“But you’re gonna keep a watch on him?” I asked.
“Only because you’ve never been wrong. I’ll park somebody over there this evening, pin a tail on this Mr. Robertson.”
“I wish you could do more,” I said.
“Son, this is the United States of America. Some would say it’s unconstitutional to try to prevent psychopaths from fulfilling their potential.”
Sometimes the chief can amuse me with that kind of cynical-cop patter. This wasn’t one of those occasions.
I said, “This one’s really bad, sir. This guy, when I picture his face in my mind…I get spiders down the spine.”
“We’re watching him, son. Can’t do more than that. Can’t just go to Camp’s End and shoot him.” The chief gave me a peculiar look and added, “Neither can you.”
“Guns scare me,” I assured him.
The chief looked over toward the swimming pool and said, “He still walking the water?”
“No, sir. He’s standing next to Lysette, looking down her blouse and crying.”
“That’s nothing to cry about,” the chief said, and winked.
“The crying has nothing to do with Lysette. He’s just in a mood today.”
“What about? Elvis never struck me as weepy.”
“People change when they die. It’s traumatic. He’s like this from time to time, but I don’t know for sure what the trouble is. He doesn’t try to explain himself to me.”
Clearly, the chief was dismayed by the image of Presley weeping. “Is there anything I can do for him?”
“That’s thoughtful of you, sir, but I don’t see what anyone can really do. From what I’ve observed on other occasions, my sense of it is…he misses his mother, Gladys, and wants to be with her.”
“As I recall, he was especially fond of his mama, wasn’t he?”
“He adored her,” I said.
“Isn’t she dead, too?”
“Much longer than he’s been, yes.”
“Then they’re together again, aren’t they?”
“Not as long as he’s reluctant to let go of this world. She’s over there in the light, and he’s stuck here.”
“Why won’t he move on?”
“Sometimes they have important unfinished business here.”
“Like little Penny Kallisto this morning, leading you to Harlo Landerson.”
“Yes, sir. And sometimes they just love this world so much they don’t want to leave it.”
The chief nodded. “This world sure was good to him.”
“If it’s unfinished business, he’s had more than twenty-six years to take care of it,” I noted.
The chief squinted toward Lysette Rains, trying to see some smallest evidence of her spirit companion—a wisp of ectoplasm, a vague distortion of the air, a quiver of mystical radiance. “He made some great music.”
“Yes, he did.”
“You tell him he’s always welcome here.”
“I will, sir. That’s kind of you.”
“Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’ve got a date.”
“With Stormy, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir. My destiny.”
“You’re a smooth operator, Odd. She must love to hear you say that—‘my destiny.’”
“I love to hear me say it.”
The chief put his arm around my shoulders and walked me to the gate at the north side of the house. “Best thing that can happen to a man is a good woman.”
“Stormy is beyond just good.”
“I’m happy for you, son.” He lifted the latch and opened the gate for me. “Don’t you worry about this Bob Robertson. We’ll dog him, but so he doesn’t suspect we’re watching. He tries to make a wrong move, we’ll be all over him.”
“I’ll worry just the same, sir. He’s a very bad man.”
When I got to the Mustang, Elvis was already sitting in the passenger’s seat.
The dead don’t need to walk where they want to go—or ride in a car, for that matter. When they choose to walk or cruise the streets, they’re motivated by nostalgia.
From the poolside party to the Mustang, he had changed out of the clothes from Blue Hawaii. Now he was wearing black slacks, a dressy tweed sport coat, white shirt, black tie, and black pocket handkerchief, an outfit from (as Terri Stambaugh later told me) It Happened at the World’s Fair.
Driving away from the Porter house, we listened to “Stuck on You,” as infectious a tune as ever the King recorded.
Elvis rapped out the rhythm on his knees and bobbed his head, but the tears kept flowing.
FIFTEEN
IN DOWNTOWN PICO MUNDO, AS WE WERE PASSING a church, Elvis indicated that he wanted me to pull to the curb.
When I stopped the car, he held out his right hand to me. His grip was as real and warm as Penny Kallisto’s.
Instead of shaking my hand, he clasped it in both of his. Maybe he was simply thanking me, but it seemed like more than that.
He appeared to be worried about me. He gently squeezed my hand, staring intensely at me with evident concern, and then squeezed my hand again.
“It’s all right,” I said, although I had no idea whether that was in any way an adequate response.
He got out of the car without opening the door—just phased through it—and walked up the steps of the church. I watched until he passed through the heavy oak doors and out of sight.
My dinner date with Stormy wasn’t until eight o’clock, so I had time to kill.
Keep busy, Granny Sugars used to say, even if with poker, fighting, and fast cars, because idleness will get you in worse trouble.
Even lacking Grandma’s advice, I couldn’t just have gone to my rendezvous point with Stormy and waited for her. With nothing else to occupy my mind, I’d dwell on Bob Robertson and his demonic files.
Cruising away from the church, I phoned P. Oswald Boone, he of the four hundred pounds and the six-fingered left hand.
Little Ozzie answered on the second ring. “Odd, my beautiful cow exploded.”
“Exploded?”
“Boom,” said Little Ozzie. “One minute all is right with the world, and the next minute your fabulous cow is blown to bits.”
“When did this happen? I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Exactly two hours and twenty-six minutes ago. The police have been here and gone, and I believe that even they, with all their experience of criminal savagery, were shocked by this.”
“I just saw Chief Porter, and he didn’t mention it.”
“After they left here, the responding officers no doubt needed a stiff drink or two before writing their report.”
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
“I’m not bereft, because that would be a morally offensive overreaction, but I am sad.”
“I know how much you loved that cow.”
“I loved that cow,” he confirmed.
“I was thinking of coming over for a visit, but maybe this isn’t the best time.”
“This is the perfect time, dear Odd. Nothing is worse than being alone on the evening of the day when one’s cow has exploded.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I promised.
Little Ozzie lives in Jack Flats, which fifty years ago was called Jack Rabbit Flats, an area west and downhill from the historical district. I have no idea where the rabbit went.