Mike Jastrzebski - Key Lime Blues

Across the room a tall, thin man with a shaved head and a Van Dyke style beard stood behind a desk that held a deck of cards, tarot I presumed, a crystal ball, a box of tissues, and a white surgical mask. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit with white gloves, and his eyes seemed to come alive when he smiled at me.

“I’m Elvis,” he said. “You can leave us now, Dom.”

There was a shifting of weight behind me, and the door closed. I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Funny,” I said. “You don’t look at all like him.”

His smile shifted, and I thought I detected a look of disappointment in his eyes. “Him?”

“Elvis. I don’t see the resemblance.”

“I can assure you, you’re not the first to make fun of my name.” Elvis reached out, shook my hand, and peeled off the gloves with a flourish. “It so happens, it’s my real name. My mother was a big fan of the man.” Holding the gloves between the tips of his left thumb and forefinger, he dropped them into the trashcan next to the desk.

“The gloves must get expensive,” I said.

“I have a thing about germs.” Pointing to a leather armchair on my left he added, “Won’t you have a seat Mister Darling?”

He stood until I was seated, then he pulled out the chair from behind the desk and sat down. I was overcome with the strangest feeling. It was like I was back in high school and I’d been sent to see the principle after misbehaving.

I’d already made up my mind he was a charlatan, but I could almost feel the vibes he was sending out. Elvis pressed his fingers together into a steeple, rested his chin on his thumbs, and stared at me until I began to squirm. Although I’d investigated psychics, I’d never visited one while a paying customer. I didn’t know what to expect. While I waited for him to say something, I forced myself to sit still and returned his stare.

Elvis finally let out a controlled sigh. “Cat was right.”

“The cat was right?” I asked. “What cat?”

He dropped his hands to the desktop and chuckled. “I’m afraid talking to animals is not one of my fortes. I’m referring to Cat, the woman you spoke with when you made your appointment. She said you were a skeptic.”

“And she knew this how?”

“She read your aura.”

“Without my permission?” I leaned forward. “Isn’t there a law against that? If there’s not, there should be.”

“A true doubter doesn’t seek out a psychic, Mister Darling. Cat seemed to think you were a cop.”

“I told her I wasn’t.”

“I know. I’ve been expecting you.”

“So Destiny must have told you I was going to show up.”

“I don’t know anyone named Destiny,” he said. “I don’t think you’re going to believe me when I tell you why I was expecting you. Unless of course, you’re open to a real psychic experience.”

I rested my hands on the desk, palms down. “I want you to understand-I don’t believe in auras, or crystal balls or reading palms. Calling me a skeptic would indicate I have doubts about your psychic abilities. I would describe myself to be a total disbeliever. Should anyone ask, I’d describe you as a con man.”

Elvis held his ground, meeting my gaze head on. “I’m not a con man. People come to me for help. I provide a service and I’m proud of it.”

He sounded sincere and I almost believed him. Almost. “You prey on vulnerable people,” I said. “You take money from them and you give them false hope.”

He pressed his fingers together again, and seemed to be gathering his thoughts. After a moment he said, “It’s true, many of my clients are vulnerable. But so are many of the people doctors and psychiatrists see. I offer a service, and I’m not ashamed of what I do. Some people might say private detectives accept money from vulnerable people. Does it make you a con man, Mister Darling?”

Before I could answer my phone started ringing. I reached down, shut it off, and said to Elvis, “It’s not the same.” I was on the defensive, and I didn’t like it. I wasn’t used to having someone challenge my own line of work, but again, maybe he was right. Wasn’t it why I had quit?

“Perhaps not. I’m going to ask you to suspend your belief system for a little while, Mister Darling.”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“I know you aren’t going to want to believe what I have to tell you. I assume you came here to ask me some questions about this Destiny person?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s make a deal,” he said. “I’ll answer any questions you have if you’ll listen to what I have to say first. You probably won’t, but it would help if you kept an open mind.”

“So if you already know I’m not going to believe what you tell me, why bother going to all this trouble?”

“Because I’ll have done what she asked,” Elvis said.

“Destiny?”

Elvis shook his head. “I told you I don’t know anyone named Destiny.”

“You know her as Gail Bernard. To be honest, I’m a little disappointed. Being a psychic, I’d expect you to know those things.”

“I’m a psychic, Mister Darling, not God. I don’t know everything, and the girl I’m talking about didn’t give me a name.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So this is someone who walked up to you on the street with a message for me.”

“Not exactly,” he said. “What do you say? Tit for Tat. You listen without interrupting me and I answer your questions.”

I felt as if I was being played, but it was also obvious I wasn’t going to get any answers about Destiny if I didn’t listen. I leaned back into the chair, laced my fingers together, and placed my hands behind my head. “Go ahead. Lay it on me. I’ll listen to what you have to say, but I don’t promise I’m going to believe you.”

“I have been cursed with a rare gift, Mister Darling. The gift has made me a wealthy man, and I consider it God given. I wouldn’t give it up for anything, although it often leaves my nights riddled with dark visions and nightmares.”

“I heard you were afraid of the dark.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark. Sometimes the visitors I have are frightening, but more often than not they’re afraid, like I am. I see dead people at night, Mister Darling. They come to me in my dreams, and occasionally, when I can’t sleep, they come anyway. It’s always at night, I never know ahead of time when they’re going to seek me out, and I can’t avoid them.”

His eyes seemed to bore right through me, as if he was daring me to doubt him. I wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe Elvis wasn’t trying to con me. Maybe he was nuts.

“You sound like you believe what you’re telling me. What I think is you need to see a shrink. Maybe he can help you.” I lowered my hands and used the armrests to lever myself to my feet. “I don’t believe a ghost visited you with a special message for me.”

“You told me you’d listen to what I have to say.” There was disappointment in his voice, and a twinge of accusation.

I looked at my watch, and slid back into the chair. “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

There was a look of relief on his face and he threw me a tired smile before going on. “I received a visit from a young girl last night who told me you blame yourself for her death. I didn’t get a name but she was maybe fifteen or sixteen, blue eyes, blond, cute. Do you know this girl?”

I knew her all right. Celine Stewart came to me in my dreams too, only she didn’t talk to me. She pleaded with me through sad eyes, silently accusing me of screwing up, but she never spoke. I don’t think I could have handled her voicing her feelings about me.

I took a deep breath in an effort to contain my anger, and still my voice rang out. “The Detroit News and the Free Press carried the story of Celine’s disappearance and probable death. Her picture was in the paper and her father was vocal in blaming me for her death. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of phone calls to get this information. Hell, the researcher we have working for our agency could have found that kind of information in five minutes.”