Watching from the edge of the barrel-tile roof, a crow cracked its orange beak and shrieked, as though it suspected that I had come to poach whatever crispy beetles and other sparse fare it fed upon in this parched territory.
I thought of Poe’s dire raven, perched above the parlor door, maddeningly repeating one word—nevermore, nevermore.
Standing there, gazing up, I didn’t realize that the crow was an omen, or that Poe’s famous verse would, in fact, serve as the key to unlock its meaning. Had I understood then that this shrill crow was my raven, I would have acted much differently in the hours that followed; and Pico Mundo would still be a place of hope.
Failing to understand the importance of the crow, I returned to the Mustang, where I found Elvis sitting in the passenger’s seat. He wore boat shoes, khaki slacks, and a Hawaiian shirt.
All other ghosts of my acquaintance have been limited in their wardrobes to the clothes that they were wearing when they perished.
For instance, Mr. Callaway, my high-school English teacher, died on his way to a costume party, dressed as the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz. Because he had been a man of some refinement, born with dignity and poise, I found it depressing, in the months following his death, to encounter him around town in his cheap velour costume, his whiskers drooping, his tail dragging the ground after him. I was much relieved when at last he let go of this world and moved on.
In death as in life, Elvis Presley makes his own rules. He seems to be able to conjure any costume that he wore on a stage or in the movies, as well as the clothes that he wore when not performing. His attire is different from one manifestation to the next.
I have read that after downing an imprudent number of sleeping pills and depressants, he died in his underwear or maybe in his pajamas. Some say that he was found in a bathrobe as well, but some say not. He has never yet appeared to me in quite such casual dress.
For certain, he died in his bathroom at Graceland, unshaven and facedown in a puddle of vomit. This is in the coroner’s report.
Happily, he always greets me clean-shaven and without a beard of upchuck.
On this occasion, when I sat behind the steering wheel and closed the car door, he smiled and nodded. His smile had an unusual melancholy quality.
He reached out and patted me on the arm, clearly expressing sympathy, if not pity. This puzzled and somewhat troubled me, for I had suffered nothing that would warrant such an expression of commiseration.
Here in the aftermath of August 15, I still cannot say how much Elvis knew then of the terrible events that were about to unfold. I suspect he foresaw all of it.
Like other ghosts, Elvis does not speak. Nor sing.
He dances sometimes if he’s in a rhythmic mood. He’s got some cool moves, but he’s no Gene Kelly.
I started the car and punched up some random-play music on the CD box. Terri keeps the six-disc magazine stocked with the best work of her idol.
When “Suspicious Minds” came from the speakers, Elvis seemed to be pleased. With his fingertips, he tapped the rhythm on the dashboard as I drove out of Camp’s End.
By the time we reached Chief Wyatt Porter’s house in a better neighborhood, we were listening to “Mama Liked the Roses,” from Elvis’s Christmas Album, and the King of Rock and Roll had succumbed to quiet tears.
I prefer not to see him like this. The hard-driving rocker who sang “Blue Suede Shoes” wears a cocky smile and even a sneer better than he does tears.
Karla Porter, Wyatt’s wife, answered the door. Willowy, lovely, with eyes as green as lotus petals, she unfailingly projects an aura of serenity and quiet optimism that is in contrast with her husband’s doleful face and mournful eyes.
I suspect Karla is the reason that Wyatt’s job has not worn him down to total ruin. Each of us needs a source of inspiration in his life, a cause for hope, and Karla is Wyatt’s.
“Oddie,” she said, “what a pleasure to see you. Come in, come in. Wyatt is out back, getting ready to destroy some perfectly good steaks on the barbecue. We’re having a few people to dinner, we’ve got plenty extra, so I hope you’ll stay.”
As she led me through the house, unaware that Elvis accompanied us in a “Heartbreak Hotel” mood, I said, “Thank you, ma’am, that’s very gracious of you, but I’ve got another engagement. I just stopped by to have a quick word with the chief.”
“He’ll be delighted to see you,” she assured me. “He always is.”
In the backyard, she turned me over to Wyatt, who was wearing an apron bearing the words BURNT AND GREASY GOES BETTER WITH BEER.
“Odd,” Chief Porter said, “I hope you’ve not come here to ruin my evening.”
“That’s not my intention, sir.”
The chief was tending to two grills—the first fired by gas for vegetables and ears of corn, the second by charcoal for the steaks.
With the sun still more than two hours above the horizon, a day of desert sunshine stored in the patio concrete, and visible waves of heat pouring off both barbecues, he should have been making enough salt water to reconstitute the long-dead sea of Pico Mundo. He was, however, as dry as the star of an antiperspirant commercial.
Over the years, I have seen Chief Porter sweat only twice. On the first occasion, a thoroughly nasty man was aiming a spear gun at the chief’s crotch from a distance of just two feet, and the second occasion was much more unnerving than that.
Checking out the bowls of potato salad, corn chips, and fresh fruit salad on the picnic table, Elvis seemed to lose interest when he realized that no deep-fried banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches would be provided. He wandered off to the swimming pool.
After I declined a bottle of Corona, the chief and I sat in lawn chairs, and he said, “You been communing with the dead again?”
“Yes, sir, off and on all day. But this isn’t so much about who’s dead as who might be soon.”
I told him about Fungus Man at the restaurant and later at Green Moon Mall.
“I saw him at the Grille,” the chief said, “but he didn’t strike me as suspicious, just ... unfortunate.”
“Yes, sir, but you didn’t have the advantage of being able to see his fan club.” I described the disturbing size of Fungus Man’s bodach entourage.
When I recounted my visit to the small house in Camp’s End, I pretended, rather ludicrously, that the side door had been standing open and that I had gone inside under the impression that someone might be in trouble. This relieved the chief of the need to conspire with me, after the fact, in the crime of breaking and entering.
“I’m not a high-wire artist,” he reminded me.
“No, sir.”
“You expect me to walk a dangerously narrow line sometimes.”
“I have great respect for your balance, sir.”
“Son, that sounds perilously like bullshit.”
“There’s some bullshit in it, sir, but it’s mostly sincerity.”
Telling him what I found in the house, I omitted any mention of the black room and the traveling swarm. Even a man as sympathetic and open-minded as Wyatt Porter will become a skeptic if you force too much exotic detail upon him.
When I finished my story, the chief said, “What’s got your attention, son?”
“Sir?”
“You keep looking over toward the pool.”
“It’s Elvis,” I explained. “He’s behaving strangely.”