Halfway House (22 page)

“It’s like a test to see if the story is really true. After all, I can’t exactly match DNA, so I’m figuring if that part of Sister Agnes’s story is true, the rest will be too.”

“What are you gonna do if you find out Elvis really is your father?” Lucy had asked. “You gonna track down Lisa Marie and start calling her Sis? You gonna ask for your share of the millions?”

“You know,” Bobby replied. “I’m not gonna lie and tell you that the idea of being rich never crossed my mind. But that’s not what’s most important to me.”

“What then?”

“The idea of belonging. I never had that. If Elvis does turn out to be my father, I can at least know I have a family out there. Every time I hear a song or see a picture or watch a movie I would remember that he was my father. I don’t know. The idea of that seems special to me.”

“And if the album doesn’t exist?”

“Then nothing has changed.”

“It could still be possible.”

“What? That Elvis is my daddy? Nah. Everything is balanced on the head of a pin and that pin is
Heartbreak Hotel
. Without that, everything comes tumbling down and like Humpty Dumpty, once fallen, you might as well kick him and Elvis to the curb, as helpful as they’d be. No, the album is proof that all of this isn’t crazy.”

He was nose-to-nose with the glass covering the platinum album. His mouth felt like ash. He bit his lip. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling. Then he read the words.
Suspicious Minds
. Damn. All the air left him as the opening strains to the song strayed free in his mind.

“You look a bit like him,” a deep voice said from behind.

Bobby caught the reflection in the glass. Shrewsbury. If Bobby wasn’t very careful, he’d be in big trouble. He turned and found a smile from somewhere.

“I hear that all the time, actually.”

“I don’t think I know you.” He said it simply, with no threat implied. Behind him, the others were strumming the selection of guitars on stage. The only other people nearby were the two Asians, who seemed deaf and dumb to the conversation.

Bobby decided to go for as much truth as he could stand. “Name is Bobby Dupree. Hope you don’t mind me crashing the party. I heard about it down at the Viper Room and decided this was the place to spend my Saturday night.”

“Who’d you hear about it from at the Viper?”

This was the part of his cover story that had some holes. “An old surfer friend of mine named Kanga. He said you’re always having a party and that I should come if I get the chance, especially ’cause of my background.”

“Background?”

“I’m from Memphis and insane about everything Elvis.” He pulled up his sleeve and showed Shrewsbury the tattoo of Elvis’s head drawn from a picture from the 1972 Hawaii Tour. “Kanga said you had some memorabilia.” He turned to the wall. “He wasn’t exaggerating. This is incredible.”

Shrewsbury smiled and placed a meaty hand on Bobby’s shoulder, drawing him into his personal space. “Well then, welcome, Bobby Dupree. Yeah, these are some of the best in my collection.
Suspicious Minds
is a classic. One of my favorites.” He sang the opening verse, his voice deep blue velvet to match the carpet. When he was done, he grabbed a glass of beer from the tray, drained half of it then put it back down.

“I got it from a guy in Upland who thought he could beat my inside straight. He had three queens and tried to draw a ten or an eight to make a full boat, but came up short. I was more than happy to take this baby as collateral until he found the means to pay.”

“What was the bet?”

“A hundred thousand.”

Bobby whistled.

“You should have seen his face as I sat with two through six of trashy little cards. But then that’s my life. I’ve always surprised people by making things work. I built all this on trashy little videos and now look at me.”

And how exactly does Verdina know you?
Bobby begged to ask. But instead he kept the man’s ego stroked. “This is an amazing place. Almost as big as Graceland.”

“Do you really think so?” Shrewsbury’s eyes brightened. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard some incredible things.”

“Oh, yeah.” Bobby painted a serious frown on his face as he nodded. “And Elvis would have loved
this
place. For instance, the living statues in the entryway. If it hadn’t been for his momma, Elvis would have insisted on one of those. He’d do nothing that would upset his momma.”

“My mother was a meth addict and let all sorts of bad things happen to me. I don’t care if the bitch lives or dies.”

The sudden change threw Bobby. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing came. Luckily, he was saved by Shrewsbury himself as his mood swung wildly back to where it had been. “What about this gold album? Have you seen this one? I consider this his best movie.”

Bobby peered through the glass and read the words
King Creole
. Although it wasn’t his revered
Heartbreak Hotel
, just seeing something that his father had most certainly touched was achingly special to him.

“I loved this one too,” he said. “Wasn’t Vic Morrow in it?”

“Yes, he was. You really know your movies. Vic is a legend in the business and was a good friend before he died.”

“I didn’t know he died.”

“Didn’t you see the movie
Twilight Zone
? Where have you been? It was all over the news when it happened back in the early 1980s.”

“I was in an orphanage back then. We didn’t have television.”

“Old Vic died along with two kids in a helicopter accident. Really a fucking tragedy. I tried to help out his daughter, offered her a few parts, but she wouldn’t come near me back then. Said she was too good for my kind of movie.” He stared wistfully into space as if he were imagining directing this girl in an acrobatic love scene. “She had these
fuck me
eyes I hadn’t seen since Bette Davis. She could stop traffic on the 405 with those eyes.”

Bobby didn’t have any idea who she was, so he smiled and nodded, but his eyes gave him away.

Shrewsbury whistled. “What grave did you crawl out of, boy? You don’t know who the hell I’m talking about, do you?”

Bobby shook his head.

“Jennifer Jason Leigh,” the host offered. When Bobby still didn’t seem to recognize the name, Shrewsbury rolled his eyes. “She played the hottie teenie virgin in
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
. She played a hottie hooker in
Last Exit to Brooklyn
. She played a hottie psycho roommate in
Single White Female
.”

All Bobby could do was shake his head again.

“Let me guess. The orphanage. What happened to you, boy, they keep you locked in a closet?”

They’d managed to gain a crowd. Everyone in the studio was gathered behind Shrewsbury and he played to them, catching their eyes and shaking his head with every revelation about Bobby’s ignorance.

Bobby’s strategy of getting in and out with just a quick reconnaissance was going to hell fast. He was the center of attention and didn’t like it one bit.

He felt his face burning and had to concentrate not to stare at the ground. “No,” he said.

“He gives me the creeps,” a slim blonde said, frowning over the lip of a red martini.

“What’s wrong, Sally?”

“Is he really an orphan?”

“He says he is.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Why? Because he was an orphan?”

“No, because no one wanted him, like he was some kind of secret serial killer or something. Why wouldn’t someone want to adopt a kid?”

Bobby wanted to tell her about the million kids that went unadopted every year. He wanted to tell her about the state of social services in the country and the way children were treated as notations in ledgers predicating budget lines. He wanted to tell her about a system corrupt with parents who took kids in for a monthly check, and were often criminals who molested them. He wanted to slap that information into her Southern California skull.

Shrewsbury guffawed. “Is that true, Bobby Dupree? Are you a secret serial killer who escaped the welfare system?”

“I’m just a guy,” he gulped, trying to maintain composure. “I don’t mean no harm.”

“I come in peace,” mimicked someone in the crowd. “Maybe the reason he doesn’t know anything is because he isn’t from this planet. Maybe he’s an alien.”

The crowd snickered. The woman next to him elbowed him in the ribs. He merely shrugged. “It could be true.” His face was now molten red.

“The alien orphan from the planet Elvis,” Shrewsbury guffawed. He put his arm around the slim girl and pulled her to him. By the way she leaned in, Bobby could tell it was a place she was used to holding. “What should I do with him, Sal? Should we let him stay or kick him to the curb?”

The crowd erupted with shouts, with
kick him to the curb
far more popular than
let him stay
, although there were a few of the latter. Hands were thrust forward, thumbs pointing up and down as if this were an impromptu gladiator match.

“Listen,” Bobby said, pressing his palms out. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just wanted to see your Elvis stuff. I just—”

The girl cut him off. “Kick him to the curb, Shrews. He gives me the creeps.”

“There you have it. It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Bobby Dupree from the planet of green-skinned Elvii.” Shrewsbury grinned drunkenly at his own joke. “You can come along quietly, or if you prefer, and this is my personal preference, you’ll create a scene and I’ll get a chance to see my security force in action.”

“No. It’s all right. I’ll go.” A man reached for his elbow, but Bobby jerked away, keeping his hands in the air at chest level.

The crowd moved with him as he ascended the stairs, heckling and laughing, making fun of his
orphanhood
, crooning
Hound Dog
and
Blue Suede Shoes
until it was a drunken chorus of misremembered verse and out of tune parody.

He turned left and saw a crowded room before him. His eyes were drawn to a tall redhead tongue-deep in a muscular black man’s face, their lips tight against each other. Between them, her dress fluttered as a dwarf stood, his head hidden beneath the cloth, his face presumably buried in her crotch. Everyone who’d been watching this, turned momentarily toward Bobby, the noise from his entourage drowning out conversation and the sound of dwarven-created moans.

Bobby had never been more embarrassed in his life. He smiled weakly and was about to excuse himself when his vision slammed hard against the walls of a tunnel. Suddenly the dwarf beneath the woman’s dress seemed a hundred feet away. His vision dimmed even farther. He felt his body buzz with energy and begin to shake.

Oh no. Not now. Please God, not now.

Then he felt himself falling, but instead of hitting the floor, he went right through it into a leopard skin bed slowly rotating. All around him stood Elvii, a hundred impersonators of every shape and size. Black, white, Hispanic, Japanese...even green-skinned alien Elvii. Fat. Thin.

The midget from beneath the woman’s dress peeked out with an Elvis head. As one, all of them reached toward him and in a single Elvis stereo voice said,
“We’re your father, Bobby. Stay with us. We love you.”

*  *  *

Split was positioned on the
Welcome to San Pedro
pedestrian bridge that spanned Gaffey Street where the 110 ended and began. The sides and roof of the bridge were completely enclosed, encasing the pedestrian walkway in a wire mesh cocoon. The only ways in or out were the entrances on either side of the street. These he watched as closely as the street beneath him. The last thing he needed was to be trapped like a rat. All he had was a lock blade knife. He’d never used it in a fight and hoped he’d never have to, but if it meant living or dying, well, that would change everything.

Lucy had positioned lookouts at all the entrances to San Pedro. He wanted to know when MS 13 arrived. There was no mystery whether they were going to come or not. It was only a matter of when. After last night, they’d be wondering where their boys went. They could wonder all they wanted. The three gangbangers were buried in the crevices of Sunken City and would never be found. Even so, that wouldn’t stop the Salvadorans from looking.

A silver Lexus with white undercarriage lights rolled to a stop at the light. It had no front plates. Split tried to make out the driver and passenger, but the tinting was too dark. They were just darker shapes. The car fit the profile, though.

He was prepared to thumb the telephone when the light changed. As traffic entered San Pedro, Split took a second and stepped to the other side of the bridge. The rear window had the same tinting as the front, but the license plate caught his eye. Arizona. He relaxed a moment. The Salvadoran’s could be using out-of-state cars, but the chances were low. They liked flashy foreign rides and pickups and didn’t usually try and hide their plates.