Elvis Sightings

By Ricardo Sanchez

I'm Floydno last name needed, thanksand I'm a P.I. The only other thing you need to know about me is that I'm not an Elvis impersonator. I live my life fast and hard and yes, in sequined jumpsuits, but more importantly I live my life the way Elvis would have wanted me to. Honestly. With integrity.

It was a tip that the King was still alive and living under an assumed name that brought me to Kresge, Wyoming. But there's something bigger than Elvis happening out here. I've been beaten bloody by an acrobatic bartender, roped into the search for a missing councilman, fallen for a bearded lady, and threatened by men in black who really don't want me poking my nose into the town's business. Half of my leads look like dead celebrities. The other half are either refugees from a broken-down circus or spear-holding Viking wannabes.

I'm in Crazytown, USA, but I can't leave. Not yet. If I don't find the missing councilman soon, Kresge will be turned into a Danish-themed amusement park. I've never been so close to finding Elvis. And I need to know if my new self-appointed sidekick James Morrison is really who he claims to be

81,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781426899072

Ricardo Sanchez

Ricardo is a fiction and comic book writer. He's written Legends of the Dark Knight, Teen Titans Go!, Resident Evil, Line of Defense, Nier, RIFT and End of Nations for DC Entertaiment. His short story Death and Life of the Hero appeared in Gods of Justice and was turned into a successfully funded Kickstarter graphic novel. You can connect with Ricardo on Twitter @rickzilla and at his blog, Ricardo-Sanchez.com, or visit ElvisSightings.com for the latest on his new mystery series.

Book preview

Chapter One

Call me Floyd. I have a last name, but nobody can pronounce it. I don’t even put it on my business cards. Those just say, Floyd: Private Detective.

Professional snooping is what brought me to Reno, a city I hate like some people hate spiders. But when Buddy called after almost a year of silence and asked me to drop everything to get proof that some guy was cheating on his wife, I quit the bail jumping case I was working and hit the highway. Elvis once said, friends can never be family, but sometimes they’re a whole lot more. He could have been describing the way I feel about Buddy. So I found myself lurking in the vending room of a sleazy motel with a camera in my hand, waiting to get some shots of my target.

People have an idea in their heads about P.I. work. That it’s glamorous or exciting. I blame TV. Hollywood could make mopping floors look fun. Truth is, detective work is like any other job.

I was on a long stakeout once and made a list of criteria you would need to meet to make it as a TV detective. Top of the list is a cool car. Magnum had a Ferrari, Rockford a Firebird. Me, I drive a ten-year-old Ford Taurus, bought secondhand. But you know what? I like my car. It’s reliable. If it does break down, any mechanic anywhere can fix it. And it blends in. Nobody notices a taupe sedan with a fading paint job. Ever.

The only info Buddy had given me on my target was a detailed description of his car and when he would be in Reno. That wouldn’t normally be enough to go on, but this guy drove a pimped up ’70s Camaro. Cherry red and loud as thunder. It just took a few bribed valets and an hour of cruising the casino parking lots to find it. All I had to do next was park nearby and wait. The dude eventually came out of the Golden Horseshoe with a tall skinny blonde of the large-breasted variety on his arm and I followed them to the Mermaid Motel.

There’s more to being a TV sleuth than a set of wheels of course. A quirky sidekick or partner helps, or having a buddy on the force. I have neither because I like working alone. It’s a lot less awkward when you’re trying to get photos of a philandering Camaro-driving jerk, or Phil as I’d come to think of him, putting his, uh, nose, where it doesn’t belong.

I raised the viewfinder of my PENTAX and pointed the lens out the window of the vending room. The Camaro was parked a few spaces away from the lobby. Phil had parked it diagonally across two spaces to prevent anyone from getting too close to it with their doors. Made me dislike him even more.

It had started to rain while Phil was inside the office getting a room. Fat, heavy drops were coming down in a light shower. The blonde in the passenger seat was grimacing at the rain as she primped her hair. A good photo op. I zoomed in and snapped a few shots. Still no sign of Phil, so I stepped back from the window and listened to the tuneless humming of the ice machine while I waited.

A few more things separate real-life detectives from their fictionalized counterparts. On TV, P.I.s live somewhere cool, like a billionaire’s guest house, or Albuquerque. Spenser’s place was an old firehouse and it doesn’t get better than that. I’m based in Pocatello, Idaho, same city where I was born, and there is exactly one thing Pocatelloians have to brag about—we are the world’s largest supplier of french fries to McDonald’s.

The TV-inspired misconceptions that snoops such as myself are always packing heat and tripping over dead bodies like cracks in the sidewalk are the dumbest ones. I am happy to inform you that I have never seen a dead body that wasn’t dressed up in Sunday best, varnished and carefully displayed in a casket. I’ve also never fired a gun, let alone owned one, and I’ve been doing detective work since I was a teenager.

I don’t care that being a private eye isn’t as exciting as it seems on TV. I love my job and I’m proud of what I do. But it is just a job. Buddy told me something once when I was nine or ten that has always stuck with me: Work doesn’t make the man. It’s how you live. He was quoting Elvis when he told me that. I decided a long time ago he was right.

I checked the number of shots left on the film load. Say what you will about digital cameras, but there’s simply no replacing 35mm film and a fast lens for night shooting.

The door to the vending room opened while I was fiddling with my camera and I had a brief moment of panic that Phil or The Blonde were on the way in. I breathed a small sigh of relief when I saw a wizened old man in a green flannel robe standing in the doorway with a hotel ice bucket.

He squinted his bloodshot eyes as he looked me over.

Hello, I said, and smiled at him.

It’s hard to act nonchalant when you’re in a hotel vending room wearing a sequined jumpsuit with a camera in your hand, but I thought I pulled it off.

You supposed to be Elvis or sumthin’? he grumbled. The cigarette stuck between his lips bounced as he spoke.

Floyd.

Back off, ya fuckin’ freak, he said, raising a palsied hand and pointing his shaking finger at me.

This is why I hate Reno.

Mr. Wizened opened the top to the ice machine and dunked his bucket, letting Little Mr. Wizened out. Damn Elvis impersonators make me sick, he spat, knocking an inch long tube of ash from his cigarette into the machine. Bucket filled, he gave me one last disgusted glare and let himself out.

For the record, I am not an Elvis impersonator, I am a Lifestyle Elvis. There’s a difference. Yes, I wear a cape. And yes, it invites questions. It even makes it harder to do my job sometimes. But I’ve been dressing like Elvis since I was six and I’m not stopping now. Say what you will, but Elvis did have it right when it came to clothes. Jumpsuits are comfortable. You don’t have to worry about matching your shirt and pants. And contrary to popular belief, they’re functional. Most of them have lots of pockets, which is very helpful for a P.I. The one I had on was a powder blue one-piece with a gold lace-embroidered V-neck and cuffs. Not too showy, but still a bit of flair.

I put Mr. Wizened out of my mind and took a look out the vending room door. Phil was standing under the shelter of the lobby’s overhang, holding up a key and a bottle of whiskey.

I raised my camera and fired off a few frames as The Blonde got out of the Camaro and ran, rather ungracefully I might add, through the rain and into Phil’s waiting arms. I captured everything on film as she rubbed up against him, took a hit off of the bottle, coughed, grabbed Phil by the hand and led him up the concrete steps to the second floor rooms. I even got a few good stills of Phil standing halfway inside room 22, looking around to make sure no one was watching.

The ironic thing about jilted spouses is that even though they are suspicious enough to hire me, and I can show them pictures of their beloved going into a hotel room with a strange man or woman, they almost always convince themselves that there is a benign explanation for this activity. I’ve heard it all, from That looks just like his brother, to Maybe she’s planning a romantic weekend and wanted to see the room first. This is where the Peeping Tom part of the job comes in. I used to feel a little guilty about taking pictures of people during their most private moments. I don’t anymore. No one, not even the most self-deluded spouse, can argue with action photography. Infidelity can have devastating effects on a husband or wife, but not knowing for sure is worse. Providing the knowledge that the love of my client’s life is a cheater is an incredibly valuable service. So, guilt gone, I take pictures that would make Hefner blush.

Elvis once told a reporter that patience gets better results than impatience, which makes me think that maybe he’d have made a good private detective. You can’t rush up to a room and start trying to snap shots right after a couple goes in. If they have even half a brain between them, they’re usually still a little nervous about getting caught. For the first fifteen minutes or so, a cheating couple is excited, giggling and hyper aware of their surroundings. Then biology—or lust, if you prefer—takes over, and they get on to what they came for. That’s when you can walk right up to a window and take whatever pictures you want, in full view, without being noticed. Speaking of which, Phil’s fifteen minutes were up.

If you’re ever going to cheat on your spouse in a cheap motel, let me offer you a piece of advice. Always, always check the curtains. My guess is they are shabby and don’t quite fit right, leaving gaps for any nosy parker to look through. The truth is there are a lot of Peeping Toms out there without my altruistic motives, and you can usually find them meticulously checking every window in a place like the Mermaid. People don’t go there for the continental breakfast.

I doubt these two checked the curtains in room 22 at all, because there was at least a three-inch gap between the shades, giving me a perfectly framed shot of the bed, Phil, and The Blonde. Who, as it turns out, is not a natural blonde at all.

The next morning I took the photos to a discreet one-hour place I know and called the number Buddy had given me.

Hello, a woman answered.

I’m calling for Buddy.

Is this...Señor Floyd? She had a distinct Hispanic accent.

Yes.

And did you get the proof?

I could hear the eagerness in her voice.

I don’t discuss my cases, I told her.

Uh-huh, she replied. Buddy can’t get to the phone right now. He’d like you to come out and see him.

She gave me an address on a rural route outside of Sparks, Nevada, a one gas station kind of town about sixty miles from Reno, but as good a place as any for Buddy to park his truck. With the pictures in hand, I was on my way.

It was a dull drive filled with sagebrush and dirt, so my thoughts quickly turned to Buddy. He probably knows more about Elvis than Elvis does, and over the years he’d turned all that trivia into a philosophy rooted in the words and deeds of the King. Buddy has an Elvis quote for just about any situation, but his favorite is Do what’s right for you as long as it don’t hurt no one, a motto I’ve taken to heart. It’s because of Buddy that I’m a Lifestyle Elvis. There aren’t a lot of us, but it’s a growing movement, getting bigger every year. Most Lifestylers channel their inner Elvis privately, but I wear him on my sleeve. The jumpsuits and half capes pretty much give it away. So, like I said, being a Lifestyle Elvis is not the same as being an Elvis impersonator. Impersonating is performing. Lifestyling is more like abiding by the code of the 4-H or the Boy Scouts.

My turn-off was coming up so I shifted my attention back to the highway. Blink doing 75 and you can completely miss the unpaved lanes that pass for roads out here. Not this one, though. The exit off Interstate 80 was marked with a large wooden sign cut in the shape of a pork rind. Pritchard Rind Ranch was spelled out inside a circle of flaking black paint, with a picture of a happy cartoon pig eating pork rinds in the center.

I hit the brakes and stared at that sign.

Pritchard Pork Rinds are legendary in the Elvis community. Both because Vernon Pritchard, the reclusive owner of the company, is rumored to be a Lifestyler himself and because they were Elvis’s favorite brand. Buddy always had a case of them in the cab of his eighteen-wheeler, despite his fervid dislike for all things pork. No bacon, no ham, no chops. It was the one thing about Elvis he just couldn’t relate to. He was always trying to get me to take a bag or two of the things when he came to see me and my momma, but the idea of eating fried pig skin is about as appealing to me as downing a lard sundae.

I didn’t know what the relationship between Phil, Pritchard Pork Rinds, and Buddy was, but seeing that sign brought back memories of the conversation that had driven us apart a year ago.

Buddy believes that Elvis is still alive and living under the name Jon Burrows. For all I know he’s right. But Buddy’d taken me on my first Burrows hunt when I was a teenager and I’d grown tired of following up on leads that went nowhere. Eighteen years of looking and Jon Burrows was still a ghost. The up side was that I’d developed a talent for detective work and our efforts had resulted in a nice side business for Buddy, buying and selling Elvis memorabilia. After my last assignment, checking on a lounge singer in Cincinnati that might have been Elvis and wasn’t, I told Buddy I was done. We fought. It was bad. He hung up. And that was it for a year, until he reached out to have me get dirt on Phil.

As much as I wanted to see Buddy again, I didn’t want to get pulled back into the search for Elvis. I thought about turning around, decided against it, and stepped on the gas. Besides, I wanted to know what Pritchard Pork Rinds had to do with a dick in a vintage Camaro.

Chapter Two

I turned off the highway onto a gravel access road. After a few miles, I came upon an electric fence penning in flocks of large, fuzzy, ostrichlike birds. They were pacing back and forth, letting out booming honks as I passed.

My drive finally came to an end at a large circular parking area closed off on three sides by a rustic wooden fence. A grand maple tree stood to one side of the circle, and I parked my Ford under its shady arms.

The red Camaro from the night before was parked across the circle from me. Several ranch hands were busy rubbing terrycloth towels over its spotless surface. Phil sat beneath a smaller maple directing their efforts from the shady comfort of his deck chair.

Dry it faster! Come on! I don’t want water spots!

I got out of my car and Phil stopped barking commands long enough to squint at me suspiciously. Then he rose from his chair, chest puffed out like one of those weird birds I’d passed on the way in, and bellowed at the help.

Hey! Don’t use the dirty towels! You’ll scratch the finish!

Alpha male status firmly established, Phil thrust his chin in my direction and grunted loudly in greeting.

I nodded back.

Asshole.

The screen door at the front of the house opened with a squeak of old hinges. An ancient-looking Mexican woman in a brightly colored skirt and blouse stepped out with what appeared to be a tall glass of iced lemonade. Her arms were thin and frail looking, but she held the glass steady as a rock.

Good morning! she said with a smile and a heavy, familiar accent. I am Louisa.

This was evidently the woman I’d spoken to on the phone.

It’s very nice to meet you Louisa, I’m—

Señor Floyd. I know. Buddy is expecting you. That is a lovely jumpsuit you are wearing.

Compliments on my apparel, although always appreciated, are fairly unusual the first time I meet someone. The fact that Louisa didn’t bat an eye at me must have been Buddy’s influence.

This jumpsuit—although it’s really more of an ensemble—is one of my favorites. It’s called the Black Fireworks Suit, and the black pants, black sash, and black jacket are adorned with gold sequins arranged in starbursts and arcing contrails. The patterns really do look like fireworks on a summer night. The sash has a large, gold-colored oval where the belt buckle would be, and gold chains coming from the sides and around the waist. A sequined black half cape with a crimson lining ties it all together.

It’s a replica of one Elvis wore on the ’71 national tour, I told her.

Well you’re simply dashing in it, Señor Floyd. Would you like a nice drink to cool you down?

I’d love one, I admitted, and accepted the sweaty glass from her.

Phil saw the lemonade in my hand and yelled out, Hey, Lucy, bring me a glass of that, will you?

I took a sip. It was perfect. Icy cold, not too tart, not too sweet.

Did you hear something, Señor Floyd? The wind I think, Louisa said in a voice loud enough for Phil to hear.

I decided I liked her very much.

She continued to ignore Phil’s calls for lemonade and disappeared back into the cool darkness of the house with a curt come with me. The old springs on the screen door pulled it closed with a bang behind me.

The foyer of the Pritchard Ranch had wood-paneled walls hung with oil paintings. I stopped to admire an abstract portrait of a chubby naked woman. Picasso was scrawled in the lower corner. The one next to it I can only describe as some sort of astral wedding ceremony. It was signed Chagall.

Louisa watched me examine the paintings.

Are these—? I asked.

She just smiled and said, Investments. This way, Señor Floyd.

At the end of the hall was a sunken living room with a spectacular view of the back half of the Pritchard estate. Pork rinds had obviously been a very lucrative business.

When did you last see Buddy? Louisa asked me.

It’s been a while, I admitted.

She patted my cheek.

Go down the hall. He’s in the room on the right. Try not to get him too excited, okay?

I knocked on the door she’d pointed to.

Come in, I heard Buddy say.

I let myself into an infirmary. Complex medical equipment mounted to the walls monitored Buddy’s pulse, blood pressure and who knows what else. Buddy was sitting in a hospital bed with a book in his lap and an IV line running from under his collar to a bag hanging from a pole behind the bed. More IV bags filled a rack of stainless-steel shelves.

The last time I had seen Buddy he’d looked fine. A bit thin, but fine. He’d lost at least half his weight since then. His normally ruddy, clean-shaven face was gaunt, pale and covered with patchy stubble. White crud had built up in the corners of his mouth, and his lips were dry and cracked. The kind brown eyes were the same, though.

It is good to see you again, boy, Buddy said.

His voice was raspy and thick, like he had a sore throat.

What’s going on? I asked, still trying to understand what I was looking at.

I got liver cancer, Floyd.

How long? I asked, stunned.

How long I had it, or how long I got left?

Both, I guess.

I’ve known for six months, Buddy told me. Doc says I’m about done. Could be days. Could be weeks. But not longer. Tumors are all over my body, in my guts, my lungs, eating me up. He paused and frowned. Don’t look at me that way, boy. Like Elvis said, ‘Ain’t nothing you can do about death and taxes.’ Now pull up a chair and let’s have a chat.

Why didn’t you tell me? I asked, sitting down next to him.

You’ve lost enough people already. Didn’t want you burdened with this.

I’m sorry. About our fight, I said. I wish you would have called me sooner.

Me too, boy, he said wearily.

I sat, looking at him, not knowing what to say. Elvis had brought us together and then driven us apart. Elvis was big on forgiveness, though, so I had always believed Buddy and I would make amends. I just didn’t think it would be to say goodbye.

Hey, you see them crazy birds? he asked finally.

Yeah, I did. Ostriches?

Uh-uh. Emus. Guess they make good eating, but I wouldn’t know. They crap all over the place. Practically wallow in it. Then, to himself, he added, Worse than pigs. Don’t know how the hell Elvis could eat those things.

There was another moment of awkward silence while the two of us struggled for something other than Buddy’s cancer to talk about.

Did I ever tell you about the time I met Him? he asked. His eyes sparkled with anticipation. It was his favorite story, and he had told it to me. Dozens of times. And he knew it.

No, I don’t think so, I said.

Buddy looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and remembered.

This was November, ’77, he began. I still owned the guitar shop in Boise. Elvis had just died a few months before. Your dad had passed, too. You would have been eight then?

Six, I corrected him.

That’s right. And already dressing up like Elvis. Boy that made your momma happy. My heart just wasn’t in it anymore, so I decided to close the store. I’d sold almost everything when a fella in a white suit and Panama hat came in. Told me his name was Jon Burrows, and he was looking for a Gibson Dove. I had one. In fact, it was just like the one Elvis used on tour. That six-string had the darkest ebony finish you ever saw. I even lacquered a Kenpo badge next to the bridge the same way Elvis had done. Your dad used to play that Gibson for you and your mom and sing Elvis tunes. I think that’s why she liked seeing her little man dressed up.

Buddy stopped his story to cough and pointed to a glass of water sitting just out of his reach on the nightstand.

Give me a little of that, would ya?

I held the glass for him as he sipped from the straw.

Thanks, he said, motioning the glass away. The cancer drugs make me thirsty as hell but I can’t hardly keep anything down. Anyway, this fella took one look at that Gibson and said to me, ‘Buddy, you got to let me buy that guitar.’ Problem was, that’s the only one I wouldn’t sell. I wanted you to have it when you got older. So I apologized to this fella that he couldn’t have it and told him about you and your dad. He thought about that, then told me to hold on a minute while he got something out of his car. I was afraid he was going to come back in with a gun.

Buddy usually punctuated this story with a laugh when he mentioned the gun, but it was another burst of coughing that interrupted it this time. I gave him some more water and when his hacking settled down, he continued.

The fella came back with a roll of hundred dollar bills and a photograph. He put that roll on my counter and said, ‘Buddy, there’s five grand.’ Then he set the picture down beside it. It was an autographed photo of Elvis with a note beneath the signature. You know what it said?

What did the note say, Buddy? I asked on cue.

He smiled.

"It said, ‘Obey your momma, live a clean life, and do what’s right for you as long as it don’t hurt no one.’ Then the fella looked me in the eye and said, ‘Sounds to me like that boy could use Elvis’s advice and his momma could use the money. And I sure could use that guitar. What do you say?’

"Well I thought about it. He was right. About you and your

Reviews for Elvis Sightings

[kykim-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Elvis Sightings (An Elvis Sightings Mystery) by Ricardo Sanchez is about a private investigator named Floyd, who is a Lifestyle Elvis, not an Elvis impersonator. Yes he dresses in sequined jumpsuits like Elvis wore and is often mistaken for an impersonator, but is quick to let you know the difference. He has spent a great amount of time in the past searching for Elvis, as a close friend is a big Elvis fan also who doesn't believe that Elvis is dead. After another tip that Elvis may be alive and living under an assumed name in Kresge, Wyoming, he is off on the hunt again. What he finds there, is a sidekick who wants to help him with the search, and who has a very strange story to tell himself. Leaving Floyd wondering what kind of place is this town, especially after meeting some of the occupants. The author has created a great group of characters who live in Kresge. One of my favorites is Goliath, a small person, who runs the bar. As you visit Kresge with Floyd, you will also be wandering what are the secrets this town is trying to hide, and what kind of place is this. There is a lot of Elvis trivia throughout the book for Elvis fans, you might learn something about Elvis that you didn't know.I received an ARC (advanced readers copy) of this book from NetGallery in exchange for my honest review rather it be good or bad. Thank you.