Two days before our crew was scheduled to install the system, we’d received a frantic call from Stewart demanding to see one of our investigators. I took the call.
Stewart lived in Farmington Hills in a six thousand square foot house. Twenty years earlier, when the house was built, it was considered a showpiece. When I got there, it was still damn impressive.
Myron Stewart answered the door himself. He was dressed in a pair of pressed khaki slacks, a white silk shirt left open at the collar, and a green Christian Dior tie he’d loosened to allow his massive neck a little room. Myron wasn’t fat, just short with a barrel chest and thick, vein-lined arms.
Stewart led me down a long hallway and into a library. He sat down at a large antique oak desk and pointed to a leather sofa across the room. I listened while he told me how his daughter had failed to return home from school, and how he’d received a call telling him she was a prisoner. The kidnapper was demanding a five-hundred-thousand dollar ransom.
“Did you call the police?” I asked.
“They told me they’d kill her if I called the police,” he said. “She’s all I have. My wife died three years ago and I can’t lose Celine too.”
While he spoke, Stewart began to play with his tie. He tightened it, then stuck his finger behind the knot and tugged it loose before tightening it again. His face was red and while I sat there watching him his hands began to shake and he refused to look me in the eyes. I couldn’t imagine what he was going through, but I felt I needed to tell him the truth.
“Our agency isn’t equipped to deal with this,” I said. “You need to call the police.”
Stewart slammed his fist on the desk and jumped up. “I can’t risk it. She’s all I have.”
We stood face-to-face while I made my point. “Kidnappers watch movies. They know they’re supposed to say don’t call the police. They know they’re going to scare you. But it’s your best bet. I promise. I have a friend with the Detroit office of the F.B.I. who I can call if you’d like.”
We argued back and forth for about fifteen minutes before Stewart collapsed into his chair and agreed. I called my friend at the Bureau and when they arrived, I left.
Three days later, the ransom drop took place. The kidnapper turned out to be the gardener. Somehow, he spotted a tail. A rookie agent got a little too anxious, gunfire was exchanged, and the gardener was killed. They never found Celine or her body, and to this day Myron Stewart blames me. Of course, I can’t find fault with his reasoning.
“You’ve got to get over it.” My mother broke my reverie.
I took a deep breath and tried to shake off the darkness threatening to engulf me. “When are you getting into Key West?” I asked.
“My flight gets in at six this evening,” she said. “We can discuss all this when I get there.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Like hell there isn’t. You can’t spend the rest of your life running away. This is what you know and you’re good at it. I need you even more now, what with Nick gone.”
“Not interested,” I said.
“I wasn’t interested when I took over either. Growing up means we have to take responsibility for our actions. You can’t make a decent living tending bar.”
“I’ve got the money Grandpa left me,” I said. “Along with what I make at the bar, I have more than enough to live on.”
“Maybe you can get by for now. But what about your future? If you’ll take the time to think about it, you’ll know I’m right, Wes.”
I stood, ran down the steps, and over to the gate. “I’ve thought about it plenty, mother. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to go live in Key West, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. In fact, it seems exactly like something you would do on the spur of the moment. If you’d thought about it, you would have realized it’s a fantasy. It can’t last.”
“Goodbye mother, I’ll meet your plane at six,” I said, disconnecting the phone before she could drag me back into an argument. I’d decided to wait to tell her about the money. Otherwise, I’d have been on the phone with her for another hour. Right now, it was about time I met Elvis.
I set off walking at a fast clip. I was pretty sure Bob, his brother, Willie, and Frankie were out looking for me. Key West is small enough that if they chose a corner to stand on, I might walk right on by them. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, and it’s why I paid careful attention to every passing car, and every pedestrian who walked by me.
As usual, Duval Street was a mass of people, bikes, cars and music. I believe there may be more restaurants, bikini shops and t-shirt stores along Duval than any other street in America. Despite the crowds, I still couldn’t understand how they all managed to stay in business.
Jimmy Buffet blared from the speakers at his Margaritaville restaurant. All along Duval, bars fight for the tourists’ dollars with live bands pounding out Irish folk songs, country classics and sixties era rock. This goes on from morning to night, and I suspect many of the people working there get tired of it; I sure as hell would have.
The air was heavy with the oily scent of fried food, perspiration, and a hundred different perfumes. People were dressed in suits and shorts and wild shirts and bikinis. Basket weavers, jugglers, and bums looking for a handout were everywhere. The only things that appeared to be missing to complete the circus atmosphere were elephants and a Ferris wheel.
Tanya had given me directions to Elvis’s home on Eaton Street and his storefront located on Duval, two doors from Petronia Street. I stopped at the store first, where a sign on the front of the building read: Let nationally renowned psychic Elvis solve those daunting personal problems. Walk-ins welcome.
I’ve always had mixed feelings about people who go to psychics. There’s a part of me that feels they get exactly what they deserve for the money they spend-nothing. On the other hand, I’ve investigated several psychics for clients. In each case the client visited the psychic after a personal catastrophe took place in their lives. I reviewed the evidence with an open mind and concluded that every one of the psychics had taken advantage of my client’s vulnerability. As far as I was concerned, there should be laws against them. I shook my head and entered.
The storefront was not very big, perhaps ten by twenty feet, and smelled of burning incense. Next to the door, a metal bookrack held an array of titles like Understanding Tarot and Astrology Made Easy.
Hundreds of quartz crystals hung from the ceiling and cast funky rainbows upon the walls. In the back corner, a dozen crystal balls of various sizes were backlit with red, violet and blue lights for effect. There was a door in the back, and the sign above it read: phone room-quiet please.
In the center of the store a poker table was set up and a young girl sat behind it playing with a deck of tarot cards. She looked up when I entered, nodded in my direction, and went back to dealing her cards.
“Can I help you?” she asked with a hint of an accent, Polish or maybe Russian. Her inch long nails were painted black, and she was dressed in a black Sloppy Joe’s t-shirt and a black ankle-length skirt. Her shoulder length hair was dyed black, and she wore it pulled back so tightly her forehead appeared stretched and smooth, like an over filled balloon. She would have been cute if she weren’t trying so hard not to be.
I walked over to the table. “I’d like to see Elvis.”
She laid out another card and looked back up at me. “Do you have an appointment?”
“The sign says walk-ins are welcome.”
“I know what the sign says, I put it there. Since you didn’t answer my question, I assume the answer’s no.”
“I was walking by and saw the sign. I decided I wanted to have my fortune read. It was a spur of the moment thing.”
“I don’t think so.” The girl dealt one more card and appeared to analyze it for a long time before reaching out and tapping it with the tip of her finger. “You’re a troubled man.” She touched the card again, almost caressing it when she added, “A h
aunted man.”
I laughed. “Not exactly a brilliant prediction. Aren’t we all haunted by something or another?”
“Perhaps.” She picked up the cards, added them to the deck, and placed them on the table.
The girl tilted her face toward me and studied me for a moment before pushing herself away from the table. She rose effortlessly to her feet, sauntered over to a counter where a cash register sat, reached over, and pulled a small book from behind the counter. She paused to open the book, and spoke without turning. “Elvis is free right now. He does his readings from his home. It’s three blocks from here.”
“Works for me,” I said.
“Good. The cost is one hundred and twenty-five dollars for a forty-five minute reading.” She held out her hand. “Cash or credit. No checks.”
I raised an eyebrow at the price, but pulled out my wallet and handed her my American Express card. After she’d run the card she handed it back to me and made an entry into the appointment book. Finally, she picked up a printed sheet and held it out to me. “His address and a map,” she said. “He’ll be expecting you.”
“I suppose that’s because you have a psychic connection with him.”
She scowled. “No, asshole, it’s because I have a phone. He’s going to know right away you’re a disbeliever though.”
“You’ll clue him in of course.”
“I won’t have to.” A slight smile formed on her face when she spoke about him. “He has a strong gift. He may be the most gifted person I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve always said the only difference between a good psychic and a great psychic is the number of years he’s been pulling the con.” I took the map from her hand without looking at it. While she tried to stare me down I thought of another question. “How long has Elvis been calling himself a psychic?”
The smile faded and she moved around me and headed back toward the table. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late.”
“Got time for one more question?”
She stopped and nodded her head. “Go ahead.”
“What’s with the phone room?”
She stood motionless, like a manikin dressed for a funeral, and I thought for a moment she was going to refuse to answer, but she surprised me. “We take calls from all over the world. Lost people call looking for help. There are five of us. We take turns answering the phones and working the shop.”
“And if someone calls and asks to speak to Elvis, can they?”
“Of course.”
“For an extra cost I’m sure.”
She spun around. Her eyes narrowed, and her upper lip quivered showing me her teeth. She looked like a wild animal ready to pounce. When she spoke, her words were carefully spaced, almost as if she was fighting to control herself. “For every disbeliever there’s a believer. I’ve helped many of them. Elvis has helped even more. He helped me when no one else would. He took me off the streets, made me realize I wasn’t crazy. Elvis helped me recognize my special gift. You don’t have to believe. But you don’t have to be a shit-head either.”
“You sound sincere,” I said.
“Damn straight,” she said. “I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I was making a difference in people’s lives. Why do you want to see Elvis anyway? You a cop?”
“No.”
“You act like a cop.” Anger rang in her voice and she looked like she was preparing to throw herself at me.
I shrugged and began to back toward the door. I’d once seen what a woman could do with nails like hers, and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the lady. When I reached the door she turned away and I walked outside into the afternoon heat. After the cool of the shop the air felt humid and heavy. I headed off toward Elvis’s house and wondered if we were in for another bout of rain.
Chapter 10
I could understand why a girl like the one working for Elvis would gravitate here. Back home, she would have been considered strange. Of course, she was as strange in Key West as wherever she was from, but there was so much strange down here on the island she could almost pass for normal. In fact, I was even beginning to feel like I fit right in.
I had never been considered strange when I was a child, but I’d always thought of myself as being different. I’m sure it was why I felt so at home in Key West. When other kids were out playing tag and riding bicycles, I was out on Lake St. Clair on my grandfather’s sailboat. When I was younger I’d sailed with my grandfather, but by the time I was in my teens I was taking his 32-foot sailboat on longer and longer trips by myself. Since I’d never known my father, my mother’s dad, along with Nick, were the male influences in my life. Different wasn’t necessarily bad, just, well, different.
While I moved along Duval I remained vigilant, watching for Bob or Willie. I felt exposed, so I stepped up my pace. Dodging the tourists wandering the street, I was standing in front of Elvis’s place within minutes.
The house was two stories and painted white like all the others on the street. Four steps led up to a small, quaint porch, and four columns across the front supported the roof. There were also four chairs lined up in front of a four paned window. The whole setup made me suspect Elvis suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder as well as his other phobias.
The painted wood steps gave slightly when I climbed them, groaning from years of use. As I reached for the door it opened inward. A giant of a black man peered out at me through thick-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a tuxedo, wore a red fez that was too small for his head, and his shoulders were so broad his jacket rubbed against either side of the doorframe.
The sheer bulk of the man startled me and I took a quick step back. I got the feeling he was used to having this effect on people.
“I have an appointment to see Elvis.”
His eyes lit up and he smiled. “My name is Dom,” he said with a soft, southern lilt. “And you are?”
“Wes Darling.”
“Follow me please, Mister Darling. Mister Elvis is expecting you.” He turned and led the way down a narrow hallway. His steps were short and lumbering, and he brushed the walls with his shoulders when he walked.
As I Trailed him I became aware of the faint scent of a flowery perfume, lilacs perhaps. It took a moment to realize it was emanating from the behemoth in front of me. ‘Only in Key West,’ I thought.
Dom stopped in front of the first door he came to, knocked once, and entered without waiting for an invitation. He was so broad that he had to twist his shoulders to the side in order to squeeze through the doorway. I followed, without the effort.
The room was not very large. A soft, instrumental version of an old Beatles’ song I couldn’t name was being piped in through speakers in the ceiling. It was something my mother used to play when I was little, before she got rid of all her old record albums.
The floor was covered with thick white Berber carpeting, and the dim lighting cast my shadow onto a rose colored wall, making me appear as large as my guide.
Across the room a tall, thin man with a shaved head and a Van Dyke style beard stood behind a desk that held a deck of cards, tarot I presumed, a crystal ball, a box of tissues, and a white surgical mask. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit with white gloves, and his eyes seemed to come alive when he smiled at me.
“I’m Elvis,” he said. “You can leave us now, Dom.”
There was a shifting of weight behind me, and the door closed. I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Funny,” I said. “You don’t look at all like him.”
His smile shifted, and I thought I detected a look of disappointment in his eyes. “Him?”
“Elvis. I don’t see the resemblance.”
“I can assure you, you’re not the first to make fun of my name.” Elvis reached out, shook my hand, and peeled off the gloves with a flourish. “It so happens, it’s my real name. My mother was a big fan of the man.” Holding the gloves between the tips of his left thumb and forefinger, he dropped them into the trashcan next to the desk.
“
The gloves must get expensive,” I said.
“I have a thing about germs.” Pointing to a leather armchair on my left he added, “Won’t you have a seat Mister Darling?”
He stood until I was seated, then he pulled out the chair from behind the desk and sat down. I was overcome with the strangest feeling. It was like I was back in high school and I’d been sent to see the principle after misbehaving.
I’d already made up my mind he was a charlatan, but I could almost feel the vibes he was sending out. Elvis pressed his fingers together into a steeple, rested his chin on his thumbs, and stared at me until I began to squirm. Although I’d investigated psychics, I’d never visited one while a paying customer. I didn’t know what to expect. While I waited for him to say something, I forced myself to sit still and returned his stare.
Elvis finally let out a controlled sigh. “Cat was right.”
“The cat was right?” I asked. “What cat?”
He dropped his hands to the desktop and chuckled. “I’m afraid talking to animals is not one of my fortes. I’m referring to Cat, the woman you spoke with when you made your appointment. She said you were a skeptic.”
“And she knew this how?”
“She read your aura.”
“Without my permission?” I leaned forward. “Isn’t there a law against that? If there’s not, there should be.”
“A true doubter doesn’t seek out a psychic, Mister Darling. Cat seemed to think you were a cop.”
“I told her I wasn’t.”
“I know. I’ve been expecting you.”
“So Destiny must have told you I was going to show up.”
“I don’t know anyone named Destiny,” he said. “I don’t think you’re going to believe me when I tell you why I was expecting you. Unless of course, you’re open to a real psychic experience.”
I rested my hands on the desk, palms down. “I want you to understand-I don’t believe in auras, or crystal balls or reading palms. Calling me a skeptic would indicate I have doubts about your psychic abilities. I would describe myself to be a total disbeliever. Should anyone ask, I’d describe you as a con man.”
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