Mike Jastrzebski - Key Lime Blues

I walked over to the table. “I’d like to see Elvis.”

She laid out another card and looked back up at me. “Do you have an appointment?”

“The sign says walk-ins are welcome.”

“I know what the sign says, I put it there. Since you didn’t answer my question, I assume the answer’s no.”

“I was walking by and saw the sign. I decided I wanted to have my fortune read. It was a spur of the moment thing.”

“I don’t think so.” The girl dealt one more card and appeared to analyze it for a long time before reaching out and tapping it with the tip of her finger. “You’re a troubled man.” She touched the card again, almost caressing it when she added, “A haunted man.”

I laughed. “Not exactly a brilliant prediction. Aren’t we all haunted by something or another?”

“Perhaps.” She picked up the cards, added them to the deck, and placed them on the table.

The girl tilted her face toward me and studied me for a moment before pushing herself away from the table. She rose effortlessly to her feet, sauntered over to a counter where a cash register sat, reached over, and pulled a small book from behind the counter. She paused to open the book, and spoke without turning. “Elvis is free right now. He does his readings from his home. It’s three blocks from here.”

“Works for me,” I said.

“Good. The cost is one hundred and twenty-five dollars for a forty-five minute reading.” She held out her hand. “Cash or credit. No checks.”

I raised an eyebrow at the price, but pulled out my wallet and handed her my American Express card. After she’d run the card she handed it back to me and made an entry into the appointment book. Finally, she picked up a printed sheet and held it out to me. “His address and a map,” she said. “He’ll be expecting you.”

“I suppose that’s because you have a psychic connection with him.”

She scowled. “No, asshole, it’s because I have a phone. He’s going to know right away you’re a disbeliever though.”

“You’ll clue him in of course.”

“I won’t have to.” A slight smile formed on her face when she spoke about him. “He has a strong gift. He may be the most gifted person I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve always said the only difference between a good psychic and a great psychic is the number of years he’s been pulling the con.” I took the map from her hand without looking at it. While she tried to stare me down I thought of another question. “How long has Elvis been calling himself a psychic?”

The smile faded and she moved around me and headed back toward the table. “If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late.”

“Got time for one more question?”

She stopped and nodded her head. “Go ahead.”

“What’s with the phone room?”

She stood motionless, like a manikin dressed for a funeral, and I thought for a moment she was going to refuse to answer, but she surprised me. “We take calls from all over the world. Lost people call looking for help. There are five of us. We take turns answering the phones and working the shop.”

“And if someone calls and asks to speak to Elvis, can they?”

“Of course.”

“For an extra cost I’m sure.”

She spun around. Her eyes narrowed, and her upper lip quivered showing me her teeth. She looked like a wild animal ready to pounce. When she spoke, her words were carefully spaced, almost as if she was fighting to control herself. “For every disbeliever there’s a believer. I’ve helped many of them. Elvis has helped even more. He helped me when no one else would. He took me off the streets, made me realize I wasn’t crazy. Elvis helped me recognize my special gift. You don’t have to believe. But you don’t have to be a shit-head either.”

“You sound sincere,” I said.

“Damn straight,” she said. “I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I was making a difference in people’s lives. Why do you want to see Elvis anyway? You a cop?”

“No.”

“You act like a cop.” Anger rang in her voice and she looked like she was preparing to throw herself at me.

I shrugged and began to back toward the door. I’d once seen what a woman could do with nails like hers, and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the lady. When I reached the door she turned away and I walked outside into the afternoon heat. After the cool of the shop the air felt humid and heavy. I headed off toward Elvis’s house and wondered if we were in for another bout of rain.

I could understand why a girl like the one working for Elvis would gravitate here. Back home, she would have been considered strange. Of course, she was as strange in Key West as wherever she was from, but there was so much strange down here on the island she could almost pass for normal. In fact, I was even beginning to feel like I fit right in.

I had never been considered strange when I was a child, but I’d always thought of myself as being different. I’m sure it was why I felt so at home in Key West. When other kids were out playing tag and riding bicycles, I was out on Lake St. Clair on my grandfather’s sailboat. When I was younger I’d sailed with my grandfather, but by the time I was in my teens I was taking his 32-foot sailboat on longer and longer trips by myself. Since I’d never known my father, my mother’s dad, along with Nick, were the male influences in my life. Different wasn’t necessarily bad, just, well, different.

While I moved along Duval I remained vigilant, watching for Bob or Willie. I felt exposed, so I stepped up my pace. Dodging the tourists wandering the street, I was standing in front of Elvis’s place within minutes.

The house was two stories and painted white like all the others on the street. Four steps led up to a small, quaint porch, and four columns across the front supported the roof. There were also four chairs lined up in front of a four paned window. The whole setup made me suspect Elvis suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder as well as his other phobias.

The painted wood steps gave slightly when I climbed them, groaning from years of use. As I reached for the door it opened inward. A giant of a black man peered out at me through thick-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a tuxedo, wore a red fez that was too small for his head, and his shoulders were so broad his jacket rubbed against either side of the doorframe.

The sheer bulk of the man startled me and I took a quick step back. I got the feeling he was used to having this effect on people.

“I have an appointment to see Elvis.”

His eyes lit up and he smiled. “My name is Dom,” he said with a soft, southern lilt. “And you are?”

“Wes Darling.”

“Follow me please, Mister Darling. Mister Elvis is expecting you.” He turned and led the way down a narrow hallway. His steps were short and lumbering, and he brushed the walls with his shoulders when he walked.

As I Trailed him I became aware of the faint scent of a flowery perfume, lilacs perhaps. It took a moment to realize it was emanating from the behemoth in front of me. ‘Only in Key West,’ I thought.

Dom stopped in front of the first door he came to, knocked once, and entered without waiting for an invitation. He was so broad that he had to twist his shoulders to the side in order to squeeze through the doorway. I followed, without the effort.

The room was not very large. A soft, instrumental version of an old Beatles’ song I couldn’t name was being piped in through speakers in the ceiling. It was something my mother used to play when I was little, before she got rid of all her old record albums.

The floor was covered with thick white Berber carpeting, and the dim lighting cast my shadow onto a rose colored wall, making me appear as large as my guide.