The Enigmatologist (8 page)

“Oh, here,” he said, reaching into his wallet like it was
something he just remembered. “This is my business card. You can call me
whenever you want, if you think of anything else, or, you know…”

“So if I need a seven letter word for oceanographic that
starts with ‘a’, I can call you?”

“Aquatic. Or maybe even abysmal. Depending on the clue.
Sorry, it’s part of my…Anyway, yes, you can call me for anything.”

They gazed at each other for a while. Rosa smiled at him,
content and delighted, like she’d been waiting several years for him to walk
into her restaurant. John hoped that Rosa was interested in him and not that
she was waiting for him to order.

“Oh, lunch,” John said, opening and pretending to read the
menu. “We came here for lunch.”

The sheriff ordered the combo platter: an enchilada, a
flauta
, and a
chile
relleno
. John ordered
ala
carte:
one enchilada con mole and a
tamal
. When Rosa walked
away, John turned and watched her hips sway. They moved gently, like willow
branches in a March breeze. When she reached the front counter she turned and
caught John staring. She smiled and laughed a little. John blushed, quickly
looked away.

He wanted to spend more time with her and regretted having
to be on a case, having to track down some jerk who dressed like Elvis, did
karaoke, and picked up loose women. Rosa glided between the register and the kitchen
and John outlined their future, starting with coming back to her restaurant
once his case was wrapped up, talking to Rosa, asking her out, charming her
somehow, doing the long distance thing, becoming more serious, then moving in
together, John working on puzzles while she ran the restaurant, his numerous
awards hanging from the walls.

John shook his head, stopping his thoughts. He knew from
experience how dangerous fantasies could be. When he was a child, he would sit
next to the door and imagine his father walking through it, hugging him and his
mother. His father would explain that he’d gotten lost coming home from work,
something that happened to John once when he was at a neighbor’s third birthday
party. So, John sat by the door waiting for something that never happened. Once
he realized his father wouldn’t be walking through the door, John learned to
control his fantasies, only dreaming about outcomes he could control, his
puzzles, his future.

Rosa brought them a couple bottles of Negro
Modelo
. John leaned forward, his mouth slightly open. He
thought of something funny while she was getting their drinks, but she left to
check on other lunch guests before he could say anything and he slumped back
into the red vinyl chair. He held his beer bottle with both hands, almost in
his lap, and picked at the label.

“About
Leadbelly
, anything I
need to know?” John asked.

“Nah,” the sheriff said, sipping his beer. “He’s just one
a those characters we have here in town. A good natured type, jokes around a
lot. No one really takes him seriously.”

“Someone took him seriously enough to take his picture.”

“You
wanna
go by his trailer?”
The sheriff leaned over the table, perking up. “I know where he lives.”

“How long you been sheriff?” John asked, the bottle almost
slipping from his grip.

“I’ve worn this badge the past fifteen years. My pa was
sheriff before me, and my grandpa before him. I guess you could say being a
lawman’s in my blood.”

“So you like it, then?”

“Sure, I like it. I like this town. The people. Honestly,
I don’t really have that much to do, just the occasional domestic disturbance,
but nothing that can’t be handled by talking things out. These are good people
here. Most of the time I don’t even wear a gun, only when strangers come around
asking questions.” He slapped John’s arm, laughing.

Forcing fake laughter, John watched the sheriff for signs
that he was either joking or about to arrest him.

“What about you, how’d you get into the P.I. business?”

“It’s a pretty long story,” John said. “I graduated school,
needed a job. My boss, Rufus, was a friend of my grandfather, kind of an
unofficial uncle. He needed an assistant, said he’d take me on. Really, he was
doing it as a favor for my mom.”

“What does your dad do?”

“Not sure. He hasn’t been around for a while.”

“He run out on you?”

“That’s the way it looks. Truth is, we don’t really know.
He disappeared when I was five. He went to work one day and never came home. We
filed a missing person’s claim. There was an investigation and everything.
Police told us he clocked in at his office, but never came back from his lunch
break. He just disappeared. It’s one of those unsolved mysteries, like you see
on TV.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, John.”

“Don’t be. My mom and I got on fine without him. We didn’t
need him after all. Never did.”

John picked at his beer label, peeling it away from the
bottle. He didn’t drink during the day and the beer was starting to affect him,
loosening his reserve.

“The crazy part is,” John continued, “I still have dreams
about him, ever since he left. We’d do all these father-son things, play catch,
he’d give me advice about girls, shit like that. All the stuff we would have
done had he stayed, the stuff I missed out on as a kid, I get to experience
when I sleep. Messed up part is, after all these father-son moments, I tell him
to fuck off. Every single night. It’s like my subconscious or whatever is
letting me say what I’ll never get a chance to say. But those dreams, they seem
more like memories, like it actually happened. It’s weird.”

Rosa brought their food and another round of drinks. When
she placed the plates, she leaned over and John saw the top of her bra, black
lace. He cleared his throat.

After they were done eating, Rosa came over to check on
them. “Do you need anything else?”

“I think we’re good,” the sheriff said, slapping his gut.
His gut wasn’t big, but it did hang over his belt a little.

“Just the check, please,” John said, wanting to ask Rosa
for her phone number, address, shoe size, anything that would help him be able
to spend time with her.

“Lee, I can’t believe you didn’t tell him?” she said, her
hand on her hip. “Well, John, don’t worry about it. You just have a nice day.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and slid it across his back as she walked off.

“What was that all about?” John asked, watching her walk
away.

“Oh, a few years back,” the sheriff leaned back, his hands
folded across his belly, “Rosa’s brother was taking classes at the college. Got
jumped walking to his car. Got roughed up pretty bad. Rosa asked me to help. We
found the kids, took care of them. They won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”

“You mean…” John formed his hand into the shape of a gun.

“No, no,” the sheriff said, laughing. “The DA’s a fishing
buddy. I talked him into charging the kids with attempted murder. Since the
judge on the case is a cousin a mine, he found them guilty. Now they’re serving
fifteen with no parole.”

“Small town justice.”

“It’s got its perks. The DA and I get free food whenever
we come in here.”

“Dang.”

“Rosa’s good people. Her brother’s a good kid, a bit of a
fuck up, but a good kid. The plaza was a ghost town before she showed up. This
here restaurant pretty much revitalized the downtown. The town owes her. You
see, we’re a small community here. We look out for our own.”

The sheriff stood and pushed in his chair. He set his
Stetson back on his head, into the erosions of a lifetime of hat wear. John dug
into his pocket, dropped a twenty on the table next to the wadded and stained
napkins, salsa-smeared plates, and empty beer bottles. Sheriff Masters wrinkled
his forehead, making his hat move slightly.

“I
gotta
leave something,” John
said. “Besides, it’s on the
Enquirer
.”

“You
sonuvabitch
! You’re buying
dinner.”

The
afternoon sun moved across the sky, expanding awning shade, creating the
perfect hiding place from heat. John and Sheriff Masters moved slowly, sleepy
from well-cooked Mexican food and beer. They crossed the street, walking to the
sheriff’s car.

John took one last look at Rosa’s
Restaurante
.
Inside, Rosa flowed between tables. She wiped a table next to the window,
looked up, and waved. John waved back, his hand at his waist, like he was
trying to hide his gesture. He wished he was still inside, sitting at a table,
working on a puzzle, talking to her between coffee refills. He wanted to be
near her, cracking jokes, waiting for the moment when he could ask her out.
Instead, he was standing in the street about to get into a cop car.

He slid into the front, onto a hot Pleather seat, the
metal cage rattling behind the headrest. The sheriff picked up his CB and
started talking.

“Shirley? Shirley, you there?”

“Yeah, Lee. You find that newcomer yet?”

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “He’s here with me now.”

“Oh. Hi, there.”

Sheriff Masters stuck the CB under John’s mouth, motioned
toward him as if to say, ‘Say something.’

“Uh, hi,” John said.

“So, what brings you to town? You know, we’ve been getting
an awful
lotta
calls about you. Well, only two, but
still.”

“Shirley,” the sheriff interrupted, “I’m going out to
Jeremiah’s for a bit.
Gotta
have a talk with Al
Leadbelly
.”

“Al
Leadbelly
? Is he in some
kind a trouble? Let me talk to that stranger again. This has something to do
with him, don’t it?”

“Don’t you worry about that none. You just let Jimmy know
where to find me if he needs me.” The sheriff turned to John, said, “Jimmy’s my
deputy, not too bright.”

“Roger that.” The CB went silent.

They drove to the lumberyard, passing houses verging on
collapse. A tarp covered one roof, held down by bricks, ready to blow away at
first wind. Another’s roof sagged, waiting to snap with the next snow. The town
was crumbling to dust, becoming desert.

“So, how many of these…what’d you call them, sightings
have you been on?”

“This is my first one.”

The sheriff groaned. The route to the lumberyard devolved
from potholed roads into dirt and loose gravel.

“Look, Sheriff, this might be my first Elvis sighting,”
John said, sensing the sheriff’s apprehension, “but I can tell you for a fact
this
Leadbelly
guy isn’t Elvis. Unless Elvis has been
frozen the past thirty years.”

“I’m more worried about that paper a yours, wondering what
they’re
gonna
do with that photo when they find out
he’s not Elvis.”

“They’ll probably publish it anyway,” John said, the beer
and Rosa causing him to be careless.

 
“They’d do
that?” The sheriff looked at John, angry and aggrieved.

“This guy, Rex Grant, the
Enquirer
’s
editor, he only cares about selling
papers.”

“What do you
think’ll
happen
when they publish it?”

“Well, you’ll probably have a bunch of Elvis super-fans
running around looking for
Leadbelly
.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t want that to happen,” the sheriff
said, twisting the steering wheel as he drove. The town was a quiet place full
of dead grass and slowly dying people, and the sheriff didn’t want fanatics
disturbing decay.

John understood the need for quiet and stability. It’s how
he worked best, late nights, his mom sleeping, the harmonic hums of computer
and fridge. His investigation conflicted with tranquility. Its outcome meant
screaming groupies, hotel riots, and several generations of Elvis fans treating
this town like their personal souvenir stand. John knew this was unavoidable,
that Rex Grant didn’t care if the photo was a hoax, that he’d publish it
regardless of John’s objections. They drove past two men hosing down a septic
tank, and John knew it was time to tell the sheriff about the other part of his
investigation, his other reason for needing to find
Leadbelly
.

“Sheriff, about
Leadbelly
. I’m
not the first person the
Enquirer
sent looking for him. A few weeks ago,
they sent a reporter down here. He was found outside Truth or Consequences,
shot. They hired me to find
Leadbelly
, find out what
happened to the kid.”

“Holy shit!” The sheriff almost skidded off the road. John
put on his seatbelt. “You’re on a goddamn homicide investigation. You lucky
sonuvabitch
!”

“You’re a little too excited about a dead body.”

“Sorry. This here’s a quiet town. It’s been about five
years since our last homicide,” the sheriff said.

“You might have to wait a little longer.”

“You don’t think
Leadbelly
did
it, do you?”

“Not sure,” John said, thinking about what he’d found in
Leadbelly’s
trailer, the menu from the strip club in Truth
or Consequences.

“Hold on a sec.” Sheriff Masters picked up the CB again.
“How
old’d
you say this kid was?”

“The
Enquirer
said he was eighteen, just an
intern,” John said.

“Shirley, you there?”

“I’m here, Lee.”

“Can you call the Sheriff’s Department down in Truth or
Consequences, find out about a case they got going? Something involving a male,
late-teens-to-early-twenties, found outside a town a couple of weeks ago.”

“Does this got something to do with Al
Leadbelly
?
Or that stranger?”

“Just make the call, Shirley.”

“Alright. Will do,” she said.

“She sounds disappointed,” John said.

“Yeah,” the sheriff said, “Shirley’s got an appointment at
the hairdresser’s this afternoon. She’s
gonna
be
sitting under a cone dryer for a while, wants to talk about the case.”

“How do you know that?” John asked.

“‘Cause I married her,” the sheriff said, laughing.

The sheriff turned off of 7
^th
Street, pulled
into the lumberyard parking lot and rolled down his window. “There’s that
sonuvabitch
!
Leadbelly
!
Leadbelly
! Get over here! This fella’s got some questions
for you.”

The lumberyard consisted of a small retail building
covered in rough, red paint, like the wind had sprayed dirt on it when the
paint was wet. Behind the building, cut timber was stacked according to size in
a maze of home improvement material bordered by a chain link fence.

Leadbelly
disappeared into the lumber
stacks.

“
Leadbelly
!
Leadbelly
!”

Sheriff Masters and John stood at the entrance to the
lumber stockpile, an opening wide enough for a truck to back into.

A man who looked like the sheriff, but shorter and fatter,
his belly hiding his belt buckle, office life having faded his cowboy hat tan
line, stomped out of the retail building.

“Lee, what are you going on about?” he asked.

“We’re here on police business. This here’s John
Abernathy,” the sheriff said, pointing to John. “He has some questions for
Leadbelly
.”

“Questions? What
kinda
questions?”

“Don’t you worry about it none, Jeremiah. We won’t be
disrupting your business.”

“Just as long as you’re not. And…and I’m
gonna
be here for the questioning.” Jeremiah poked himself
in the chest, like he was confirming his own importance.

“What are you, a goddamn lawyer now?”

“
Gotta
look out for my employees
is all.”

“Yeah, that’s who you’re looking out for.”

John had seen situations like this with Rooftop, two
people with long and complicated histories fighting for dominion over the past
and the present.

“Sheriff,” John said, trying to calm everyone down, “I
don’t mind Jeremiah sticking around.”

“Alright. Just remember, Jeremiah, this is official police
business. So, don’t go interrupting.”

They watched
Leadbelly
return
from the stacks of cut timber. He walked out with saw-bound one-by-sixes on his
shoulder. The stomach knots John withstood since coming to town returned,
although they weren’t as gnarled. His lunch helped. Or maybe it was Rosa’s
enduring influence. But the tangle fully loosened as
Leadbelly
got closer.

The sheriff called him again. “
Leadbelly
!
Leadbelly
! Get over here! This fella’s got some
questions for you!”

Leadbelly
put down the planks and strutted
over, the sun being absorbed by the black and green bruise around his eye and
cheek. He shared many striking similarities with Elvis, height, eyes, jaw,
black hair, sideburns crawling down his face, but as he walked closer, John
instantly knew the man was not Elvis, just an imitation. His black hair color
looked like it was courtesy of a box bought in a pharmacy, and he needed to
re-dye. Gray roots were growing along his temples. Despite the indications of
age,
Leadbelly
was still considerably younger than
Elvis. If Elvis were still alive, he’d be in his late seventies.
Leadbelly
looked like he wouldn’t reach that mark for
another thirty years.

But there was one thing that was the same. The voice.

“Al
Leadbelly
?” John asked.

“Man, I wouldn’t be coming over here if I weren’t.
Sheriff, what’s this all about? I got work to do, man.”

“
Leadbelly
,” the sheriff said,
“this here’s John Abernathy. Now, he’s got some questions for you and you’re
gonna
answer them. That’s just how it is.”

“Alright then, ask away. But be quick with it, man. I got
some ladies meeting me at the Whataburger after work.”

 
John put his
hand in his pocket, felt for Mrs. Morris’s picture. His fingers rubbed its
glossy surface, then grazed the rough edge of the folded menu from the strip
club. He pulled it out, swatted it against his hand.
Leadbelly’s
arrogance reminded John of everything he hated about his job, the late hours,
the miserable people, having to photograph a client’s husband putting on clown
makeup while a dominatrix, dressed like the man’s mom, told him all the ways
he’d disappointed her. And the fact that it kept John from doing what he loved.

“I know how you got those bruises,” John said, pointing to
Leadbelly’s
face with the menu.

“This?”
Leadbelly
pointed to his
purple eye. “Man, this is nothing.”

“Tell me about the kid, the one you got into a fight with.”

“Nothing to tell, man. He just came up, started talking
shit. Wouldn’t shut up.”

“What was he saying?”

“Nothing really, man. Most a the time when people talk
shit to me it’s ‘cause I slept with their sister or something. This kid, he
just said he knew
me’s
all. I ain’t never seen him
before.”
Leadbelly
shrugged, like the kid and the
fight were insignificant.

“But he knew you, didn’t he?” John said, thinking about
the people Colonel Hollister had watching
Leadbelly’s
trailer. “That’s what he told you, that he knew you. That he’s been following
you. Why was he following you,
Leadbelly
?”

“How the hell should I know, man?”

“He knew your secret, didn’t he? That’s what he said to
you.”

“He was just some drunk kid, man. That’s all.”

“A drunk kid you felt the need to beat up,” John said,
pointing at
Leadbelly
with the menu like it was
Leadbelly’s
signed confession.