It was 9:30 a.m. and I had stopped by the office to pick up some material one of the interns had gathered for me on Ravenelli, the Mafia guy. He was a real charmer all right. It seems about ten years ago he had tried to corner the market on counterfeit Elvis souvenirs, using threats and strong-arm tactics to force out the smaller distributors. The FBI finally got in the act, and Agent Nick Fire--wired for sound--infiltrated Ravenelli's organization and got the goods on him. Fire later recounted his role in the case in the book Code Name: Clambake. In his book, Fire paints a frightening picture of the crime boss, pointing out that Ravenelli was so evil that he added a den of iniquity onto his house.        The thought that this was the same person who had a brick thrown through my window sent chills up my spine.        I was startled by the phone ringing. It was Trixie calling to tell me that a Mr. Fescue was here to see me. I told her to send him on back.        "Virgil," I said, as the big guy lumbered up to my desk. "What's up?"        "Hey man," Virgil responded in his Southern drawl, "I got a really good idea. At least I think it's good."        "Shoot," I said.        "There's this psychic in town--Sister Margarita."        "Yeah, I've heard of her."        "Well I just talked to her about holding a seance to contact Elvis. I figure we can ask him about the diaries directly."        "I don't know, Virgil. I really don't put too much stock in that mysticism stuff."        "I know what you mean," Virgil said. "Neither did I till I had a brush with death. Now I'm a believer."        "A brush with death?"        Virgil lowered his voice, and a serious expression crossed over his face.        "Jeff, let me ask you somethin'. Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?"        "Virgil, I'll be honest with you. I haven't had that many in-body experiences."        "Well, I had one. It happened four years ago, and it's somethin' I'll never forget. It was a Friday night, and we'd just finished the late show at the Starlite Club in Abilene. We had to pack up the instruments, so we were the last ones there. We were loaded and ready to go, so I got in the Winnebago. But I couldn't get it to turn over, and there weren't any cars around to give us a start. Well, I got cute and tried hooking the jumper cables to a neon Lone Star Beer sign that was hangin' outside the window of the club. This turned out to be a real bad idea, especially since it was raining and I was still in my Elvis get-up--y'know: hair greased up, rings, belt buckle, TCB necklace . . . Anyway, there I was, holding the clamps to the sign, and I yelled out, 'Okay Velma, crank 'em.'"        Virgil paused a moment, his eyes tearing up a bit.        "Dang Jeff, I wish I hadn't said those words."        "What happened?" I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know.        "The second Velma turned that key, about 5,000 volts shot right through me. They tell me I lit up like a Christmas tree. They had to go to the club's kitchen and get some flour to put out the fire in my hair. Heck, my TCB necklace vaporized completely.        "The doctors finally showed up. They loaded me onto an ambulance and rushed me to the emergency room. Once I got there, they hooked me to all sorts of fancy equipment, but it was too late; my vital signs were flatter'n a slow armadillo on the Waxahachie Turnpike. They say I was clinically dead for over half an hour. This is when I had my out-of-body experience.        "Everything was black. Next thing I know, I could see myself--like I was up in the air lookin' down on me layin' on that doctor's table. Then there was this bright light . . ."        "And a blue tunnel . . ." I added.        "Right," Virgil said. "How'd you know?"        "Never mind," I said. "Go on."        "Well, I started to float down this bright blue tunnel, towards the light. Suddenly I was surrounded by lots of people."        "Let me guess, your deceased relatives."        "No, oddly enough, it was the cast of Hee Haw."        "Hee Haw? "        "That's right--Roy Clark, Buck Owens, Lulu, the Hager Twins . . ."        "But they're all still alive," I said.        "I told you it was strange."        "What happened then?"        "That's all. I came to. Scared the hell out of a hospital attendant, too. He was tyin' a tag to my toe like I was some sorta Christmas present or somethin."        "I don't know, Virgil. I mean you're either dead or you aren't. Maybe your vital signs had just slowed to a crawl. That would reduce the flow of oxygen to your brain, which would explain the Hee Haw images."        "You can figure it however you like. But me? I like to think I was brought back to life for a purpose. It's like those Red Hots in the dust, Jeff--there is a force greater than you and me . . ."        "Greater than Jerry Vale?"        Virgil sat back and crossed his arms; a look of irritation came over his face.        "Why do I get the feelin' that you don't take all of this too dang seriously?" he said.        "I'm sorry, Virgil. Look, I'm not trying to make light of your 'experience.' It's just that people have to decide for themselves what they believe in. Take my sister. She goes in for all that astrology stuff. If that works for her, fine. Personally, I lost interest when I found out that Shirley Temple and Adolf Hitler were born under the same sign of the zodiac. From where I sit, these two just don't have a lot in common."        "Look," Virgil said. "Believe whatever you want. But why don't you at least give Sister Margarita a chance? She's got a track record--the cops used her last year when Mad Dog Larsen escaped from the city jail . . ."        "That's true. And after much meditation, she told them that they should limit their search to the Western Hemisphere."        "And she was dead right!" Virgil said.        "Okay," I said. "Technically she was right. He was found hiding in the city jail's air conditioning vent. So, I guess she did save the Memphis Police Department the expense of sending a squad car to Sri Lanka."        "Not impressed, huh?" Virgil said indignantly. "Well, it just so happens that I've had firsthand experience with Sister Margarita. A couple of months ago, she put me in touch with my late Uncle Larue."        "C'mon," I said skeptically.        "It's true!" Virgil said. "Larue worked in a cotton candy factory in Waco--died of pink lung."        "That's awful."        "Tell me about it. Anyway, I had to contact his spirit to ask him where he kept his Phillips screwdriver."        "Excuse me, Virgil. But wouldn't it have been easier to--you know--buy a new screwdriver?"        "Well, yeah, but I wanted to get his Super Bowl pick, too."        "Oh."        "So, I went to see Sister Margarita. She used her Ouija board to contact Uncle Larue's spirit and ask him my questions. With my very own eyes, I saw Sister Margarita spell out the message: 'Check the toolbox. Raiders by 6.' I tell ya, Jeff, it was weird. And I'll be damned if the screwdriver wasn't exactly where she said it'd be."        "Yeah, Virgil. But the Raiders lost."        "Man, that's uncanny, too. Larue always picked the wrong team."        It was about this time that I decided to give in. It wasn't looking like logic was going to triumph over superstition, and besides, Virgil had been a big help. If he thought it was worth me making a trip to a fortune-teller, then what was the harm?        "You win, Virgil," I said. "Your story about Uncle Larue's screwdriver convinced me. I'll go to see Sister Margarita. When did she predict I'd be there?"        "She said to come tonight. Nineish."        "Great," I said. "That's what I like, a soothsayer who's specific." Illustration by Barry Willis