Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery)

by Ricardo Sanchez

  Pino placed one hand on his stomach and bowed. When he stood up, he raised his eyebrows twice in agreement.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get going. We only have about fifteen minutes.”

  Jun Fan nodded and silently disappeared around the corner. The rest of us followed.

  So far we’d taken out six F.B.R.M. agents. By Wanda’s estimate there could be six to nine more between us and Morrison, and we were running low on time.

  I tapped Jun Fan on the shoulder and pointed to the main office building. He nodded, crouched, and did a rapid bent-over Kung Fu walk that got him to the door in a blink. I motioned him to go through as the rest of us made it across the lot.

  I arrived first and heard Jun Fan let out an “Ooooaaaa! Hai! Oooooooo!” followed by the sounds of bodies hitting the ground. Goliath reached us just as Jun Fan walked out the door, wiping his hands.

  “Poorly trained,” he said. “They should come to my class.”

  Jun Fan stepped aside and we all filed into a reception area. A small desk guarded the only other exit from the room, a narrow door in the far wall. Three Goons had been carefully laid out on a well-worn couch and looked like they were sleeping.

  Two of the Goons were the ones that had been harassing me since I’d arrived in Kresge. I was only sorry that I hadn’t seen Jun Fan do them in. The third was Goon Number Three. Synchronicity in numbers, I suppose.

  I thanked Jun Fan and motioned toward the door.

  “Munchkins first,” I said.

  Goliath glared.

  “If someone sees the door open, they won’t be looking at knee level. They won’t notice you peeking out,” I rationalized.

  Goliath said nothing, but went to the door. He opened it a crack, looked through, then opened it wide.

  Beyond was a long door-lined hallway, with two more hallways intersecting it. There were a lot of rooms in this building. And they would probably all look exactly the same. I was suddenly very thankful that I didn’t have an office job.

  “We have about ten minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. “We’ll need to split up.”

  I wanted to say something meaningful, or rousing, or leaderly. Something Elvis might say, but Pino beeped first.

  I turned to the clown and he handed me a card.

  Read the other side out loud

  I turned it over.

  “Pino would like to say something,” I read, then looked up at the clown.

  He straightened up, took off the nose, and spoke in a clear, strong voice. The kind of voice that can say the things we might believe in our hearts but would sound naive or silly if we spoke them aloud.

  “I just wanted to say that it is a real honor to be here, with you fine men, dealing a blow to the secrecy and injustice so often inflicted on this fine nation in the name of patriotism and national defense. Secrets only serve to weaken democracy. And when they are dragged, kicking and screaming into the light, illuminated by true patriots like yourselves, the vision our Founding Fathers had of a nation for and by the people is reaffirmed, and our bonds as citizens are strengthened. Thank you, friends. Thank you for this opportunity.”

  Pino moved to put his nose back on, but paused. “Goliath, your zipper is undone and your ding dong is hanging out.”

  Goliath’s head jerked down to inspect his fly, which was closed, and Pino replaced his nose, giving it two beeps.

  “Okay, let’s go!” I said quickly, before Goliath went after the clown. “Meet back in the lobby in seven minutes.”

  I pushed Pino toward one of the branching hallways and I went down the other.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Behind the first ten doors were storage rooms, files, and offices, all with no signs of life. The eleventh door revealed a break room where a Goon was watching popcorn pop.

  “Did you get the sodas?” he asked without turning around.

  I rushed into the room and put him in a choke hold. He grabbed frantically at my arm as I cut off his oxygen. Seconds later I was lowering him to the floor, unconscious. I was using one of Wanda’s wrist ties to shackle him when Morrison asked, “What’d you do that for?”

  He was across the room, sitting at a small table in an uncomfortable-looking folding chair. Spread out on the table were three hands of cards. Morrison was still holding his.

  “We came to rescue you,” I said.

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me, Jun Fan, Goliath, Pino...a bunch of us.”

  Morrison looked down and rubbed his forehead.

  “You guys are going to get in a lot of trouble,” he said. “They could send Jun Fan back to the freezer.”

  “We knew the risks, let us worry about that. Now come on, we only have a few minutes.”

  But Morrison didn’t move.

  “You don’t understand,” he finally said. “When you make your peace with authority, you become authority.”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “I’m not being held against my will. Not exactly,” Morrison said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Morrison put his cards down on the table and looked at me.

  “That Russian program I told you about? Kidnapping American celebrities? Some of us asked to go.”

  “Are you saying you volunteered to be kidnapped?” I asked.

  “I defected to the Soviet Union.”

  It must have been obvious from the look on my face that I didn’t believe him.

  “I was tired of it all,” he continued. “The pressure, the demands from the label, everything. I’d heard about the program from a comrade in Paris. He arranged for me to be ‘killed.’”

  “Then why did you come back?” I asked.

  “I got cold. I missed rock and roll. I missed women who shaved their legs!” he explained, standing up. “When the program was abandoned, I made a deal with the F.B.R.M. to be their spy. I’d narc on the other relos and let the men in suits know if there was trouble in exchange for a return trip stateside.”

  “But why?” I asked. It was a pretty open-ended question, I know. I had a lot of whys to cover.

  “I wanted back, man,” Morrison said. “And the F.B.R.M. were desperate for someone on the inside. Not all of the relos were taken by the Russians. Hoover found out about the program and sort of adopted it for himself. You know how many people that guy had under surveillance over the years? Anyone got to be too troublesome, he made them go away.”

  “He killed them?” I asked.

  “No. He just put them in deep dark holes and left them. But guarding undesirables costs money, so as long as the government was repatriating the citizens of Happiness, they transplanted some of their own dirty little secrets too.”

  “Like who?”

  “Lennon. Your Guatemalan buddy Ernesto, for another,” he said. “Officially, that dude was killed in Bolivia in 1967. Anybody that Uncle Sam needs to disappear ends up here. I’m pretty sure Kresge is home to a mob boss or two who turned state’s evidence in exchange for a peaceful retirement somwhere. It’s the only way to explain all the Italian restaurants.”

  The downside of being a Lifestyle Elvis, especially one that suits up, is that most people can’t get past the clothes. They think I’m a crackpot. “Touched” is how my high school principal referred to me. It’s a price worth paying, but the result is I don’t make a whole lot of friends. Which makes discovering one of them was never really a friend at all so much more painful.

  “You were only helping me so you could report on my activities to the Goons.”

  Morrison sat back down again.

  “No. I honestly did always want to meet Elvis. That’s why I helped you. Against orders. And that’s why I’m here. I’m being recalled.”

  “Then they weren’t after me or Roman at the Bungalo
ws?”

  “No.”

  We stared at each other uncomfortably.

  “You can still come with us,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” Morrison said quietly.

  I’d only known the man for a few days. But I liked him. I couldn’t imagine ever defecting to the Soviet Union, but I’d never been in the spotlight and had people making constant demands on me either. Hearing his story, I felt for him. Even Elvis had felt the need to escape, get away.

  I walked over to Morrison. “Elvis used to say, somebody does somethin’ stupid, that’s human. They don’t stop when they see it’s wrong, that’s a fool. You made a mistake defecting. Okay. You made another mistake trying to fix that one by helping the F.B.R.M. That’s understandable, too. But I won’t let you make a third one waiting for them to do whatever it is they’re going to do to you.”

  “But how can I face everyone else?” asked Morrison.

  “Did you tell the Goons about Roman?” I asked.

  “No, it didn’t come up.”

  “Elvis also said, ‘Don’t criticize what you don’t understand. You never walked in that man’s shoes.’ You keep your mouth shut, I don’t say anything about you. As far as anyone will ever know, you were just another reluctant resident of Happiness.” I looked at my watch. “So are you coming? We need to go.”

  * * *

  We met up with the rest of the rescue party in the lobby. The three Goons that Jun Fan had K.O.’ed were still out. Goliath and the others had encountered several more Goons during their search and relieved all of them of consciousness. In total, we’d dropped thirteen agents of the F.B.R.M. Not bad for a P.I., a clown, a kung fu master, a midget and a bunch of retired circus performers.

  “Thanks guys,” was all Morrison managed to say as we regrouped.

  “You still owe me $428 for your tab at the Bombay,” Goliath said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  Jun Fan led the way, with Goliath, again, bringing up the rear. The government train’s whistle sounded like it was only a few miles away. The clock was ticking.

  We rounded the corner where Pino had left the Goon curled up in his own urine and came face to face with another agent of the F.B.R.M. He was standing next to the downed agent, who was still fetal. The New Goon stood, still and silent, his hands held together at waist level.

  I waited for Jun Fan to use an index finger to paralyze him but the others stood immobile as statues when they caught sight of him. He was dressed in the same black suit the other ones wore, had the same sunglasses, even the same haircut, but this Goon was different. Absolutely nothing about this man was unique in any way, but it was obvious this agent was important.

  The Big Goon pointed at Jun Fan.

  “You can go,” he said. Then he pointed at Pino, Morrison and Goliath in turn, saying, “You, you and you can go as well. I’d like Mister Floyd to remain a moment.”

  The Big Goon expected people to follow his orders. It came across in his tone of voice. He resumed his at ease pose while my four companions looked at each other, then at me.

  “Go ahead,” I told them, not taking my eyes off The Big Goon.

  Morrison nodded.

  “We’ll see you in a minute,” he said. Then he grabbed Pino by the arm and hurried him along toward the gate. The others followed wordlessly.

  I casually slid my hands into the pockets of my jumpsuit and rested one of them on the gun Wanda had given me, flipping off the safety.

  The Big Goon waited until the others were out of earshot before speaking.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Floyd.”

  “Just Floyd.”

  “Very well,” he said with a smile. “Just Floyd.”

  He stepped forward and I stepped back just as quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” The Big Goon said. “I mean you no harm, I just wanted to shake your hand.”

  He extended his right hand to me. It hung there between us.

  Without lowering his hand, the Big Goon continued, “I admire the work you’ve done. You’ve helped us out quite a bit.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I let go of the gun and shook his hand anyway. The Big Goon’s grip was cool, firm and strong. It made me nervous.

  “I’m the chief administrator of the relocation program,” he said. “We’ve been concerned for some time that the Colonel’s plan for Kresge might move forward. As you can imagine, the last thing we’d want is a bunch of tourists coming through here. We chose Kresge because it was off the beaten path.”

  “That makes sense,” I acknowledged.

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  The Big Goon opened his jacket and reached in with one hand. I jerked Wanda’s pistol out of my pocket and pointed it at him. He stopped reaching.

  “You won’t need that,” he said.

  “I’m still going to point it at you until we’re through here,” I told him.

  “Very well,” he replied. “I just want to take out a notebook. May I?”

  “Go ahead, slowly.”

  The Big Goon removed a small spiral bound notepad from his jacket and leafed through it.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said. “According to my reports, you’ve come across at least a dozen of our clients, you publicly humiliated the Colonel and effectively ended the Denmark of the West project. In doing so you’ve endeared yourself to the indigenous circus folk, and you’ve assaulted...I’m sure this number is out of date,” he said, looking up at me. “But you’ve assaulted quite a few of my agents.”

  He closed the notebook and put it back into his pocket.

  “So you’ve helped us out, but you’re also a danger to our program. Any suggestions on how I should handle this?” he asked.

  “I don’t care about your program. Ignore me.”

  “Yes, that’s one option,” he said. “You consider Morrison, the sheriff and Ms. Pritchard to be friends?”

  “How do you know about Vernon?”

  The Big Goon tsk-tsked me.

  “We’re the government, Floyd. We know lots of things. You do care about them.”

  I wasn’t so sure about Vernon, but the others...

  “You’re right. I care about them.”

  He nodded, satisfied.

  “Good. With that in the open we both know it gives me leverage. The F.B.R.M. isn’t like the C.I.A. or F.B.I. We aren’t law enforcement, strictly speaking. But we do have...clout.”

  He took another step forward before continuing. “I’m willing to let you and your friends walk away from this. Under some conditions. One, Morrison disappears. He leaves Kresge and is never heard from again. We’ll let it be known his relocation was revoked. A good object lesson for the others.”

  “Agreed.”

  The Big Goon smiled. “Good. Two. Neither you, nor Morrison, breathe a word about our program to anyone. If you do, the I.R.S. may realize your friend Ms. Pritchard owes millions in back taxes and seize everything she owns. Then the I.N.S. may end up deporting some of your Italian circus friends for entering the country illegally. Understood?”

  “If we talk, bad things happen. I get it.”

  His smiled widened. “I like you, Floyd. You understand the way the world works. Lastly, I want you to tell me where I can find Elvis.”

  “Elvis is dead.”

  The Big Goon chuckled at that.

  “A sense of humor too. Now, tell where I can find him.”

  “Meditation Garden at Graceland.”

  His smile was starting to slip.

  “Okay, why do you want to find Elvis?” I said.

  He paused, then took off his sunglasses and looked at me with cold, blue eyes.

  “Tell me Floyd, did you know Elvis loved badges? All kinds of badges. He was an honorary of
ficer in dozens of local and federal agencies, all over the country. He even chummed up to Nixon to get one from the Bureau of Narcotics.” The Big Goon paused for a moment. “A mutual friend told me that Elvis once said, ‘Do what’s right for you as long as it don’t hurt no one.’ So I joined the force and, ultimately, ended up here.”

  The Big Goon was a Lifestyle Elvis. That explained a lot. Like why Goon Three had been sent to me. And why they didn’t haul my ass right out of town as soon as I showed up.

  “You’re the one who tipped off Buddy that Jon Burrows was living in Kresge,” I said.

  “I heard Buddy was sick. When I heard that Cougar Watts was headed to town, I reached out.”

  He might be a Lifestyle Elvis, but I still didn’t trust him. What the F.B.R.M. was doing was un-American. Elvis would not have approved.

  “Say, for the sake of argument, that Elvis Aaron Presley is alive today. It doesn’t change the fact that Elvis the musician died in his bathroom in 1977. The King is dead,” I answered.

  The Big Goon put his sunglasses back on.

  “I’m disappointed,” he said. “But remember our agreement. I’ll be keeping tabs on you. Deviate from the terms...”

  He trailed off but I understood what he meant.

  The long, low whistle of the train sounded again.

  “I got it,” I said, pocketing the gun.

  “Goodbye, Floyd.”

  The Big Goon stepped over his fallen agent and went through the door of the small building, closing it softly behind him.

  I jogged quickly toward the front gate. Morrison had pulled the Camaro around and was waving to me to hurry. The bound and gagged Goons had all been left in the guardhouse, tied up together on the floor. One of them had been forced to endure Pino’s tickle torture and the group of them were sitting in a puddle of his piss. The urinator hung his head in shame, trying to avoid the surly glares coming from his comrades. I looked past them, down the tracks, and could see the train slowing down as it approached. I went from a jog to a run and made it to the car just as the first engine began to ease to a stop next to the platform.