The Enigmatologist

by Ben Adams

  “She brings you your lunch butt naked and you pay her to put her clothes on. It’s outta sight.”

  “And since you obviously don’t like people asking you questions, you kill him and leave his body in the desert. Am I close?”

  “Whoa, whoa, man,” Leadbelly said, waving his hands, warding off the accusations, taking a couple of steps back. “Hold on a second. I don’t know nothing about no kid in Truth or Consequences. I swear. And I certainly didn’t kill nobody.”

  “And you would have killed that kid from the bar if you still had your gun. What did you do with it? Where did you hide it?” John asked, taking a couple of steps toward Leadbelly. Jeremiah tried to step between them, and opened his mouth slightly, about to defend Leadbelly. But the sheriff held up his hand, backing him off.

  “Leadbelly,” Sheriff Masters said,” if you did this thing, now would be the time to tell us. We could help you out, work with you.”

  “Sheriff, what the hell is this, man? You know me. I might do some crazy shit every now and then, but I’d never shoot nobody! Hell, everybody knows I’m all about the ladies.”

  “The DA’s a buddy a mine,” the sheriff said. “If you give up the gun, I’ll make sure he goes easy on you.”

  “Hell, I don’t even have a gun,” he said, pleading. “On top of that, I ain’t even been out to Fuzzy Beaver’s in, like, two months, man. Call down there, ask.”

  “Two months?” John said. He flipped the calendar back in his head and knew Leadbelly was innocent. The reporter had been murdered last week. Leadbelly couldn’t have killed him. But it wasn’t just Leadbelly’s alibi that convinced John of his innocence. John believed Leadbelly because his fear appeared to be genuine. It possessed the distress and dismay of someone being falsely accused.

  “Goddamnit, Leadbelly,” the sheriff said. “This is your last chance.”

  “Sheriff,” John said, “he’s telling the truth.”

  “What? How can you be sure?”

  “The only thing he’s guilty of is…” John thought about what he’d found in Leadbelly’s trailer, the jumpsuit, the photos. He knew Leadbelly was guilty of something, he just wasn’t sure what.

  “Living life on my own terms,” Leadbelly said, finishing John’s thought.

  “Sure, living your life or whatever,” John said, crumpling the menu in his fist. He was the one living on his own terms, a struggling artist trying to build a career in puzzles. Leadbelly looked like he borrowed every aspect of his personality from a drive-in movie.

  “You had me scared there for second, man,” Leadbelly said. “Thought I was about to get locked up for sure.”

  “Sorry for coming at you so hard,” John said.

  “Man, that’s what I say to the ladies at Fuzzy Beaver’s.”

  “I just have one more question,” John said, scowling, “if that’s alright with you, Jeremiah?”

  Jeremiah nodded.

  “Leadbelly, you ever been to Las Vegas? Nevada, I mean?”

  “No, sir. The only Las Vegas I been to is right here, man.” He pointed to the ground with a defiant finger. John thought this action seemed artificial and forced, and knew Leadbelly was lying.

  There were stories on the internet, conspiracy theories about Elvis and business dealings with the Mafia that would scare anyone with enough knowledge of Elvis folklore. John bet Leadbelly was the type of guy that knew these stories.

  He held the picture in front of Leadbelly, flapped it. “In twenty-four hours this picture will be in every major news outlet with the headline, ‘Elvis Lives’. And you’ll have a lot of people down here looking for you. I’m guessing some of them will be a whole lot meaner and tougher than that kid you beat up. Right now, the only thing stopping that from happening is a phone call from me. So, you’d better be straight with me. Got it?” John heard Rooftop in his voice and accepted it as the natural influence of a surrogate father.

  “Okay, okay.” His voice changed, making him seem smaller. “My name’s not really Al Leadbelly.”

  “Really?” John said. “Al Leadbelly’s a made up name? Never would have guessed.”

  “My real name’s Steve Johnson. I was an Elvis impersonator. That’s why I look like him. I ran a chapel in Vegas for twenty-three years. I had an opportunity to buy the building the chapel was in. Unfortunately, I bought it at the height of the housing bubble. When it crashed, I couldn’t make payments. I had to borrow some money from some very serious people.”

  “The mob?” the sheriff asked.

  “The Slot Machine Repairman’s Union. They loaned me some money to stay afloat.”

  “And this kid you fought, he was from the Union?” John asked.

  “That’s what he said. Scared the hell outta me. They have their hands in everything in Vegas. A casino can’t be built without their approval. Anyway, I took their money. I saw an opportunity and went to the blackjack table.”

  “Don’t tell me you blew everything in one hand,” John said.

  “What do you think, I’m stupid? It was three,” he said, grinning, proud of his gambling abilities.

  John shook his head. “So, you lost all your money in blackjack and moved down here?”

  “First, I burned my chapel for insurance money.”

  “I’m guessing that didn’t work out,” John said.

  “The arson investigator figured it out. So, I ran. That was four years ago.”

  “But you kept the sideburns?”

  “I was an Elvis impersonator for twenty-three years. I’ve been pretending to be someone else for so long, I’ve forgotten how to be Steve Johnson.”

  “John.” The sheriff tapped him on the shoulder. “A word?”

  “What do you think?” the sheriff asked as they walked to his car.

  “He’s hiding something,” John said, glancing over at Leadbelly. “If he was trying to reclaim his identity he would’ve shaved and cut his hair.”

  “You don’t believe he’s out here trying to find himself?”

  “Most people trying to find themselves go to Europe, write a memoir, not hide in the desert working in a lumberyard.”

  Leadbelly put his hands in his back pockets and rocked on his boots, heel to toe. There was something off about his story. It was unnecessarily complex, like it was meant to entertain, not convince. It conveniently placed the blame for his situation on external factors, making him a victim of a corrupt city where the house always wins.

  “Yeah, he’s definitely hiding something,” John said, “but I have my answers. What about you? He just confessed to insurance fraud.”

  “I’m willing to let that slide as long as we can wrap this up,” the sheriff said. “You gonna tell the Enquirer Leadbelly left town?”

  “I thought about that. They can just make some phone calls, turn him into a fugitive, make this whole thing bigger than it needs to be.”

  “Sonuvabitch.” Sheriff Masters kicked the dirt.

  “Don’t worry about the Enquirer. I’ll take care of them,” John said, wondering what he’d tell them, and the Air Force.

  They walked back over.

  “Alright,” John said, “I need to make a phone call. Jeremiah, can I use your office?”

  “Sure thing. It’s the second door on the right.”

  The lumberyard office window’s metal blinds were open. Outside, Jeremiah tried to say something to his brother, but Sheriff Masters kept brushing him off. Even though they were talking about him, Leadbelly wasn’t watching them. He looked at the window, at John sitting behind Jeremiah’s dinged, metal desk. John thought for a moment that Leadbelly wasn’t concerned about the phone call or its outcome, but about John, and some secret hardship that awaited him. It made him feel awkward, having an Elvis impersonator concerned for him, and he quickly looked away and called The National Enquirer from his cell phone.

  “Yeah, Rex Grant, please? Tell him it’s John Abernathy.”

  “John,” a voice said after making him wait a couple of minutes, “what do you ha
ve for us?”

  “Well, for starters, it’s not him,” John said, leaning back. “He was an Elvis impersonator for a while. That’s why he looks like him. But it’s not him. This guy’s in his forties.”

  “What about our reporter?”

  “He doesn’t know anything about that either.”

  “You sure?”

  “I grilled him pretty good. So, it looks like you don’t have a story here,” John said, his voice rising in false optimism.

  Rex was silent for a moment.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. We can print the photo with the headline, ‘Elvis Impersonator in New Mexico May Hold Secret to King’s Whereabouts’, or something like that. This is great, John! Better than we expected.”

  “Are you serious? There’s no story here. Just some guy in a trailer park who happens to look like Elvis.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it great? This is how we did it in the eighties. Damn, it feels good to be back.”

  “But there’s no story.” John pushed away from the desk, hit the wall behind him, rattling plaques from the Chamber of Commerce, the Association of the Lumber Retail Specialists, the International Association of Belt Buckle Enthusiasts, the New Mexico Chapter of the Global Coalition for the Advancement of Who’s the Boss Cosplayers.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rex Grant said. “People want a distraction. And we give it to them.”

  “What about your reporter? Did you think about him? You run this story and you’ll chase away anyone who might know anything about his death.”

  “If you say he doesn’t know anything, what can we do? We have to move forward. We’re publishing the photo. End of discussion.”

  “You…” John put his hand on Jeremiah’s desk. It wobbled on uneven legs. “You don’t care about the reporter, do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What?”

  “The reporter, what’s his name? The kid who died, the one you sent down here, what’s his name?”

  “John, that’s hardly…”

  “You don’t know, do you?” A calendar on the wall showed a calico kitten holding a circular saw, a word balloon above its head saying ‘The first cut is the deepest.’

  “We’ll send you a check as soon as we get your expense report. You’ve done a great job.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  John leaned back in Jeremiah’s chair and took a deep breath. He swiveled the chair side-to-side, moving only a few degrees in either direction. He knew before he called that Rex Grant intended to run the photo regardless of what he’d found, that it’d appear at supermarket checkouts next to other impulse buys, breath mints, chocolate pudding, 3-for-1 action-adventure DVDs starring aging, European martial artists. But John needed to try anyway. He felt an attachment to the town, a comfort he hadn’t experienced in Denver or Boulder, and he wanted to insulate it from Rex Grant and his scant journalistic standards. John set his elbows on the desk. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He needed to call another number, be disappointed by another client.

  “Colonel Hollister. It’s John Abernathy.”

  “John, have you found him?” Colonel Hollister sounded chipper, hopeful.

  “He left town. I’m at his job right now. His boss said he quit yesterday then took off.” John knew lying to Colonel Hollister was a calculated risk. He’d been watching Leadbelly’s trailer for a while, would have seen Leadbelly packing up, moving on. If Leadbelly returned home, the colonel would know that John had lied to him. Colonel Hollister could still break into John’s hotel room, fulfill all the implied threats of a knife to the throat, and John hoped his tenuous story would convince Colonel Hollister that he no longer had a reason to stay in Las Vegas.

  “That’s too bad. Did he give a reason why?”

  “I know he was in a bar fight last night. Did one of your guys run into him? Maybe they went looking for him when he didn’t come home.”

  “I can’t discuss ongoing operations.”

  “So, that’s a yes.” John heard Colonel Hollister breathing on the other end, a silent admission. “So, we’re done now. You paid me to find this guy and he’s not here. I did my job. It’s over.”

  “John, it’s never over.”

  “Whatever.” John hung up, frustrated at the obstinance the two men shared. He decided he’d write a puzzle about self-important people, a scathing commentary set in squares.

  Outside, the sheriff had his arms crossed like a man not accustomed to waiting. Jeremiah watched his brother peripherally. They pretended not to notice each other. Both were obviously concerned, but for different reasons. Even though the sheriff and his brother were concerned about him, Leadbelly wasn’t watching them. He was looking east, toward the desert.

  “Leadbelly!” John said, sprinting from the building. “Those tabloid douches, they’re gonna publish the photo anyway! They actually think it’s better you’re not Elvis. They think they can sell more papers telling people you know where he is.”

  “Goddamn Los Angeles sonsabitches!” Sheriff Masters said, slapping his Stetson against his thigh. “They think they can take advantage of us ‘cause we’re small town folk. I have half a mind to drive out there and have a word with them.”

  “I apologize, Sheriff. I tried talking them out of it.”

  “I know it’s not your fault, John. It’s just big city folk thinking they’re better than everyone.”

  “What do you think I should do?” Leadbelly asked John.

  “Well, for starters, cut your hair and lose the sideburns. Then get outta New Mexico. Go someplace like Canada, where they don’t give a shit about Elvis.”

  “I’d listen to the man if I were you,” the sheriff said.

  “And Leadbelly. Don’t go back to your trailer,” John said, thinking about what he’d told Colonel Hollister. “That kid’s got friends.” John pointed to Leadbelly’s bruised face. “If I can find you, so can they.”

  Leadbelly closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sun. He breathed deeply, inhaling a desert breeze carrying the smell of cut lumber. The sound of an electric saw slicing measured wood. Leadbelly turned to them, smiling, his secret burden removed.

  “Jeremiah, thanks for everything. Sheriff, it’s been nice knowing you. John, thanks for the advice.”

  He shook their hands and ran to his truck. Before he jumped in and drove away, Leadbelly spun around, got in the Elvis stance, legs parted wide, knees bent, weight forward. He pointed fingers on both hands, curled his lip, and committed his final act as King, saying, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Leadbelly’s tires kicked lumberyard parking lot gravel, and dust clouded his exit.

  John took out Leadbelly’s picture, folded it in half, image upon image, creasing it with his thumbnail.

  The sheriff patted John on the shoulder and smiled. John didn’t smile back. Instead, he dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t accomplish anything that merited commendation. The Enquirer was still going to publish the photo, and the Air Force was still going record every car, truck, and dirt bike swerving in and out of Leadbelly’s trailer park. He gazed into the cloudless sky. Above them, the flash of something in orbit, and John mouthed the words, ‘It’s never over.’

  The dust gradually settled on their shoulders and shoes.

  “Lee, what the hell was that?” Jeremiah said, coughing and spitting dust from his mouth. “Leadbelly was one of my best employees. Employee of the Month three months running. What the hell am I gonna do now?”

  “Put an ad in the goddamn paper for all I care. You’re a smart guy, you’ll figure something out.” The sheriff waved at his brother with the back of his hand.

  “Family problems?” John finally asked when they were standing by the car. Behind them, Jeremiah plodded into his office.

  “You could say that. I got three brothers and a sister. We all serve our community in different ways. Since I’m the oldest, it fell upon me to foll
ow our dad, become sheriff. Jeremiah, he’s the youngest. And the smartest. He coulda used his gifts to better this town. Instead, he went and opened this place, making a little money. Our dad was always disappointed that Jeremiah, with all his smarts, didn’t become a doctor or something.”

  “Why didn’t he, if he’s so smart?”

  “You see, Jeremiah always doubted himself. After high school, he saved his money, took out a loan, bought this place.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he doubted himself to me.”

  “There’s different kinds a doubt,” the sheriff said, backing out of the parking lot. “You did good work back there. You got a real knack for this stuff.”

  “I hate this shit, talking to people that way. It feels like it’s not me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You should feel good. You ran the bad guy outta town, saved the day.”

  “I think the bad guy might still be here.” John hung his elbow out of the open car window. “Christ, I just want to make puzzles.”

  The case was a calisthenic of futility. The Enquirer didn’t care about the reporter, or the truth, and John doubted that Colonel Hollister would give up his search for Leadbelly. John was frequently disheartened by his clients, their lack of sympathy, their utilizing John and Rooftop for a quick and profitable retribution. His two current clients, two people interested in an Elvis photo, were the same as the clients seeking divorce, twisting the outcome of his investigation into something sordid for their benefit. He wanted revenge, to show them what happened when someone tried to manipulate him. Regrettably, his vengeance was limited and could only take one form. Fortunately, it was one a for-profit business like the Enquirer would understand.

  “You know, the Enquirer’s covering my expenses,” John said to the sheriff, his mischievous streak awakened.

  “Hell, let’s get something to eat.”

  Julio’s Diner was on Bridge Street, across from the Grand Plaza Hotel. They sat on red vinyl bar stools at a Formica counter, drinking beer while Julio, the heavy set chef and owner, cooked their food on an old griddle and stove in front of them. The diner smelled of old grease and cigarette smoke that had burrowed into the pores of the cracked vinyl and the foam underneath.