The Enigmatologist (10 page)

“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 follow 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.

John swiveled often, unconsciously, toward the large
window at the end of the counter. Rosa’s
Restaurante
was a block away. It was getting dark, but John could see the light coming from
her window. He’d thought about her all day, the way she touched him and how,
when she did, it made his skin feel like lightening was shooting through it. He
thought about the way she walked and smelled and how she was the only woman
he’d met since graduation who knew what
enigmatology
was. Spinning toward the window, he wondered how he’d be able to see her again.

“You
gonna
wear out that stool,
you keep turning like that,” the sheriff said.

“What?”

“You got a thing for Rosa, don’t you?”

“What? No. What?” John said, denying it like a grade
school crush.

“You know what? I think she’s got a little something for
you, too. She’s usually pretty cold to guys, like she’s got something more
important to do. It’s this restaurant a hers, it takes up all a her time. I
always tell her, ‘life is short’. She needs to have some fun. You know, she
closes up every night.” The sheriff checked his watch. “We’ll probably get
outta here just in time.”

“In time for what?”

“For you to go talk to her.”

John sipped his beer and turned again toward the window.
The diner had emptied. Julio shredded potatoes for the breakfast hash browns,
getting ready to close. John leaned back against the counter, peeled the label
from his beer in thin strips. He would be returning to Denver in the morning,
to his job, to the unfinished crossword puzzle, and all the puzzles he had yet
to struggle with at the kitchen table in his mom’s apartment, head in his
hands, a half-finished PBR Tall Boy leaving a ring on his scratch paper,
another night of questioning why his inventiveness had dissolved. That was what
waited for him, the bleak and vanishing prospects of the frustrated artist. But
across the street, Rosa’s
Restaurante
glowed
invitingly.

“Fuck it.” John stood and chugged the rest of his beer. He
threw a twenty on the counter and jogged to the door.

The sheriff laughed, clapping his hands. “Hey, Julio! Look
at this
sonuvabitch
.”

“Be sure to get me a receipt,” John said, backing out the
door. He flipped the sheriff off with both hands, then ran across the street.

Outside, the sun was setting. A slight breeze coming off
the mountains blew thin dirt. Dust reflected light from street lamps like a
thin layer of dirty fog.

Everything in the plaza was closed or closing, but a
couple of the restaurants were still seating. John sprinted across the empty street
to the only restaurant that mattered.

Rosa’s
Restaurante
.

The
paper work, the files needing to be read, the forms requiring an authorizing
signature, were organized into neat piles on Colonel Hollister’s particle board
computer desk. The desk had been hastily assembled using Scandinavian
instructions and an Allen wrench, and wobbled when he would put his weight on
it, used it as a crutch to help him rise from his padded folding chair.

Colonel Hollister rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted,
running two operations, being the senior administrator at the Los Alamos
research facility and overseeing the investigation into
The National
Enquirer’s
photo. This wasn’t a problem when he was younger, when he was
constantly invigorated by his charismatic apprentice. White haired and past
retirement age, he now wished there was someone else who could take over the
field operations and he could go back to his lab and tinker and experiment with
everything he’d collected. There had been someone who could have succeeded him,
but that person had been taken from him.

How long had it been? almost forty years since Elvis died?
And there were still so many questions. He hoped that when they found this
impersonator, and they would find him, it was just a matter of time, that he
would be able to answer some of them.

Colonel Hollister had suspicions about him, who he really
was, where he came from. His suspicions were deepened by the fact that the
impersonator didn’t exist four years ago. Since Elvis’s death in 1977, the Air
Force had been compiling information on Elvis impersonators, looking for people
with a specific connection to Elvis. They had extensive dossiers on every Elvis
impersonator that either was or had been professionally employed. And when they
intercepted Mrs. Morris’s photo, they discovered that the man in it was not in
their registry.

Colonel Hollister picked up a picture that sat on the edge
of his desk. He and Elvis had just come from a meeting with the Joint Chiefs.
The meeting, like all their meetings, was held in secret at an undisclosed
location, which was usually a barbeque joint in midtown Memphis. It was one of
Elvis’s favorite restaurants. He would sit at a large table, elbows on the red
and white checkered vinyl table cloth, a plastic bib around his neck, slurping
pork off rib bones, nodding and talking through his barbeque-sauce-covered
face. In the picture, Elvis and Colonel Hollister are leaving the restaurant.
Colonel Hollister is carrying a to-go bag and Elvis is teasing him about not
being able to finish his meal while asking for the leftovers. A tourist from
Iceland happened to be walking by and had taken the picture. He was arrested,
his camera seized. He died in a secret prison in Tunisia. His family searched
for him for years, but all records of him had disappeared. The restaurant had
closed since then. It was a shame. They really had good barbeque.

Someone knocked on his door, bringing him back from his
dry rubbed and hickory smoked memories.

“Uh, sir,” a young analyst said, sticking his head in the
door, “we have a hit, sir.”

Colonel Hollister brought a skeleton crew, two analysts,
two Special Forces officers, and his personal assistant to Las Vegas, the idea
being that Los Alamos was only a few hours away, and if needed, a small,
armored platoon could be there quickly. They had set up their command center in
a foreclosed house on Delores Street, a block and a half from the Elvis
impersonator’s trailer. The house had been purchased through a shell bank they
used to fund their black ops. Colonel Hollister had claimed the master bedroom
for his office. He spent most of his time there, even sleeping on a small
mattress and sleeping bag in the corner. The living room had been transformed
into a command hub by the analysts who’d filled it with computer screens that
showed images from around and inside the trailer park. They had also placed
cameras all around the block, and were close enough that if the Elvis
impersonator came home, or anyone snooped around his trailer, they could
mobilize in seconds.

“Well then, Private Ramsey,” Colonel Hollister said,
standing and pushing his chair under his desk, making sure its cushioned back
was perpendicular to the mahogany-finished plane, “alert the men. Put them on
standby.”

“Yes, sir.” Private Ramsey ran to his station and sat next
to another analyst, Private
Mulworth
. Both men were
interchangeable, same close-cropped hair, same pink, eager faces.

Colonel Hollister tried to hide his grin, striding into
the room. He had wondered how long it would take for the impersonator to return
home. He trusted John to be like a typical Abernathy, accepting an assignment,
then inexplicably sympathize with the enemy. So he wasn’t surprised when John
lied to him, had said that the impersonator had quit his job, left town.
Despite John’s attempted deception, Colonel Hollister was confident the
impersonator wouldn’t leave just yet. He had known many impersonators while
Elvis was alive, and none of them knew when to get off the stage.

Colonel Hollister stood behind Private Ramsey, leaning
over, one hand on the desk, the other on the back of Private Ramsey’s chair.
The curtains were drawn and their faces glowed green from the monitors.

“What’s the
sitrep
?” Colonel
Hollister asked.

“It’s a truck, sir,” Private Ramsey said, “registered to a
Steve Johnson. The same Steve Johnson that the trailer’s registered to.”

“And now he’s come home,” Colonel Hollister said, crossing
his arms. “You’ve been tracking his movements, I assume.”

“Yes, sir. You asked us to reposition the satellites,
follow the Abernathy subject. We tracked him to a lumberyard. This truck left
several minutes after your phone conversation with the subject ended. Per your
orders, we followed the truck.”

“That was a half an hour ago. Where’s he been?”

“Liquor store, sir.”

“Of course.”

“We have surveillance footage of him leaving Harry
Mann Liquors
with a thirty rack. That’s
thirty cans of beer, sir.”

“I know what a thirty rack is,” Colonel Hollister said,
thinking of long nights at Graceland, body doubles passed out on couches, empty
cans and half crushed diet pills on the coffee table.

“And he was carrying a sack, possibly of some hard
liquor.”

“He must be planning on sticking around. Can you verify it
was him? Credit card transaction?”

“No, sir. We’re assuming he paid cash.”

“Of course he did. Trying to be clever, staying off the
grid. If I didn’t know better I’d say this Steve Johnson didn’t exist,” Colonel
Hollister said, sharing a rare joke with his men. He knew that the analysts, to
pass the time, created back stories about the trailer park residents,
speculating about their jobs, whether they’d ever been arrested for stealing
airplane glue, if their first sexual experience happened at the same time as
their first DUI arrest. It was their favorite game. They continued it after they’d
vetted everyone who lived there, their fantasies being more interesting than
the truth, that the trailer park was occupied by dull and uninspired people.

Private Ramsey laughed uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure if
Colonel Hollister knew they played that game about him as well. The current bet
was that their colonel was assigned to show Elvis around Area 51 and was
demoted when Elvis was caught having a three-way with some prostitutes on an
alien spacecraft, Elvis having asked them to wear glow-in-the-dark alien masks.
That’s why he had been assigned to work in Los Alamos, and why they were in Las
Vegas, New Mexico watching a trailer park. Being new to the unit and not having
the proper security clearance, the analysts didn’t know that this story was
actually true, except Los Alamos wasn’t Colonel Hollister’s punishment, it was
his promotion.

“Where is he now?” Colonel Hollister asked.

“A couple of blocks away. Alamo and Chavez, sir.”

“Perfect. When he gets into camera range, I want a close
up, a nice picture of this Steve Johnson.”

Colonel Hollister stood back and crossed his arms,
satisfied. Soon they would have him, whoever he was, and Colonel Hollister
would get answers to questions that had kept him from sleeping soundly for
forty years. He never understood how Elvis could just die like that. One day
he’s a vibrant, vigorous man, the next he’s dead with his pants around his
ankles. It didn’t make sense. Someone must have learned what Elvis was really
doing, why he had all those body doubles performing for him, why he let himself
be perceived as a drug-and-woman-crazed lunatic, and decided he was a threat to
their machinations. Someone assassinated Elvis. There was only one group
Colonel Hollister could think of that would be threatened by Elvis. The same group
Colonel Hollister had been hunting his entire life, the same group he recruited
Elvis to hunt alongside him.

“Sir,” Private Ramsey said, “we have the truck coming into
range.”

Colonel Hollister stepped closer to the monitor. He
squinted at the pixilated image of a truck driving up Alamo Street. The image
on the screen was in black and white and he couldn’t tell if it was the same
truck he saw in satellite images or just another one of the beat-up pick-ups that
seemed to infest this town.

The truck drove past the expertly-placed lens, but the
driver’s face was blurred. Private Ramsey switched angles to a camera that was
attached to a telephone pole across from the trailer park. The night before, it
had captured the image of a hooded man leaving the park, a perfect view of his
face. It helped that the guy had looked right at it. Private Ramsey hoped that
the driver would look into what he was starting to call his ‘lucky camera’. But
the window was up, and they saw a faded reflection of the gas station where
they bought microwaveable jalapeño poppers and energy drinks.

He switched to a camera attached to the gate leading into
the trailer park. They had to replace this one every few weeks. Some of the
local kids discovered it and ripped it down, using it to film homemade zombie
movies. Private Ramsey routinely changed its positions and camouflage, hoping
it would remain undetected. Now it hung from a tree growing next to the
mailboxes, hidden in a birdhouse shaped like a 1920’s Craftsman home with
purple walls, white roof and trim. Private Ramsey had found it at a yard sale
and hoped none of the neighborhood kids would think to look for one of his
cameras in it.

The truck turned into the trailer park and stopped in
front of a row of mailboxes. The driver pulled some mail out of a box, flipped
through a few bills, junk mail, a
pennysaver
, and
tossed them on the truck’s floor. He shifted into drive, but waited, his hands
on the wheel, like he was thinking about something. He backed up until he was
even with the birdhouse and stared at it like he was contemplating its
existence. An open beer can sat in the cup holder. The man took a sip, leaned
back, sighed. Then he hurled the half-full beer at the birdhouse. The coat
hanger holding it to the tree rocked and slipped off the branch, and the
birdhouse fell to the ground and shattered.

The camera feed stopped.

“Rewind a couple of frames,” Colonel Hollister said.

Private Ramsey tapped at his keyboard. The birdhouse rose
from the ground. The beer can flew into the driver’s hand, and his slightly
blurred image stared into the camera. Private Ramsey outlined the window and
cut away everything else. He zoomed in and adjusted the resolution. The image
resembled different colored blocks, but, with a few key strokes, Private Ramsey
smoothed it out, revealing the man’s face.

When the truck turned down Alamo Street, everyone had
certain assumptions about the driver’s appearance, that he would look like an
Elvis impersonator, but what they saw failed to fulfill those expectations. He
had short, gray hair, no sideburns. His skin was wrinkled with red splotches,
like he had been drinking in the park and passed out under the sun everyday for
most of his life. His nose was large and thin veins spread across it. And he
was short. Elvis was six feet tall, without platform shoes. This man appeared
to be 5’5”, his seat pulled close to the steering wheel.

“
Goddamnit
,” Colonel Hollister
said, hitting the desk with his hand. He turned his back to the monitor, hands
on his hips.

“That was a waste of time,” Private Ramsey said.