Mesopotamia (23 page)
“Amazing that he believed you.”
“I think the fact that I didn’t go to the tabloids with the story and try exploiting him for every possible cent made me credible.”
“He’s right,” I said. “That would’ve been a million-dollar story.”
“Truth is, I would’ve tried doing that, considering all the circumstantial evidence and whatnot, but I still had a contract on my head. Before handing over the check, Snake made a generous offer. He said he wanted to get out of Memphis, go back to good country living, and he’d found this old barnhouse up here. If I wanted, he’d keep the twenty grand and I could partner up with him. I think he wanted the Elvis imprimatur that only a twin could provide.”
“How’d you get the mansion?”
“It’s his mansion, I really am just the groundskeeper,” he said. “Snake bought a newer house so he let me live here. He was always quite generous if you played ball with him.”
I chuckled and confessed that I still didn’t fully believe any of this.
“Hey, I hope you don’t believe me.”
“Okay,” I countered, “let’s just say hypothetically that Elvis did discover a twin or someone who kind of looked like him, but this was in the mid-’70s when his drug-addled lifestyle had spun out of control. And he desperately wanted a way out …”
“Please don’t suggest something stupid, like Elvis killed his own twin just so he could—”
“I was going to suggest that the twin actually overdosed. I mean, what proof do you have that you’re the copy and not the original?”
“Being Elvis’s twin is like being the very small moon to a very large planet. Every day I feel his gravitational pull. And my pulling back is all I have to make me
me
.”
“Have you ever considered how much money you can get just telling your story?”
“Didn’t you say the story you came down here for was that little piece of tail from Memphis who ran off with Snake’s son?”
“Who?”
“You know: the girl from Memphis who all you reporters are writing about …”
Despite all he was saying, I strongly sensed that I was looking at the living, breathing King of Rock and Roll. He was only bringing up Missy Scrubbs because he wanted me to overlook a much bigger story that would be far harder to prove.
Revealing this small-town bar owner as Elvis Presley—or even his twin—would make me an easy million. It would get me endless assignments and thrust me permanently into the limelight of tabloid writing. At the end of my life, it would be the lasting detail emblazoned on my obituary. Every bone in my body said,
Go for it
, but the little squiggly tadpole still inside my womb said otherwise. If this pregnancy did actually go to full-term, how would I tell my child that I sold out his daddy?
“So where’s Missy Scrubbs?” I asked to bring it all to an end.
“Hiding out with Roscoe Major, living off the ransom money they took from that poor accountant husband of hers down in Memphis.”
“And where exactly are they hiding?”
Jeeves said he’d find out first thing tomorrow. When I drowsily plunked down into a recliner, he offered to let me spend the night. It was around three in the morning and I could never get a full night’s sleep at Vinetta’s, so I agreed.
Several hours later I awoke to the sound of a police walkie-talkie. Sheriff Nick was moving up over the hill with one of the Evils, inspecting the site of poor Snake’s recent hunting accident. When I peeked out, I could see one of the barflies handing over Vinetta’s gun as his own. I returned to sleep only to be awakened about an hour later when my cell rang. It turned out to be Vinetta asking why the heck I hadn’t returned home yet.
“All is fine,” I told her, still too tired to elaborate. She let me return to sleep, but I didn’t. All I could think about was what I could do for her and those seven needy little children. They were looking for some miracle and I was supposed to provide it.
The phone interrupted my worries. This time it was Ludmilla. Before I could ask to call back, she said that last night she and Bella had been watching a local variety show, which this week was the Sing the King contest, and to their shock they saw me performing onstage.
“You’re supposed to be in New York raising seven kids!” she reminded me. “What the hell is going on?”
When I asked her where she was, she said she was still at Rodmilla’s house.
“We’re waiting for the agents,” she explained.
“What agents?”
“Real estate agents, about selling the home and store.”
I told her to drip some hazelnut decaf, I’d be there within the hour to explain everything. As I headed out, Elvis’s alleged twin walked me out near my car and said, “Give me your cell number?”
I scribbled it down for him.
“I’m having a bit of trouble finding Roscoe’s whereabouts, but I’m heading down to Memphis to get it for you.”
“You’re not going to vanish on me, are you?”
“You know I’ll always be with you, darling,” he said in perfect Elvis pitch, then he was gone.
F
orty-five minutes later, hastily dressed and still groggy, I was pulling into the gravel-crunchy driveway of Rodmil-la’s house in Mesopotamia.
Bella greeted me at the door and led me inside where I could see the place had been cleared out and cleaned impeccably. Many of the little personal flourishes acquired over a lifetime had been thrown out or packed in boxes. Most of the furniture was piled in the rear, close to the driveway.
“We’re donating it all to whichever organization sends a truck soonest,” Bella explained. “An agent came by yesterday and made an assessment.”
“ZigRat’s too?”
“We’re closing it next week to sell off whatever stock we can. Poor Pete’s taking it the hardest.”
“What the heck’s going on with you?” Ludmilla came flying down the stairs. “Why were you on that show, and where are your kids?”
“Would you like something to drink?” Bella said, a little more relaxed. “I just mixed a mint julep.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’re kidding! An eighth baby?”
“I have a slight confession,” I said. “Those weren’t my kids. I was babysitting when you called, so I told them to say they were mine.” The two sisters exchanged glances.
“We kinda figured as much,” Ludmilla replied, chuckling.
“Really?”
“Sweety, you’re of Asian extraction and you show up with seven of the blondest Aryan children I ever saw outside of Germany. We might be dumb, but we’re not stupid.”
I started giggling with embarrassment.
“What we really want to know is why you pulled a stunt like that.”
“I know it was dumb, but I just felt so inadequate with you both, and the fact that Mom died and neither of you even called me—I felt you were trying to squeeze me out.”
“That doesn’t explain what you’re doing in an Elvis Presley look-alike contest,” Ludmilla responded.
“Actually, I was working on a story regarding several murders down here—”
“Who’s their real mother?” Luddy interrupted. “Where does she live?”
It was then the flash strobed across the wide synapses of my pickled brain, sparking the great idea:
this
big old home would be perfect for Vinetta. Not only would her kids have a great space where they could grow up, but she could run the old store out front, which always earned Mom a decent income.
“How much did the agent think this place could go for?”
“She thought that a small successful store and a big house out here could fetch somewhere between two-fifty and three hundred thousand.”
“She said the local real estate market hasn’t been too strong since the mine went under.”
“Cassandra, if you’re worried that we’re going to cut you out,” Ludmilla said, “I guarantee you’ll get your third.”
“No, I just think I might have a prospective buyer, but she’s not exactly rich. She’s the mother of all those kids.”
“Where do they live?” Ludmilla asked with her typical maternal concern.
“In a broken-down trailer in Daumland,” I said. “If I could get two-forty—that’s eighty thousand dollars apiece—would you guys consider it?”
“I’d need some time to think about it,” Ludmilla responded.
“Me too,” Bella said, but then added, “I’d be more inclined to say yes if they agreed to keep Pete on.”
“Absolutely,” Ludmilla said, giving me a spark of hope. My sisters were both genuinely concerned about the man who had spent his entire life helping mom.
“Do me a favor and don’t donate any of the furniture until you decide,” I said. “In fact, hold onto everything except for Mom’s personal effects.”
“Why?”
“Vinetta will probably need them.”
“Okay.” Both had to make some calls in order to undo plans to scatter possessions, but they were willing to help.
I used the time to go to the store, which had about half a dozen people inside purchasing heavily discounted items.
“I’m so sorry about your mother’s passing,” Pete said when I greeted him.
I heard an annoyed cough behind me. One of the locals was holding a bag of nearly brown apples and a dusty carton of spaghetti. I stepped to one side and let Pete tally up and bag the purchase.
“How are you fixed for cash?” I asked.
“Between my disability, my savings, and Social Security, I’m okay,” he said. “But what will I do with my days other than just sit in my room?”
“Well, I know a young woman who might take over the store. She has a bunch of kids and could use someone of your expertise, though she doesn’t have much money.”
“We can work that out.” Pete was always kind and patient with us when we were growing up.
“She really doesn’t know anything about the business.”
“Well, I don’t know anything else
but
this business, so we’d be a pretty good match.”
I spent the afternoon chatting with my sisters, resisting the temptation to drink and smoke. For the baby’s sake, I had to be good. Around four o’clock my cell phone chirped.
“Okay, write this down,” Elvis Presley’s twin said. “Snake’s son Roscoe is staying at a private bungalow on a beach in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know if he’s still there or how much longer he’ll be there for, so if you hope to do this, you had better move it.”
“I’ll leave at once.”
“A serious word of warning: Roscoe’s a horny nitwit, but he’s as fierce as his daddy. If he finds you, he’s going to try to figure out who told you he was there before he kills you.”
“I’ve done this a bunch of times and haven’t gotten killed yet,” I assured him. He gave me an address on some street called Costera a Barra de Navidad, then wished me Godspeed. I thanked him and said I’d call him when I returned.
“Careful, and good luck.”
I called United Airlines and made reservations for a flight leaving that evening from Nashville to Mexico City with a one-hour wait for a connecting flight on Mexicana Airlines to sunny Puerto Vallarta. My sisters were staying at Ma’s house till the middle of next week, so I told them I’d see them in a few days.
In addition to my laptop, I packed a couple articles of clothing including a bathing suit. In the trunk of my car, I looked through Gustavo’s suitcase of high-tech photographic gear—some dramatic shots of Missy the runaway bride would be vital. I took his longest zoom lens and his tiny digital camera. Then I sped over to Nashville International Airport and made it through security just as they announced that my gate was open. As I dashed through the long accordion-like passage to the airplane, my phone chirped.
“What’s going on?” Vin asked frantically. “Are you okay? Did he give you any cash?”
“He feels that Floyd was trying to extort him and he’s sorry Floyd was killed but an extortionist is an extortionist.” The airline stewardess grabbed my ticket and pointed me to a seat. “So the bad news is he’s not paying us.”
“Do we take the hand to the FBI?”
“We could go that way,” I said, as I loaded my carry-ons overhead, “but even with the hand we’d have a hard time proving anything. He’s claiming Snake did all the murders without his consent or knowledge and, frankly, I believe him.” People seated along the aisle were glancing at me nervously.
“Shit!”
“The good news is he kind of made a counteroffer, and I think it’s pretty fair, but it’s a little complicated.” I squeezed past two people to a window seat.
“What is it?”
“Well, it all depends on a few things. I’d rather explain it to you in person.”
“Where are you? Can you come out here now?”
“I’m in Nashville and I’m about to go down to Mexico.”
“Mexico?” After a long pause, her tone grew clearly suspicious and she said, “I hope you guys aren’t … I mean, I’ve got seven kids, Cassandra, and I just hope their daddy didn’t die for nothing.”
They announced that all cell phones and other electrical equipment had to be turned off.
“Look, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I’m pursuing something that might get the money you’re looking for.”
The stewardess was walking up the aisle to make sure everyone’s seats were positioned upright and their belts buckled.
“What is going on!” Vin sounded like she was losing it.
It was impossible to explain everything in a matter of seconds, so I simply said, “Vinetta, do you trust me?”
“I guess, but—”
“Then I’m begging you: give me a little while and I’ll explain everything.”
“But—”
“At this point I have nothing, and there’s no point in talking when you got nothing. All I’m asking for is a few more days.”
“But …”
“What?”
“Just tell me that he didn’t give you a suitcase stuffed with hundred-dollar bills and you’re running off with it.”
“I give you my word.” The stewardess was gesturing for me to hang up.
“Cause I’ve had a lifetime of that.”
“Trust me.”
Hesitantly, she said she did, then hung up.
I buckled up and dozed off almost immediately. I awoke to severe turbulence—we were passing over the dark, bumpy terrain of northern Mexico—and I felt nauseous. Fortunately, we soon landed in the mountainous megalopolis of Mexico City. Since the flight had taken longer than planned, I made it just in time to my connecting flight.