Author
ONE LESS ELVIS
Lt. Davis worried: Was he losing his sense of humor? He was in a guest room at the Anders Regency in Chicago’s Loop. The corpse was sprawled there on the carpet, gleaming in a sequined gold body suit. On the bed a guitar lay in an open case, shades straddling its neck. The stiff was one of the Elvis impersonators, for sure. And what had splintered his skull? A guitar-shaped fifth of whisky with Elvis’s picture plastered on it. One-liners should’ve been jumping into Davis’s head. But nothing. Zilch.
Ninety-three had stunk so far. Economy in the tank and Clinton talking about raising taxes. Thing in Waco. Whole Midwest flooded. Blackhawks swept in the playoffs’ first round. The Bulls won the championship, true. But Davis hated the Bulls—and basketball. Oh, yeah, and in just over three weeks—August, 19—Davis turned fifty.
Still, a guy couldn’t stop laughing.
It was five-thirty Friday morning, over two hours since the call came in. The photographer had his pictures, and the technicians were still dusting for fingerprints and all that crap. The stiff’s girlfriend, who’d found him and called the police, was in a meeting room down the hall, where she’d gone with him to a party last night. The convention wouldn’t hit full swing till today, but apparently the real gung ho types rolled in Thursday evening.
Lt. Davis left the room and stalked down a long, plush carpeted hall, which opened on a foyer with a bank of elevators on one side and the meeting room on the other. Inside, tables stood around the room, white cloths on them, empty beer bottles, full ashtrays. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, and overhead lights glared down. At the far side of the room sat a uniformed cop, a slender girl in her twenties with long auburn hair, and guy with a steel-gray flattop.
The girl, Davis knew, was Joanie McDuffy, girlfriend of the deceased. And the guy with the flattop was Johnny Lee Perkins, a friend of hers and her late boyfriend’s. Davis dismissed the uniform, sat at their table, and stared at them.
Finally, he said, I’m investigating the murder of Mr. Vazquez.
He pulled out the business card he’d taken from the victim’s wallet. He looked at the girl over the card. "Larry ‘Hound Dog’ Vazquez of Rigglesberger Talent. Is that what he went by? he asked, almost taunting.
Hound Dog Vazquez?"
Flattop bristled, but the girl eyed Davis coldly. She had thin lips and kept them tight when she spoke. It was sort of a stage name, but yeah, most people called Larry Hound Dog. I guess that’s real important.
She looked at Flattop and gave her eyes a roll.
Davis went for a more professional tone. You know anyone who’d want to kill Hound Dog?
She looked at him as if he’d spoken Martian, so he added, I mean did he have any enemies? Did anyone you know of dislike him?
She seemed to brighten. Oh, almost everyone disliked Larry.
***
Almost everyone disliked Hound Dog all right: fellow impersonators, booking agents, musicians, club owners. Not even his girlfriend seemed that choked up. By one o’clock, Davis had grilled a lot of people. Sifting through the half-truths, evasions, and outright lies, he thought he might be able to make his best case against Charlie Sparkle, The Memphis Queen.
Davis wasn’t ready to go for a warrant, but it’d be worth trying to wring a confession out of Sparkle, so Davis had sent for him. In the aftermath of the party, Davis sat waiting.
Wearing a pink jump suit, his purple hair in a pompadour, that beanpole Sparkle swished in looking like he could just scream. Honestly,
he hissed, stomping up to Davis, I can’t imagine what more you want with me.
His lips were cherry-red. He put a hand on his hip and gave his head a shake that tapered off into a shudder. I mean, honestly. What more can I tell you?
Tell me why you killed Hound Dog, sicko. How you thought you’d get away with it.
Sparkle put his palm to his face. You think I killed Larry? You think—
C’mon, Sparkle,
Davis barked. Don’t be coy. You were seen leaving his room. You know that.
But, but I told you—
Yeah,
Davis sneered. You just stopped in to discuss his argument with the Rigglesberger broad. Only I don’t believe that. Know what I think?
Sparkle stood moving his head back and forth.
You went to his room cause you had the hots for him. Like at last year’s convention. Only this time, stead of making your move in front of the whole world, you went to his room. And he still wasn’t having any. Maybe he didn’t punch you out this time, but he wasn’t having any.
No!
Charlie cried. That’s absurd!
Is it?
Davis snarled. You wanted him. He didn’t want you. In a drunk rage, you brained him. That’s what I think. And I think a jury would buy it, too. Ask me, you oughta cop a plea.
This is just too bizarre,
Sparkle moaned. Then he stood up a little straighter, squared his skinny shoulders. Are you arresting me?
Davis glowered.
Okay, I guess you mean no.
Sparkle gazed up at the high ceiling and stage-whispered, "I mean, really. What a fascist little fascist. He threw Davis a smirk and jeered,
Then I won’t be talking to you any more—without my lawyers. Toodledoo." He waved the fingers of one hand and marched from the room.
Out in the hall, Charlie Sparkle slapped a hand to his forehead and moaned. He heard it becoming a wail and clamped his jaw shut. He stumbled down the hall toward his room, turned back toward the ballroom, stopped, walked toward the elevators, stopped, and wrung his hands.
Footsteps on the carpet came from around the corner, and Brendan Culhane ambled around it, dressed in black leather pants and jacket that contrasted nicely with his white hair.
Brendan!
Charlie rushed over to him. Why didn’t I think of you?
He clutched Brendan’s arm. I need help.
Brendan’s face—it wasn’t badly lined for a man his age, Charlie thought—looked concerned. He disengaged himself from Charlie’s grip. What’re you talking about?
