moment.

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  “Elvis said only babies call people names. Go ahead. Call me Liberace.”

  Goliath blinked.

  “Let’s figure out how to get Morrison out,” he said, then trotted over to Pino, who was prancing around on the ground like one of Miss P.’s dogs. Goliath kicked him.

  * * *

  Guido and Luigi pulled up in a perfectly preserved, black 1965 Ford Galaxy 500. It was no Cadillac, but for 1965 it was hard to find a more beautiful car. They were also quite drunk and immediately joined Carlo in the bed of the pickup truck. Jun Fan climbed out of the back seat of the Galaxy and sauntered over to me.

  “So you have a plan?” he asked.