I couldn't believe I was actually going through with this. I gazed up at the pink neon letters: "Sister Margarita--Psychic, Fortune Teller, Financial Analyst." Well, I guess if you're going to deal in the unknown, you might as well go all the way. Besides, where else can you find out what's in store for your love life, and get a hot tip on pork belly futures, all in the same place?        The businesses on either side--a fish market and a used hubcap shop had long since called it a day, but I could tell from the cluster of red candles flickering in her window that Sister Margarita was expecting company. Much to my chagrin, I was that company.        I rapped three times on the heavy oak door. Actually there was a doorbell, but it just didn't seem in the spirit of the evening. A brass slot in the door flipped open, and a pair of emerald green eyes glared from the other side. The flap slammed shut, and the door began to open slowly, making the obligatory creaking sound. Standing inside was Sister Margarita herself. She was much younger than I expected. Not unattractive, although she did favor the Maria Ouspenskaya look in clothes: floor length black dress, black shawl, and a black kerchief wrapped around her head. It wasn't so much a fashion statement as a fashion no comment.        "Mr. Parrish," she said with a thick Hungarian accent. "Do come in. I haf spoken with your friend, Mr. Fescue."        "Right, Virgil. He thinks very highly of your, uh . . . gifts."        "Yes, and he explained to me the unusual nature uf your request."        "Rrrright," I stuttered, and then I spoke words I never thought I'd hear myself say. "I'd like to speak to the spirit of Elvis Presley."        "Ahhh, yes. Elveese. He vas a man of great spiritual essence. He vas a believer in the supernatural. Did you know that?"        "All I know is that he recorded a song called 'Song of the Shrimp,' and that took a helluva lot more spiritual essence than I'll ever have."        Sister Margarita glossed right over my observation.        "But Elveese vas a very private man. He may prove difficult to reach. But I vill try. Let us begin."        She directed me to a wicker chair placed in front of a round bamboo table covered by a red velvet cloth. She took her place opposite me. The flickering of the candles made the room appear to jump around nervously.        "Gif me your right hand," she said.        I offered up my hand with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.        She took it and rested it palm-side up in her left hand. She began peering intently like someone who'd lost one of her contacts in a bowl of Malt-O-Meal.        Her eyes widened as though she had spotted something. She dangled her free hand over my palm, and began poking at it sharply with the ruby red two-inch nail of her index finger.        "Hey, that hurts!" I exclaimed. Sister Margarita was the first person I'd ever heard of who applied the concept of "no pain, no gain" to palm reading.        "Sorry," she muttered. She then began dragging her finger in a line from my wrist to my fingers.        "You haf a very long life line," she said.        "Well, actually that's a scar I got trying to open a can of Friskies for my cat--whose name is . . ."        Sister Margarita looked up from my hand and shot me a nasty glance with those intense green eyes.        "Don't test me," she scolded in her Hungarian accent. "I do not like it vhen people test me--this is spiritual verk, not Name That Tune."        Sister Margarita abruptly released my hand. She got up from the table and disappeared through a pair of black curtains. I wondered for a moment if I had managed to offend the sensibilities of a psychic but decided that if I had, she should have seen it coming. However, she returned a few minutes later holding a jewel-encrusted golden goblet which contained a bubbling liquid.        "Drink this," she said sternly, sliding the smoking vessel towards me.        "No thanks," I said, "One of my basic rules of living is never drink anything that's helping diminish the ozone layer."        Actually, the situation really did make me uncomfortable, since the last time a woman shoved a mysterious beverage my way and ordered me to drink it was at a party in 1977 when Myra Grutman served me something that turned out to be LSD-laced Ovaltine. I didn't handle it well, either. I was found the next morning, unconscious and naked, on Runway #3 at the Memphis International Airport. It seems I had removed all my clothes, grabbed two flashlights, and jogged to the airport where I attempted to direct incoming aircraft. I had to call in a few favors to keep that one out of the newspapers.        Anyway, I wasn't about to quaff this mystery brew without some idea of what it was, where it came from, and what long-term effects it would have on my brain cells--besides I didn't have my flashlights with me.        "It von't hurt you," Sister Margarita said. "It vill help release your psychic vibrations. It is my own recipe."        I wrinkled my nose as I peered over the edge of the goblet into the bubbling red liquid.        "What's in it?" I asked. "None of this 'eye of newt' stuff, I hope. My doctor put me on a low cholesterol diet, and he specifically recommended that I reduce my newt intake."        She glared at me again. I sensed that I was trying her patience.        "I cannot reveal the ingredients," she said haughtily. "But . . ."        She picked up the goblet and took a sip.        ". . . I can assure you that it is safe."        In situations like this I ask myself, "What would Jerry Tarkanian do?" And, of course, I always draw a blank.        "Okay, okay," I said, grabbing the goblet from her hand. "I'll drink it. But before I do, I have to ask you one more question."        "Vhat?" she said.        "Do you have any mini-marshmallows?"        "Drink! " she yelled.        Against my better judgment, I opened my mouth and tossed down the liquid. The taste was unusual to be sure--sort of a cross between Courvoiser and Mountain Dew--but I can't say it was bad.        "See?" she said. "I told you it vas safe."        Almost instantly, I began to get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt flush and began to sweat profusely.        I looked up at Sister Margarita. She had an odd smile on her face and those green eyes sparkled like two emeralds. She threw back her head and let out a strange, wicked laugh, like someone who had just heard a really good knock-knock joke.        "You silly boy," she laughed. "You think summoning spirits is child's play? You underestimate the power of the unseen world."        I was beginning to feel dizzy. I looked around the room which had taken on an eerie glow. Red and green lights began to flash on the walls. The warmth in my stomach had spread to my extremities and, frankly, I was hoping to keep my extremities out of this.        Sister Margarita reached under the table and brought out a crystal ball which she placed directly in front of her. As she peered into it, the ball began to cloud up and glow. The room seemed to spin faster as the light from the crystal ball illuminated Sister Margarita's face.        "Do you get the Weather Channel on that thing?" I asked, trying my best to disguise my fear.        "Quiet! " she whispered. "I sense a presence from the other side."        She grabbed my hands; her fingers were icy cold.        "Not too tight," I whispered. "Remember the cat food injury."        She closed her eyes tightly and began moaning and swaying from side to side as she called forth the spirit.        "El-veese. El-veese. Speak to us, El-veese," she wailed in a voice that sent shivers up my spine.        "How do we know . . ." I started to ask.        "Shhhhh, ve are very close," she said and then started her wailing again. "El-veese. El-veese. Show yourself to us."        All of a sudden, what seemed like hundreds of white lights began flashing on and off. It was as if a group of paparazzi had just spotted Michael Jackson and Madonna emerging arm-in-arm from a midnight showing of Aborigine Sex Slaves of the Amazon.        The second the flashing ceased, Sister Margarita stopped swaying to and fro, locking into the "fro" position. Her eyes glazed over as though she were in a trance. A blast of freezing cold air shot through the room, making me immediately regret that I had opted for boxers rather than briefs.        Suddenly, a deep voice boomed out. It seemed to come out of thin air.        "Who dares disturb the sleep of El-veese? " thundered the voice.        "Excuse me?" I said unsure of what to do next. Sister Margarita was still in a trance.        "Who is it that summons the spirit of El-veese, King of the Etruscans--ruler of Somnivar?"        "El-veese?" I said. "No, we're trying to reach El-vis--you know--Elvis Presley, King of Rock-and-Roll. Lord of Spandex and Sequins. He of the really big belt buckle."        "I know of no El-vis. Where does such a monarch rule?"        "Rule . . . Uh, Graceland . . . I guess. In Memphis. Memphis, Tennessee. Any of this ring a bell?"        There was no response.        "Hey, listen," I said. "To be honest, this 'King' thing is sort of an honorary title . . . Look, you can't miss this guy. He's got sideburns the size of hamhocks . . ."        "Enough! " the voice boomed. "El-veese the Invincible knows of no such being. Disturb me no more! "        "Okay! " I yelled, losing my cool a bit. "But tell me one thing, Bud. If you're so invincible, how come I can go to hockey games and you can't?"        The room was still. The flashing had stopped, the chill had vanished, and the crystal ball was only partly cloudy. Apparently, El-veese had left the building.        Sister Margarita lay face down on the table. She let out a moan. "Go," she said, waving me away. "Go. That is all I can do."        "Jesus Christ!" I said. "All this trouble and we got the wrong goddamn number?"        I was beginning to feel like a first-class sucker.        "That's all you can do, eh? Listen, I know a con game when I see one. El-veese! Gimme a break. Well look, 'Sister Margarita,' keep the money, okay. The show was better than 'Holiday on Ice,' but if anyone says the word 'seance' to me again . . ."        I got up from the table and stalked out, still a bit shaky from Sister Margarita's "potion."        "Hocus pocus," I said. It was the next morning, and Virgil was standing in front of my desk looking like a whipped dog.        "Trickery, a sham, the spiritual equivalent of professional wrestling. She drugged me and then used cheap special effects to 'conjure' the wrong spirit. What does she want me to believe--that Elvis Presley has an unlisted soul?"        "Maybe it was her accent," Virgil volunteered weakly.        "Give it up, Virg. Look, before I left the table, I dipped my handkerchief in that potion of hers. I ran it over to Buddy McGraw at the P.D.'s crime lab. He ran a chemical analysis of the stuff. He called me a few minutes ago. You want to know what was in it? He said he found equal parts of Gatorade, lighter fluid, Pepto-Bismol, and Homer Formby's Furniture Polish--and he couldn't identify everything in it. She probably lied to me about the eye of newt."        "You look all right to me," Virgil muttered.        "Okay. I admit it didn't taste all that bad, and it did have quite a kick to it. But I sure don't appreciate almost being poisoned so that I could have a two-minute chat with an 'ancient spirit' who was probably one of her flunkies in the next room using a Mr. Microphone!"        "I'm sorry, man," Virgil said. "I was just trying to help."        "I know, Virg. And I appreciate it." I had been getting a bit carried away. "But as much as I'd like to believe that some fortune teller with a crystal ball could give us all the answers, I'm afraid that there's no substitute for old-fashioned investigative reporting: pounding the pavement, developing the sources, asking the tough questions. . ."        "You mean like Geraldo Rivera?" Virgil asked.        "Yeah, but somehow I think Geraldo Rivera might consider Sister Margarita a reliable source." Photoillustration by Barry Willis