Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis (11 page)

“Hey,” she said, stepping up to his open window. He looked up from his newspaper to squint at her, “mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“You want a ride somewhere?”

“No, I’d just like to ask you about a fare you picked up at Dad’s Place—”

Rattling his paper, he looked back down at it. “I ain’t no information booth. Be glad to take you anywhere you want to go, that’s it.”

“This won’t take but a minute, I just want to know—”

“Lady, I done told you. Want information, ask at the front desk of any hotel. Want a trip to the airport or wherever, hop in back.”

“Fine. Give me a ride to the Orpheum.”

“That’s only two blocks away. Walk or take the trolley.”

Harley got irritated. “Your customer service attitude sucks. Do your supervisors know what a jackass you are to paying fares?”

Now he looked up at her with a scowl, chewing on the unlit cigar in his mouth. “Ain’t got no supervisors, just dispatch. I own this cab. I take the fares I want, and I don’t like short hauls.”

“Okay, round-trip to West Memphis then. Or isn’t that far enough away?”

“Depends. Where in West Memphis?”

“Oh, for the love of—” She paused to remind herself that she needed the information, so counted mentally to ten, then said in the sweetest voice she could muster, “Southland Greyhound Park, please.”

He folded his paper and slung it to the frayed leather seat beside him. “Get in. I got the meter running.”

Before she had the door closed, he’d started off, the taxi jerking forward. Second Street was a one-way street so he headed south, then turned toward Riverside Drive. Probably going to take I-240 west across the new bridge to Arkansas. West Memphis was a collection of truck stops, restaurants, and motels that catered to truckers, the greyhound race track, and all the businesses and homes that formed an easy, laid-back small town. Just across the bridge, residents enjoyed the slower pace, with the conveniences—or annoyances—of Memphis a short ride east over the Mississippi River.

“So,” Harley said, sliding open the little Plexiglas window that made a barrier between the front and back seat, “where did you take the fare you picked up last night on Brooks Road? A hotel? A residence?”

“I pick up lots of fares during the day. How should I know where I took one?”

“Because you keep a log, as required by law. It was around ten. The guy was dressed like Elvis. You can’t get too many of those.”

“You’d be surprised this time of year.”

“Probably not, but that isn’t important. I just want to know where you took him, what he might have said, and a description.”

The driver glanced in his rearview mirror. “You a cop?”

“No. Just an interested party.”

“Look, Blondie, I ain’t getting mixed up in some messy divorce.”

“No, you look, Mr.—” A quick glance at his registration card provided his name, “Todd, it doesn’t matter to me in the least what you’re interested in. These are not hard questions. It won’t take much effort or time to answer me, so give it a try.”

From her position on the back seat she had an excellent view, and she saw his cigar stub go up and down vigorously for a moment. “Is there a tip in it for me?”

“Extortionist,” she muttered under her breath, but he must have heard her.

He shrugged. “Ain’t extortion if you want answers, little lady.”

“You’re right. Pretty please?”

“Ask me the questions again, and if I know the answers I might tell you.”

“Where’d you take the Elvis you picked up last night on Brooks Road, and did he say anything unusual?”

“Took him to the corner of Poplar and Highland, dropped him off in front of the pancake place.”

“You mean Perkins Restaurant?”

“That’s the one.”

That was only a block from Memphis Tour Tyme’s main office. Coincidence? Maybe. And maybe not.

“What’d he look like?”

“Elvis.”

“Right, but I’m sure you can do better.”

“I just give ’em a ride, I don’t look at ’em.”

Harley thought about Tootsie’s use of Southern charm to deal with clients, and decided to try it. Couldn’t hurt, and it might even help. She put on a big smile.

“Now I don’t believe that. You seem like an observant kind of man, someone who knows what’s going on even when others don’t. I bet you know a lot more than you let on.”

He glanced at her again in the rearview mirror. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Sure you do. You could probably give me his shoe size.”

“Well ... guess I did notice a few things. About six feet, I’d say, maybe a hundred seventy-five pounds. Kinda long face, short straight nose. Full lips, white teeth, but the kinda white that’s bright like paint, y’know? I’d say he might be thirty or so.”

“Did he say anything in particular? Anything that might have been odd, or unusual?”

“Kept kinda quiet, just said to let him out at Poplar and Highland.”

That was disappointing. She sat back in the seat and tried to think if there was anything else she should ask, something that would set this guy apart from everyone else. But she drew a blank. Damn.

Instead of going straight and taking the exit to Arkansas, Mr. Todd took a right on Poplar to pass by the jail and courthouses, then took another right on Jefferson, going toward the river again.

“I know how to get to West Memphis,” she said, “so let’s not take the long route.”

“Do you really want to go to the dog track?”

“No.”

“Then how about I take you back where you found me and you just give me a really nice tip, Blondie.”

“Works for me.”

The taxi bumped over the trolley tracks and turned left on Riverside Drive. Barges passed by on the river, skirting Mud Island, an inelegant name for a spit of mud and sand that now had half-million dollar homes built on it. The hot summer sun shimmered on the Mississippi that looked deceptively calm. Undercurrents could take a foolish swimmer down in seconds. Sometimes she felt like she was swimming against river currents.

When they got back to Second and Union, Harley gave him a twenty dollar bill and opened the back door to get out. He stopped her.

“Hey, Blondie, that guy did say something a little weird.”

“He did? What?”

“Asked me if I’d ever wanted something so bad I’d do anything to get it.”

“What’d you say?”

The cigar switched to the other side of his mouth as he shrugged. “Just said I already had everything I wanted.”

“Then you, Mr. Todd, are a lucky man.”

He grinned. “That’s just what he said.”

Great. Now she was thinking like a killer. Or possible killer. She had no real evidence he was the same man who’d killed the first Elvis, and wasn’t at all sure he was involved in the death of the second Elvis. It just seemed likely.

When she got back to her car, a parking ticket was stuck under the windshield wipers. It fluttered in the hot breeze as if mocking her. Dammit, she’d stuck money in the meter. How could it be out already? City Hall was going to hear about this, by God, because this was one ticket she didn’t deserve, especially after paying those tickets she’d gotten back in May. Oh no, they weren’t going to get away with this. She looked up to see a man standing at the meter by her car, shoving coins into the slot.

“Hey, that’s nice of you to pay for my parking, but I’ve already gotten a ticket.”

He looked over at her. “I’m not paying for your parking. This is my meter.”

“Your meter?”

“Yeah, looks like you parked in the loading zone.”

“Oh.” Grabbing her ticket, she unlocked her car and stuffed it into the glove compartment next to one she’d gotten the week before. Half her salary these days seemed to go to unnecessary parking fines, and the other half to buy new cell phones. Keen observation didn’t appear to be one of her strong points.

She sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel, letting the air conditioning cool off the interior. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the guy she’d seen last night wasn’t the same guy who’d been on her van. Obviously, she wasn’t that great an eyewitness. Bobby had told her about some studies they’d done to test eyewitnesses, and how almost every one of them had missed vital evidence in a mock crime. Conflicting stories had veered from totally fictional to pretty close. No one had given a perfect version of what had really happened. There was every possibility she was on the totally wrong track. It could have been any of the passengers who’d killed the Elvises, with the guilty party glibly laying the blame elsewhere.

Still, what had been said to the taxi driver was pretty odd, any way she looked at it.

Just as she put the Toyota into first gear and pulled out into traffic, her cell phone rang. Law of probabilities at work again. Go to the restroom in a restaurant, and your food would come while you were gone. Finally find an interesting article in a five year old magazine, and you’d be called back into the doctor’s office. Go to shift gears in a five-speed, and your cell phone would ring. Never failed.

A car horn blared behind her, and when she looked back the driver was gesturing wildly for her to get out of the way. She had to go forward, so she drove down the street until she reached a church, then pulled into the parking lot. If she tried to juggle phone and gears with the traffic, she was bound to screw up one of them.

Tootsie said, “Have I got you or the answering service?”

“Which one sounds sexier?”

“The computer voice, darling. Where are you?”

Harley squinted out the windshield. “The church on Third by the interstate.”

“It must be fate. Go in and have some prayers said for your soul.”

“What? Why?”

“Bobby Baroni just called here looking for you. He doesn’t sound like his usual jovial self. Or maybe he does and that’s the problem.”

“What could he be mad about?”

“Didn’t you say you ran into our favorite undercover cop last night?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell on me. That rat!”

“I’m not saying he did or didn’t. You better talk to Baroni before you go jumping to any conclusions. Just wanted to give you a heads up. He’ll probably be calling you soon.”

“Right now the only thing I feel like jumping is Mike Morgan’s ass. With a two by four!”

“It must be love,” Tootsie said sweetly, then laughed and hung up when she gave her opinion of his comment in two short, pithy words.

Fuming, Harley sat there for a moment, cell phone in hand and the air conditioning doing nothing to cool her off. How dare he tell Bobby she was investigating the Elvis murders! And how had he known? She hadn’t given him any reason to think that. Her appearance at the Elvis contest was perfectly reasonable since Yogi was a performer. Not only that, but Mike had asked her not to rat him out. Then he went and ratted her out! Oh, there would be vengeance involved. And it was best served cold.

Bobby called as she was turning into the lot behind the two-story buff brick building that housed the offices of Memphis Tour Tyme. She looked at her cell phone. Might as well get it over with.