Elvis Has Not Left the Building

by J. R. Rain

  “Not to mention I happen to be cute,” I said.

  “Let’s change the subject,” he said.

  “Good.”

  Clarke cranked out another ten reps from the bench machine. I probably should have done another set from the shoulder press, but my shoulder was aching a little. For all the compliments, I was still seventy-four, and these old shoulders weren’t getting any younger.

  When Clarke was finished, with his lightning vein throbbing, he said, “So how’s the case coming along?”

  I caught him up to speed, ending with Flip and his twin brother tricking Miranda into sex in high school.

  “You’re reaching,” said Clarke when I had finished.

  “I have nothing else to reach for,” I said.

  “He was just a high school sweetheart.”

  “Not exactly a sweetheart,” I said. “He was willing to give her to his brother for a night.”

  “So he’s charitable,” said Clarke. “Either way, I don’t see how it relates to the case.”

  “It doesn’t,” I said, “except for one thing.”

  “She still kept the letters,” said Clarke, nodding.

  “That,” I said, “and that he’s dead.”

  Clarke raised his eyebrows. “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I did. After leaving Dana’s home, I went back to my crime fighting headquarters, or my apartment, and did some research. I ran Flip Barowski’s name through one of my industry data bases, privy only to police and private eyes, and, surprise of all surprises, only one Flip Barowski came up. And the one who came up, came up dead. And not just dead, but murdered. A single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Execution style. Two weeks ago to this day. Four days before Miranda’s disappearance.

  “Could be a coincidence,” Clarke said.

  “Could be,” I said.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t. But, then again, I’ve been wrong before.”

  Chapter Forty

  I’d performed for presidents and royalty, in packed stadiums and concert venues around the world, and yet when I stepped into the Pussycat for rehearsal that afternoon there were butterflies in my stomach unlike any I had ever experienced. I wanted to puke, go home, and drink myself into oblivion. Exactly in that order.

  It was only three-thirty in the afternoon, and the bar was mostly empty, although there was a young couple sitting discretely together, their knees touching, each drinking from their own bottles of beer. I figured them to be tourists, judging by their distinct lack of tans.

  The handsome bartender smiled brightly at me when he saw me. “Hey, it’s Mr. Johnny Cash,” he said, and reached his hand over the counter and shook mine. “Welcome back.”

  If only he knew.

  “Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  “Hey, man, all you needed was a nudge. Trust me, you did all the rest.”

  A female customer came in behind me and sat at the bar. The young bartender nodded to her, winked at me, and went back to work. I continued on through the nightclub and headed toward the stage near the back, where Becky was sitting at her piano and flipping through a songbook.

  “Hi there, pretty mama,” I said, after stepping up onto the stage.

  She looked up and smiled and hopped to her feet. She moved quickly around the piano and gave me a world-class hug. I love world-class hugs, especially from pretty young pianists. She kissed me lightly on the cheek, Hollywood style. Her lips felt nice, and her touch felt nicer. There’s an inherent camaraderie among musicians, young or old, and it was something I had missed for far too long.

  Well, not anymore, dammit.

  “You look like hell, King,” she said.

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  She grinned easily. She was beautiful in a sort of asexual, sisterly sort of way. Sorry, guys. I mean she seemed to have all the goods, pretty face, long blond hair, and a petite frame. But she wasn’t sexy. Perhaps she was too petite. Perhaps she dressed too conservatively. Perhaps I shouldn’t give a damn since I was fifty years her senior.

  “Don’t take it personally, King. I’m just f-ing with you.”

  She took my hand and led me to the piano bench and sat me down next to her. Our legs touched and, asexual or not, a shiver of pleasure coursed through me.

  Focus, King. And quit acting like a schoolboy.

  “I got your email,” she said, “And I like your taste in music.”

  “Do you know the songs?”

  “Like the back of my hand,” she said. “And you’re obviously quite fond of Tom Jones.”

  “One of the greatest performers I’ve ever seen.”

  She grinned. “Yeah, I like him, too,” she said. “You also have a lot of Neil Diamond in there.”

  “Neil was an old friend.” Shit. The moment the words came out, I realized my mistake. Easy on the name-dropping, big guy. “Well, friends might be too strong of a word. We chatted a few times back in the day. Now we’re just Facebook friends, although he won’t stop sending me all those damn Farmville requests.”

  I could feel her eyes on me, scanning every square inch of my face, no doubt racking her brain for some memory of me. If my plastic surgery held up, there wouldn’t be any memory to trigger. Finally, she said, “You’re funny, King. You ready to work through the set today?”

  My stomach did a double flip.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  “Relax. I have a feeling you aren’t going to need a lot of practice.”

  “We’ll see.”

  And so I sat there by her side, our legs touching, and sang a set of fourteen songs, and when we were done, with my voice nearly hoarse and my spirit hovering somewhere near the ceiling, I looked around and saw that we had attracted a small crowd at the base of the stage.

  “It’s only rehearsal,” she said, patting my hand, “and already they love you.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  I pulled out of my gated apartment complex and immediately picked up a tail. No, not that kind of tail. A green Intrepid pulled away from the street and followed me down the hill, and proceeded to follow me all the way to Larchmont Street, about six miles away. Coincidence? I think not.

  I pulled into a spot in front of Chevalier’s Bookstore, and the green Intrepid pulled into a spot about five rows down and across the street. The driver was male. He wore sunglasses and had short brown hair and that’s all I knew.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called a PI research service of mine. I punched my way through the phone system and soon got a live operator. I gave him my pin and password, then gave him the Intrepid’s license plate number. Five minutes later, I had a name. Or, rather, a business name.

  The vehicle was owned by the Keys Agency. I knew of the Keys Agency. They were a rival private investigation agency here in L.A. I thought about that a little and then stepped out of my car.

  My non-exclusive and Jewish girlfriend calls this area Jew Town, and she was very nearly correct. On any given Friday, you will see conservative Orthodox practitioners with their tassels and braided hair, casually strolling down the streets, forsaking their vehicles in the name of piety.

  Perhaps I should forsake booze in the name of piety.

  Or not.

  I stepped out of my Cadillac and onto the crowded sidewalk that ran along in front of posh stores and upscale restaurants. Most of the shoppers tended to be lovely ladies with little dogs and big sunglasses. Most of the lovely ladies ignored me. Most, but not all. I still garnered one or two looks of curiosity, and maybe one or two of mild interest. Either way, I wasn’t used to being ignored, even after thirty years. Hell, I was used to hordes of fans everywhere. I was used to fine food and famous friends and fancy cars.

  Today, I was dressed in a polo shirt, cargo shorts with a hammer loop, no hammer; white Van tennis shoes, no socks. Cool, man. My longish brown/gray hair was
slicked back. Some stray strands hung loose and dangled over my forehead and cheekbones. Yeah, the cheekbones are still there.

  I found him sitting at an outdoor table on the corner of Larchmont and Beverly, and recognized him immediately. The thick neck, the strong jaw, the short buzz cut. He could have stepped straight out of his high school year book. As I approached, weaving my way through a sea of yipping dogs and small saplings growing straight up from sidewalk planters, he didn’t bother to look up. In fact, he didn’t bother to do much of anything. He just sat there, shoulders slumped, head low, an air of deep melancholy surrounding him. Hell, just seeing him made me want to run to Dr. Vivian, who I may or may not be in love with. I’m leaning towards maybe.

  I pulled out a metal chair, scraping it noisily over the gum-stained concrete, and sat across from him. He looked up finally.

  “Bryan Barowski?” I said.

  “You got him,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” I said.

  “So am I.”

  “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Would you like to move to a quieter spot?” We were on a fairly busy street corner, heavy with traffic and pedestrians.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  His eyes dropped down, looking at nothing.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I said.

  He said nothing, although he might have nodded.

  “I lost a twin brother, too,” I said.

  He inhaled deeply and made a small noise.

  I continued. “It was long ago. He died at birth, but he was my brother for nine months and sometimes I can still feel him touching me.”

  And then Bryan started to cry. Right there in front of the bagel restaurant, his chin pressed into his chest, weeping silently, his body convulsing ever-so-lightly.

  * * *

  We were now in my car, both eating ice creams. Mine was chocolate malt crunch and his was straight-up vanilla. We both chose waffle cones, which, really, is the only way to go when you’re eating ice cream. The investigator in the green Intrepid was watching us behind his big cop glasses. I think he even took a photograph or two. I hate having my picture taken.

  “We fucked up,” he was saying. “We shared everything.”

  “And you wanted to share her, too.”

  “Weird, I know.” He slurped his rapidly melting vanilla. “Like I said, we fucked up, and then they broke up, and, I swear, Flip was never the same since.”

  “He missed her that bad?”

  “Yeah. There’s something about that girl.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I said. My ice cream was dripping faster than I could lick it. I’ve had worse problems.

  “Yeah, there’s that, but there’s something else.” He thought about what that something else was, working his tongue absently around his cone. “She honestly didn’t know how pretty she was, how appealing she was, how amazing she was.”

  “We should all be so lucky.”

  “No kidding. I begged him just to give me five minutes alone with her.”

  “Were you going to have sex with her?”

  “I think so, yes. I wanted her, and I was so excited. I thought my brother and I could pull it off.”

  “But she knew the difference?”

  “Yeah. Immediately. Right when we started kissing.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She screamed.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I tried to get her to stop screaming.”

  “How?”

  “Any way I could. I grabbed her and held her down and put my hands over her mouth.” His voice trailed off.

  “Did you rape her?”

  He said nothing, but I could hear him breathing wetly through his nose.

  “Did you rape her, Bryan?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  We were silent for a long time. My own breathing was nearly as loud as Bryan’s, amplified in the cab of my car. I decided to let it drop for now.

  “What happened next, Bryan?”

  “She grabbed her stuff and ran out.”

  “What did your brother say?”

  “He never forgave me. I mean, it had all been my idea...I had pestered the hell out of him.”

  “He didn’t have to agree.”

  “Yes, he did. I was relentless.”

  We both were racing time with our ice creams. My fingers were beyond sticky and now I was getting damn thirsty. Bryan’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and I think I was melting into my seat cushions.

  I said, “She never wanted anything to do with him again.”

  “Never again.”

  I was finishing the last of my cone. Chocolate was between my fingers, down my wrist. Sigh. My little napkin was in tatters.

  “And your brother was never the same.”

  He looked at the rest of his ice cream, opened his door a crack and chucked it out onto the hot street.

  “Yeah, never the same,” he said.

  “He blame you?”

  “Of course.”

  “He loved her?”

  “With all of his heart.”

  Tears were in his eyes. His twin brother of twenty-two years was dead just a few weeks removed. Bryan was holding up well, although I suspected he could crash at any moment.

  “And to your knowledge they never saw each other again?” I asked.

  “Outside of random meetings at school, not that I know of.”

  “And you would know,” I said.

  “Yeah, he couldn’t keep anything from me.”

  Bryan was breathing heavily through his nose. The green car was still there, although the driver was gone. Bryan needed a hug but I wasn’t the guy to give it to him.

  “You mentioned there was something about this girl,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Lots of boys at your school liked her?”

  “And probably some girls, too.”

  I smiled. “What about you?”

  “Yeah, I liked her.”

  “Were you jealous that your brother had her and you didn’t?”

  “Sometimes, yeah.”

  “Were you jealous that she took time away from you and your brother?”

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  “And your brother still thought about her, even after all these years?”

  “I’m sure he did. He didn’t talk about it much, but he still loved her.”

  “Did you love her, too?” I asked.

  “No, not like that.”

  “But you were infatuated with her, like the other guys—and some girls—in school.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Is there a chance your brother might have been seeing her recently?”

  He looked at me sharply.

  “Why would you say that?” he asked.

  “Your brother was murdered, and a few days later Miranda disappeared. That might not be a coincidence.”

  “I—I don’t know. We don’t live with each other, so I dunno. But I think I would have known.”

  “But is there a chance that he could have been seeing her without your knowledge?”

  “Maybe, but I would have eventually known.”

  “How would you have known?”

  “I just would have. It’s a twin thing. He couldn’t keep anything from me.”

  “Earlier, you said he seemed happier recently.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he was happier because he was seeing her,” I said.

  He shrugged and said nothing. We were both silent and I knew I was upsetting the poor kid, but I also felt that I was onto something here. What it was, I didn’t know.

  “Why would someone kill your brother?” I asked gently. There was no easy way to do this. You just plunged in and hoped for the best. I knew the facts of the case by now. Detective Colbert, after being bribed with more donuts, had agreed to fax me the preliminary pol
ice report. Flip had been found in his car outside a nightclub, dead. Shot once behind the ear. The police had no suspects and very little clues. From all indications, it had been a professional hit.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was he behaving any differently?”

  “I don’t know. If anything, he seemed happier. But like I said, we don’t live together, so I don’t know for sure. I moved out when I was nineteen and he stayed at home.”

  “Was it hard living away from your brother?”

  “Very hard, but you get used to it.”

  I could not find it within myself to torture the kid a minute longer. His twin was dead, and he himself would never be the same again, and a part of my heart went out to him, even though I was convinced he had raped Miranda. I gave him my card and told him to call me if something came up. He nodded, opened the door, and left. As he did so, I saw that his ice cream had melted into oblivion.

  I also saw that the green Intrepid was gone, too.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “They shared everything,” I said to Dr. Vivian.

  “Twins tend to do that,” she said. “At least initially. Later in life, they will outgrow the need for shared experiences.”

  “Do twins share girls, too?” I asked.

  She thought about that. “Depends on the extent of the twins’ bond,” she said.

  “I think the kid was horny and wanted to bop a hot chick,” I said.

  “It’s easy to assume that because that’s the obvious answer.”

  “Then what’s the non-obvious answer?” I asked.

  “As identical twins, they’ve had similar—if not identical—experiences. Because of that, they expect to continue having identical experiences. And if one of them has something that the other doesn’t—”

  “The other expects to have it, too,” I said, cutting her off. “Except there was only one of Miranda.”

  “Which is why twins, especially early on through high school and college, will often date other twins. Life is easier that way. Manageable. It makes sense to them. The world is complete, whole. Right. Symmetrical.”