The Enigmatologist (9 page)

“It wasn’t like that, man,”
Leadbelly
said, shaking his head, his pompadour swaying.

“When was the last time you where in Truth or
Consequences?” John asked, shifting directions. He unfolded the gentleman’s
club menu, showed it to
Leadbelly
.

“Oh, man. Fuzzy Beaver’s? I go there every couple of
weeks. They have a great all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“You couldn’t have thought of a different way to say
that?”

“They got really good chicken wings, too, man. Although
you
gotta
wash your hands before you get a lap dance.
The girls don’t like greasy fingers messing up their glitter.”

“What about this?” John said, taking Mrs. Morris’s picture
from his pocket. “Is this you in this photo?”

“Well, man, that looks like me, and that’s my place. So,
it must be me. What’s this got to do with Fuzzy Beaver’s? It’s a hell of a
place. You really should check it out.”

“I was hired by
The National Enquirer
to
investigate it. But they already sent someone down here. Here’s what I’m
thinking, the kid they sent found you and followed you down to Truth or
Consequences on one of your excursions.”

“They got this girl there, man,”
Leadbelly
said, eyes empty with daydreams, “you know how strippers are all named after
cities?”

“The kid follows you,” John continued, “asks you some
questions, like the kid from the bar.”

“Her name’s Old Detroit. She’s
gotta
be like seventy, man.”

“It gets a little heated. He makes some accusations.”

“She brings you your lunch butt naked and you pay her to
put her clothes on. It’s outta sight.”

“And since you obviously don’t like people asking you
questions, you kill him and leave his body in the desert. Am I close?”

“Whoa, whoa, man,”
Leadbelly
said, waving his hands, warding off the accusations, taking a couple of steps
back. “Hold on a second. I don’t know nothing about no kid in Truth or
Consequences. I swear. And I certainly didn’t kill nobody.”

“And you would have killed that kid from the bar if you
still had your gun. What did you do with it? Where did you hide it?” John
asked, taking a couple of steps toward
Leadbelly
.
Jeremiah tried to step between them, and opened his mouth slightly, about to
defend
Leadbelly
. But the sheriff held up his hand,
backing him off.

“
Leadbelly
,” Sheriff Masters
said,” if you did this thing, now would be the time to tell us. We could help
you out, work with you.”

“Sheriff, what the hell is this, man? You know me. I might
do some crazy shit every now and then, but I’d never shoot nobody! Hell,
everybody knows I’m all about the ladies.”

“The DA’s a buddy a mine,” the sheriff said. “If you give
up the gun, I’ll make sure he goes easy on you.”

“Hell, I don’t even have a gun,” he said, pleading. “On
top of that, I ain’t even been out to Fuzzy Beaver’s in, like, two months, man.
Call down there, ask.”

“Two months?” John said. He flipped the calendar back in
his head and knew
Leadbelly
was innocent. The
reporter had been murdered last week.
Leadbelly
couldn’t have killed him. But it wasn’t just
Leadbelly’s
alibi that convinced John of his innocence. John believed
Leadbelly
because his fear appeared to be genuine. It possessed the distress and dismay
of someone being falsely accused.

“
Goddamnit
,
Leadbelly
,”
the sheriff said. “This is your last chance.”

“Sheriff,” John said, “he’s telling the truth.”

“What? How can you be sure?”

“The only thing he’s guilty of is…” John thought about
what he’d found in
Leadbelly’s
trailer, the jumpsuit,
the photos. He knew
Leadbelly
was guilty of
something, he just wasn’t sure what.

“Living life on my own terms,”
Leadbelly
said, finishing John’s thought.

“Sure, living your life or whatever,” John said, crumpling
the menu in his fist. He was the one living on his own terms, a struggling
artist trying to build a career in puzzles.
Leadbelly
looked like he borrowed every aspect of his personality from a drive-in movie.

“You had me scared there for second, man,”
Leadbelly
said. “Thought I was about to get locked up for
sure.”

“Sorry for coming at you so hard,” John said.

“Man, that’s what I say to the ladies at Fuzzy Beaver’s.”

“I just have one more question,” John said, scowling, “if
that’s alright with you, Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah nodded.

“
Leadbelly
, you ever been to Las
Vegas? Nevada, I mean?”

“No, sir. The only Las Vegas I been to is right here,
man.” He pointed to the ground with a defiant finger. John thought this action
seemed artificial and forced, and knew
Leadbelly
was
lying.

There were stories on the internet, conspiracy theories
about Elvis and business dealings with the Mafia that would scare anyone with
enough knowledge of Elvis folklore. John bet
Leadbelly
was the type of guy that knew these stories.

He held the picture in front of
Leadbelly
,
flapped it. “In twenty-four hours this picture will be in every major news
outlet with the headline, ‘Elvis Lives’. And you’ll have a lot of people down
here looking for you. I’m guessing some of them will be a whole lot meaner and
tougher than that kid you beat up. Right now, the only thing stopping that from
happening is a phone call from me. So, you’d better be straight with me. Got
it?” John heard Rooftop in his voice and accepted it as the natural influence
of a surrogate father.

“Okay, okay.” His voice changed, making him seem smaller.
“My name’s not really Al
Leadbelly
.”

“Really?” John said. “Al
Leadbelly’s
a made up name? Never would have guessed.”

“My real name’s Steve Johnson. I was an Elvis
impersonator. That’s why I look like him. I ran a chapel in Vegas for
twenty-three years. I had an opportunity to buy the building the chapel was in.
Unfortunately, I bought it at the height of the housing bubble. When it
crashed, I couldn’t make payments. I had to borrow some money from some very
serious people.”

“The mob?” the sheriff asked.

“The Slot Machine Repairman’s Union. They loaned me some
money to stay afloat.”

“And this kid you fought, he was from the Union?” John
asked.

“That’s what he said. Scared the hell outta me. They have
their hands in everything in Vegas. A casino can’t be built without their
approval. Anyway, I took their money. I saw an opportunity and went to the
blackjack table.”

“Don’t tell me you blew everything in one hand,” John
said.

“What do you think, I’m stupid? It was three,” he said,
grinning, proud of his gambling abilities.

John shook his head. “So, you lost all your money in
blackjack and moved down here?”

“First, I burned my chapel for insurance money.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out,” John said.

“The arson investigator figured it out. So, I ran. That
was four years ago.”

“But you kept the sideburns?”

“I was an Elvis impersonator for twenty-three years. I’ve
been pretending to be someone else for so long, I’ve forgotten how to be Steve
Johnson.”

“John.” The sheriff tapped him on the shoulder. “A word?”

“What do you think?” the sheriff asked as they walked to
his car.

“He’s hiding something,” John said, glancing over at
Leadbelly
. “If he was trying to reclaim his identity he
would’ve shaved and cut his hair.”

“You don’t believe he’s out here trying to find himself?”

“Most people trying to find themselves go to Europe, write
a memoir, not hide in the desert working in a lumberyard.”

Leadbelly
put his hands in his back pockets
and rocked on his boots, heel to toe. There was something off about his story.
It was unnecessarily complex, like it was meant to entertain, not convince. It
conveniently placed the blame for his situation on external factors, making him
a victim of a corrupt city where the house always wins.

“Yeah, he’s definitely hiding something,” John said, “but
I have my answers. What about you? He just confessed to insurance fraud.”

“I’m willing to let that slide as long as we can wrap this
up,” the sheriff said. “You
gonna
tell the
Enquirer
Leadbelly
left town?”

“I thought about that. They can just make some phone
calls, turn him into a fugitive, make this whole thing bigger than it needs to
be.”

“
Sonuvabitch
.” Sheriff Masters
kicked the dirt.

“Don’t worry about the
Enquirer
. I’ll take care of
them,” John said, wondering what he’d tell them, and the Air Force.

They walked back over.

“Alright,” John said, “I need to make a phone call.
Jeremiah, can I use your office?”

“Sure thing. It’s the second door on the right.”

The lumberyard office window’s metal blinds were open.
Outside, Jeremiah tried to say something to his brother, but Sheriff Masters
kept brushing him off. Even though they were talking about him,
Leadbelly
wasn’t watching them. He looked at the window, at
John sitting behind Jeremiah’s dinged, metal desk. John thought for a moment
that
Leadbelly
wasn’t concerned about the phone call
or its outcome, but about John, and some secret hardship that awaited him. It
made him feel awkward, having an Elvis impersonator concerned for him, and he
quickly looked away and called
The National Enquirer
from his cell
phone.

“Yeah, Rex Grant, please? Tell him it’s John Abernathy.”

“John,” a voice said after making him wait a couple of
minutes, “what do you have for us?”

“Well, for starters, it’s not him,” John said, leaning
back. “He was an Elvis impersonator for a while. That’s why he looks like him.
But it’s not him. This guy’s in his forties.”

“What about our reporter?”

“He doesn’t know anything about that either.”

“You sure?”

“I grilled him pretty good. So, it looks like you don’t
have a story here,” John said, his voice rising in false optimism.

Rex was silent for a moment.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. We can print the photo
with the headline, ‘Elvis Impersonator in New Mexico May Hold Secret to King’s
Whereabouts’, or something like that. This is great, John! Better than we
expected.”

“Are you serious? There’s no story here. Just some guy in
a trailer park who happens to look like Elvis.”

“Yeah, isn’t it great? This is how we did it in the
eighties. Damn, it feels good to be back.”

“But there’s no story.” John pushed away from the desk,
hit the wall behind him, rattling plaques from the Chamber of Commerce, the
Association of the Lumber Retail Specialists, the International Association of
Belt Buckle Enthusiasts, the New Mexico Chapter of the Global Coalition for the
Advancement of
Who’s the Boss
Cosplayers
.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rex Grant said. “People want a
distraction. And we give it to them.”

“What about your reporter? Did you think about him? You
run this story and you’ll chase away anyone who might know anything about his
death.”

“If you say he doesn’t know anything, what can we do? We
have to move forward. We’re publishing the photo. End of discussion.”

“You…” John put his hand on Jeremiah’s desk. It wobbled on
uneven legs. “You don’t care about the reporter, do you?”

“Of course I do.”

“What’s his name?”

“What?”

“The reporter, what’s his name? The kid who died, the one
you sent down here, what’s his name?”

“John, that’s hardly…”

“You don’t know, do you?” A calendar on the wall showed a
calico kitten holding a circular saw, a word balloon above its head saying ‘The
first cut is the deepest.’

“We’ll send you a check as soon as we get your expense report.
You’ve done a great job.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

John leaned back in Jeremiah’s chair and took a deep
breath. He swiveled the chair side-to-side, moving only a few degrees in either
direction. He knew before he called that Rex Grant intended to run the photo
regardless of what he’d found, that it’d appear at supermarket checkouts next
to other impulse buys, breath mints, chocolate pudding, 3-for-1
action-adventure DVDs starring aging, European martial artists. But John needed
to try anyway. He felt an attachment to the town, a comfort he hadn’t
experienced in Denver or Boulder, and he wanted to insulate it from Rex Grant
and his scant journalistic standards. John set his elbows on the desk. He took
off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He needed to call another number, be
disappointed by another client.