Authors: Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective
Daniel Klein (13 page)
Squirm stole a quick glance at Elvis then lowered his eyes again.
“Anyhow, she got ahold of this book called
Making Whoopie
by some sex doctor. And it was full of all kinds of tricks for what he called, ârekindling the sexual fire.' Games and things. And one of them was this dress-up businessâpretending you are somebody else to make it feel fresh.”
Making Whoopie
by some sex doctor. And it was full of all kinds of tricks for what he called, ârekindling the sexual fire.' Games and things. And one of them was this dress-up businessâpretending you are somebody else to make it feel fresh.”
“So that's when you suggested she dress up like Holly?” Elvis said.
“No,” Squirm said. “I didn't even know who Holly was at that point. Never even seen her. But one day Nanette comes home with this schoolgirl get-upâlittle blouse and kilt and Mary Jane shoes. And to tell you the truth, it
did
turn me on. The sex doc was right, I guess.”
did
turn me on. The sex doc was right, I guess.”
It was the same kind of outfit that Nanette had seen Holly wear at the screen testâthe screen test where Nanette was caught on film plainly seething with envy over the young girl's body.
“And who's idea was it to call her âHolly' while you wereâ”
“Nanette's,” Squirm said. “Like I said, I didn't even meet Holly until months after Nanette brought home that schoolgirl get-up.”
“And when you
did
meet Holly ⦠?”
did
meet Holly ⦠?”
“She wasn't wearing anything like that when I met her, that's for sure,” Squirm said. “First time she came out to the shack she was wearing some clingy thing that didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination. Tell you the truth, I never did think it was strange that her name was âHolly,' like what Nanette wanted me to call her. It's a pretty common name. Just thought it was a coincidence.”
“You're telling the truth now, Squirm,” Elvis said softly.
“I swear,” Littlejon said.
“And why didn't you tell the truth on the stand?”
Squirm shrugged. “It just didn't seem like, you know, the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Even after Nanette had told the whole court that the games were your idea?”
“That's right, Mr. Presley,” Littlejon whispered.
“Well, you certainly are a gentleman, Squirm,” Regis said. “One hell of a gentleman.” These were the first words Regis had spoken since they entered the conference room, and there was not a trace of irony in his voice.
“One last thing,” Elvis said. “Did you know that Holly McDougal was carrying on business in the stunt shack-call-girl business?”
Squirm raised his head, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. “You got to be kidding. That girl was giving it away.”
“Only to special people,” Regis said.
It was almost eleven o'clock before Elvis and Regis were back on the road again, heading for L.A. Elvis had signed his autograph for each of the guardsâthe ex-marine actually produced a little red autograph bookâand then spent a few more minutes with Reardon discussing the possibility of casting Sidney Poitier as a death-row inmate. Elvis told him it was a fabulous idea, although this little charade was starting to make him feel kind of guilty.
Squirm's confession had given Elvis a strange feeling, part puzzlement, part disgust. God knows, there weren't any love songs out there about losing the desire to make love to the one you loved. No ballads about “rekindling the sexual fire,” no “Dress-up Game Rock.” Even if there were, he couldn't see himself singing them. Love was a pure and beautiful thing, not a psychological problem some sex doctor fixed up with a bag of tricks.
“So tell me, Regis, what was Nanette to SquirmâMadonna or whore?” Elvis kept his eyes on the road.
“Sounds like he tried to make her into both for a while there,” Regis replied. “He wasn't turned on by this person he'd grown to love as a genuine woman, so she had to pretend to be somebody else for that part. At least until he found himself Holly to be his concubine.”
Elvis shook his head. He wasn't buying it.
“In Europe, it's a way of life, at least for those who can afford it,” Regis went on. “A Frenchman has his wife for raising his family and going to church with. And then he's got his mistress for the other. It's the accepted thing.”
“Sounds like a lot of lying and cheating to me,” Elvis said.
“I know what you mean,” Regis said. “And that's why I dropped out of the whole game.”
Elvis drove in silence for several minutes.
“How come you know so much about Dr. Freud?” Elvis said finally.
“At one point in my life I was trying to cure myself,” Regis said.
“Of what?”
“Confusion,” Regis replied.
An Attraction of Genes
E
lvis slept for virtually the entire seven hours to Santa Teresa, only waking briefly to change from the commercial jet to a six-seater prop in Durango, then to a taxi and a bus in Tuxpap. Even though his ankle was no longer throbbing, he had taken an entire tablet of painkiller in Los Angeles Airport just in case it flared up again. In any event, the pill made the time pass pleasantly enough. It carried him off to a country of the mind where the landscape was unobstructed and there were no choices to be made.
lvis slept for virtually the entire seven hours to Santa Teresa, only waking briefly to change from the commercial jet to a six-seater prop in Durango, then to a taxi and a bus in Tuxpap. Even though his ankle was no longer throbbing, he had taken an entire tablet of painkiller in Los Angeles Airport just in case it flared up again. In any event, the pill made the time pass pleasantly enough. It carried him off to a country of the mind where the landscape was unobstructed and there were no choices to be made.
Dr. Hector Garcia was waiting for them at the Santa Teresa bus stop with a cup of piping hot
café con leche
in each hand, an amazing feat considering that the bus had arrived over an hour late. Garcia was a slight man with a graying goatee and glittering black eyes. His English was heavily accented, but perfectly understandable, Judge Lowenstein's ruling to the contrary. Elvis liked Garcia immediately.
café con leche
in each hand, an amazing feat considering that the bus had arrived over an hour late. Garcia was a slight man with a graying goatee and glittering black eyes. His English was heavily accented, but perfectly understandable, Judge Lowenstein's ruling to the contrary. Elvis liked Garcia immediately.
The instituto was only a short walk away. You could see it from the bus stop, a complex of pink missionary-style buildings in the midst of tin shacks, all surrounded by towering tropical mountains. Regis and Garcia walked ahead, talking animatedly in Spanish, while Elvis lingered behind, sipping his coffee and breathing in the fragrant jungle air. He felt like he had awakened from one dream into another. It was a bit like Hawaii here, but a whole lot wilder. He had never seen such starkly vibrant colors as in these tropical flowers and trees,
never moved through air so light and invisible, or experienced such profound silence. The faint sputter of the bus, now a good mile away, sounded grotesquely artificial, an affront to nature. For one delirious moment, Elvis could not remember exactly what had brought him here, but it did not matter in the least. He felt free and at peace. Why would a man want anything more than that?
never moved through air so light and invisible, or experienced such profound silence. The faint sputter of the bus, now a good mile away, sounded grotesquely artificial, an affront to nature. For one delirious moment, Elvis could not remember exactly what had brought him here, but it did not matter in the least. He felt free and at peace. Why would a man want anything more than that?
He followed Garcia and Regis into a building where the temperature immediately dropped and the noise level rose. Intense-looking young men and women in laboratory coats were scurrying through the corridors, clipboards and notebooks in hand. Some looked up and smiled, but most remained hunched over, jabbering to one another in Spanish at warp speed. Near the end of the corridor, Garcia stopped and pushed open a door, holding it for his guests.
If Santa Teresa was an explosion of nature in the raw, Dr. Hector Garcia's laboratory was a monument to the clean lines and sterile spaces wrought by the hand of man.
Another world within a world
, Elvis thought. Which one is real? Selma had once read him a Japanese fable about a man who dreams that he is a butterfly; when he awakes, he wonders if he is a butterfly dreaming that he is a man.
Another world within a world
, Elvis thought. Which one is real? Selma had once read him a Japanese fable about a man who dreams that he is a butterfly; when he awakes, he wonders if he is a butterfly dreaming that he is a man.
“Mr. Clifford, I wish you to meet my colleague, Dr. Suarez,” Garcia was saying.
A dark-haired woman in a lab coat offered her hand to Regis. Dr. Suarez was in her late thirties, olive-skinned, with an oval face and pronounced cheekbones. Elvis looked at Regis. The man looked positively stunned, as if he had just been stung by some narcotic jungle flower. The expression on the woman's face immediately changed too, softening and brightening at the same time. They took one another's hands and for one suspended moment, just stood there, looking at one another in nothing short of wonderment.
There was not a doubt in Elvis's mind about what was happening right in front of his eyes. By God, he was witnessing a man and a woman falling in love on the spot. It was a phenomenon that was exalted in hundreds of songsâhe'd sung a fair share of them himselfâbut he had never actually seen it happen before. The truth was,
he had always thought it was just another songwriter's fantasy, a dream to give the listeners hope, although Elvis believed that it actually made most listeners feel cheated by life.
I never fell in love like that
, they thought.
And I never will
.
he had always thought it was just another songwriter's fantasy, a dream to give the listeners hope, although Elvis believed that it actually made most listeners feel cheated by life.
I never fell in love like that
, they thought.
And I never will
.
But just a minute hereâ
Regis?
The man who had sworn off women? The man who seemed to hope for nothing more than a few hundred dollars and a bottle of Scotch? What the devil was going on here? Was it something in the tropical air? Had Dr. Garcia slipped Regis some potion he had concocted in his jungle laboratory? Elvis looked over at Garciaâhe looked just as startled and enchanted as Elvis was. Elvis felt his heart swell. Life seemed full of possibilities.
Regis?
The man who had sworn off women? The man who seemed to hope for nothing more than a few hundred dollars and a bottle of Scotch? What the devil was going on here? Was it something in the tropical air? Had Dr. Garcia slipped Regis some potion he had concocted in his jungle laboratory? Elvis looked over at Garciaâhe looked just as startled and enchanted as Elvis was. Elvis felt his heart swell. Life seemed full of possibilities.
“I am all set up for you, Mr. Presley,” Garcia said, gesturing toward a large stainless-steel apparatus at the far end of the laboratory.
Leaving Regis and Dr. Suarez talking softly to one another, Elvis followed Garcia to what turned out to be a high-intensity microscope. Garcia presented Elvis with a diagram that laid out his findings: not only had he separated the two emission samples from the victim's swab, but laterâ
after
the trialâhe had taken a third sample directly from Frederick Littlejon in prison. Garcia had done this on his own, not even telling Clifford about it. Dyed and magnified, Littlejon's sample matched one of those from the swabâthe more degraded emission; in other words, the
earlier
one. Garcia's conclusion was clear: Holly McDougal definitely had had sexual intercourse with the second man four to six hours
after she had been with Littlejon.
after
the trialâhe had taken a third sample directly from Frederick Littlejon in prison. Garcia had done this on his own, not even telling Clifford about it. Dyed and magnified, Littlejon's sample matched one of those from the swabâthe more degraded emission; in other words, the
earlier
one. Garcia's conclusion was clear: Holly McDougal definitely had had sexual intercourse with the second man four to six hours
after she had been with Littlejon.
“Please. I wish you to see with your own eyes,” Garcia said as he placed two glass slides onto the microscope stage. He guided Elvis to the binocular eyepieces. “On the left is Mr. Littlejon, on the right, the other man. The mystery man. Without doubt, the murderer.”
As Elvis gazed at the two circles filled with wormlike squiggles, he felt pleasantly dizzy. Here was yet another world within a world. If Man had been born with lenses like these for his eyes,
this
would
be his real world and the otherâfaces and mountains and treesâwould be the invisible world that only the scientists could see with their powerful tools.
this
would
be his real world and the otherâfaces and mountains and treesâwould be the invisible world that only the scientists could see with their powerful tools.
“Notice the length of the tails,” Garcia was saying. “Shorter, stubbier on the left. That is from age. These cells age by minutes and hours, not by years.”
One slide slipped away and another slid into view.
“DNA,” Garcia said. “The blueprint of all the cells in a body. These are Mr. Littlejon's. There is not another in the entire world of three billion people that is exactly like his.”
Elvis pulled back from the eyepieces and looked at Garcia. “Are you sure about all this, Doctor?”
“Very,” Garcia replied. “What you are looking at is infinitely more exact than a fingerprint. A strand of hair, a speck of tissue, a teardropâany one of these is enough to match with one human being and one only.”
Elvis felt his heart accelerate.
“So it's a done deal, Doc!” he blurted. “We got it all right hereâproof positive that Littlejon is innocent. Let's just pack it up and take it to a judge!”
Garcia responded with a rueful smile. “It is proof to us, but it is nothing in a court of law,” he said. “Not in any country. It seems my little laboratory in the middle of the jungle is, how you say, ahead of its time. But in our work, we learn patience. Perhaps in forty years, our findings will be acceptable as evidence.”
“In forty years Squirm will be an old man, Doctor.”
“That is true, Mr. Presley,” Garcia said. “It is also true that there are thousands of other people in prison for crimes they did not commit. And I could prove it so right now, but no one would believe me.”
“Guess we'll just have to set up our own little country then.” It was Regis speaking. He and Dr. Suarez had quietly stepped behind Elvis, and now Dr. Suarez was laughing softly at Regis's little witticism, the generous laugh of the devoted.
“Hold on,” Elvis said. “Does all this mean that you could match
the second emission with just one person, Doctor? With the murderer?”
the second emission with just one person, Doctor? With the murderer?”
“Yes, I could do that right now if I had a cell of the murderer. But I do not, of course. And, anyway, as I say, that would not mean anything in a court of law.
“But suppose we did get cells from other folks,” Elvis said. “You know, people we suspected. If you could make a match with the last person Miss McDougal was with, we'd know we had our man. Wouldn't stand up in court, but at least we'd know exactly where to look real careful for something that did.”
“That is an excellent thought, Mr. Presley,” Garcia said.
“But how, pray tell, do you go about getting people's cells?” Regis said. “Follow them around with a scalpel and nick off a little chunk of their earlobes when they aren't looking?”
“Well, you could make them cry and catch their teardrops,” Elvis said.
Dr. Garcia beamed at Elvis. “Mr. Presley, have you ever considered going into forensic medicine? You have a natural talent for it.”
“I'll keep it in mind,” Elvis said.
Garcia led Elvis to a laboratory bench where he showed him how to take and preserve cell samples without corrupting them. He put together a little kit for him of eyedroppers, tweezers, blotting paper, vials, and suspensory fluid. Regis watched for most of the demonstration then wandered off with Dr. Suarez to the other side of the laboratory. Elvis looked after them. He winked at Garcia.
“Does Dr. Suarez have this effect on a lot of men?” he asked quietly.
“I have known DoloresâDr. Suarezâfor fifteen years and I have never seen anything like this. She is all work and no play, which is good for the laboratory, of course,” Garcia said, smiling. “And Mr. Clifford? Is he aâ”
“The man just told me yesterday that he swore off women five years ago.”
“This is a beautiful thing to behold, is it not?” Garcia said, looking at the couple.
“Does make a man wonder,” Elvis said, grinning.
“Perhaps it is encoded in their DNA,” Garcia said. “An attraction of genes.”
“They could've gone their whole lives never meeting each other.”
“Or perhaps it had to happen,” Garcia said. “Perhaps the attraction in their genes is so strong that it drew them together across thousands of miles.”
The four of them made arrangements to meet for dinner at Santa Teresa's one and only restaurant at eight that evening. In the meantime, Dr. Suarez said she would show Regis around the campus, and Dr. Garcia apologized for having to return to an experiment in progress. He gave Elvis directions to the instituto's botanical gardens, the best in all of Central America, he said.
The gardens were a marvel, all right, an entire walled-in acre of tropical vegetation so lush and vibrant that it gave Elvis a raw feeling, like his skin was too pale and thin to abide with it. He limped over to a white iron bench and let himself down gently. His ankle had started up again; it seemed to get worse when he was alone. He broke off half a painkiller and chewed it down. In front of him, a brilliant red blossom the size of a man's head wagged back and forth in a nonexistent breeze. Elvis had the distinct feeling that it was trying to tell him something ⦠.
It was ten minutes to eight when Elvis awoke. As he opened his eyes, the red flower head was still swaying in front of him, but something about it had changed. Its outer petals had begun to curl inward toward the center, giving it a contented, sleepy-eyed look. Little wonderâit had been chatting to Elvis nonstop while he slept.
Regis and Delores Suarez were waltzing cheek to cheek to the strains of a marimba band on the jukebox as Elvis limped into the Cafe con Pep Moso. Dr. Garcia waved to him from a table by the wall. It was already covered with little serving plates of foodâguacamole, refried beans, yellow rice with bits of red pepper and pork in it, bright green peas, barbecued ribs, slices of mangoâalong with a pitcher of sangria. By the time Elvis had made his way to the
table, Garcia had ladled small portions of each food in a colorful circle on Elvis's plate like a painter's palette.
table, Garcia had ladled small portions of each food in a colorful circle on Elvis's plate like a painter's palette.
“Did you enjoy the gardens?” Garcia asked as Elvis sat down.
“I surely did,” Elvis said. “One of them flowers talked my ear off.”
Garcia smiled. “They get lonely for human company,” he said.
Elvis absently dipped a slice of mango into the guacamole and stuck it in his mouth. The meat of the fruit had a soft, silky texture that slipped languidly on his tongue, coasting on the slick of the avocado dip. Now there was something he'd never thought about before: how food
feels
in his mouth. It was a whole other thing, separate from taste or hunger. And it was a glorious thing for sure. You just had to pay attention to it. How many other things in life had he missed just for lack of paying attention?
feels
in his mouth. It was a whole other thing, separate from taste or hunger. And it was a glorious thing for sure. You just had to pay attention to it. How many other things in life had he missed just for lack of paying attention?
One juke box song ended, another began, and Regis and Delores were still dancing. They were in love all right; you didn't have to pay too much attention to see that. There was nothing elegant about the way they moved, nothing that dazzled the eye, but they danced totally
together
âtwo people, one motion. Just the opposite of the way most people danced these days, which was two people, two totally different performances. That's just what it was now, wasn't it?
Performances
. Two people strutting their stuff for each other like dancing was an advertisement for themselves. That's what Holly McDougal's dance on the screen test had been all about.
Look at me! Desire me! Yearn for me!
Heck, wasn't that what Elvis's own gyrating performances were really all about too?
together
âtwo people, one motion. Just the opposite of the way most people danced these days, which was two people, two totally different performances. That's just what it was now, wasn't it?
Performances
. Two people strutting their stuff for each other like dancing was an advertisement for themselves. That's what Holly McDougal's dance on the screen test had been all about.
Look at me! Desire me! Yearn for me!
Heck, wasn't that what Elvis's own gyrating performances were really all about too?
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