“Where is everyone?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
Morrison floored the accelerator and pulled away from the F.B.R.M. complex as the train screeched to a halt.
“Gone. Just you and me left, man!”
“Then it’s time to go.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Morrison drove us back to the Butterworth. Wanda’s patrol car was pulled up near the entrance to the Bombay Club and the parking lot was filling up with arriving cars, their occupants filing into the Club in twos and threes. I recognized some of them as participants or spectators from the Oostender side of the reenactment.
Gretchen got out of a nearby truck and waved to me, “Floyd! Hey, Floyd!”
“Hold up,” I told Morrison, and we waited for Wanda’s sister.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You saved Kresge, you busted out Morrison, and you whupped the Colonel! We’re having a party! Come on,” she said, hooking her arm under mine. “I want to see Wanda’s face when you walk in.”
“I like a good party,” Morrison said.
Gretchen held out her other arm for Morrison and the three of us ambled into the Club.
Sheila stood guard at the door, as usual. Inside, Las Puertas had already started a set with a maraca-infused rendition of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.” Couples were shaking it on the dance floor, while others drank and laughed at the tables.
Miss P. and Verna were dancing with two of the Magnanini Brothers. The other two Magnaninis were working on a couple of young ladies at a nearby table. Jun Fan stood in a corner with the Ringmaster, large glasses of milk in their hands. Pino had changed into bright red, white and blue makeup, and he and Zora were doing shots with a group of other revelers.
I scanned the room for Wanda but didn’t see her. I did spy Goliath and Dot over by the bar, waving to me. Gretchen excused herself and went to join Pino and Zora, so Morrison and I walked over to the dwarf.
The wretched imp was giddy with happiness.
“This is the best business I’ve had in years!” he yelled out to us. Then he picked up shots for himself and Dot. They clanked them together, woo-hoo’d, and tossed them back.
Goliath shook his head and turned his maniacal grin on me.
“Today you drink free, Floyd!” he said. But then the grin faded a bit and he amended his declaration. “Nothing top shelf though.”
“What about me?” asked Morrison.
“No free drinks ’til you pay off your tab, deadbeat.”
He turned back to Dot. “Get these two mokes some glasses, sweets.”
“Sure thing, baby!” she said.
Goliath poured out more shots for all, then raised his glass in a toast.
“To my success!”
“To your success!” squealed Dorothy, drinking hers.
Morrison and I both raised our glasses to Goliath’s self-indulgent toast and swallowed our own drinks. Before Morrison could even lower his, Goliath informed him that he’d be adding that to the tab.
Las Puertas wrapped up their song to the applause of the crowd and Ricardo spoke into the microphone.
“Thank you! Thank you! A great day today! I think I see the man of the hour over by the bar. C’mon everyone, let’s hear it for Floyd, huh?”
The whole crowd turned to look in my direction and broke into cheers and applause. “How about a few words from the hero of Oostende?”
There was another round of hoots and applause.
People used to ask Elvis if he ever got nervous. I once saw an interview he did where he told the reporter that he got the shakes every time he went on stage, no matter how many times he did it. I remember thinking at the time it couldn’t be true. That he was being modest, true to his nature. But standing in front of the crowd, their attention focused on me, I could barely keep my own knees from shaking, even though I knew so many of the people in the Club were my friends.
“Speech! Speech!” a man called out. The demand was picked up by a few others and then the assembled group quieted down, staring at me.
I’d never been so speechless in my life. But then I knew exactly what to say.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
And they cheered, just like a horde of fans at an Elvis show.
Las Puertas started into another song and the crowd resumed their merrymaking. People both familiar and strange came up to pat me on the shoulder and thank me. I shook their hands and thanked them in return.
Once the glad-handing was out of the way, I found myself standing alone at the bar. Dot and Goliath were busy serving drinks and taking money. Morrison had joined Las Puertas up on stage.
Then I saw Wanda standing next to Sheila, trying to peer through the gloomy room while her eyes adjusted to her surroundings.
She was wearing a light blue checkered summer dress and a sheer white top with matching piping on the shoulders and around the neckline, with a decidedly feminine blue bow at the bust. Her skin was as white and clear as porcelain and her long red hair framed a clean-shaven face.
Wanda held on to a small purse, almost nervously, as she looked around the room.
She smiled when she saw me walking toward her. She grabbed her skirt as I approached and gave it a girlish spin.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“It’s a beautiful dress,” I said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” I told her, holding out my hand.
She took it. And it felt like Christmas morning.
Ricardo started snapping and the bass player thumbed out the beat to “Fever.” Morrison grabbed the microphone and started to sing.
“Come on” I told Wanda, and she followed me out onto the floor.
This time I led. When the song was over, the audience broke into applause and Wanda and I let go of each other, joining the ovation.
Morrison hopped down from the stage and walked our way, beaming. But he stopped cold a few feet away, staring past us.
I turned to see Goon Three standing there, looking at us silently.
“Give me a minute,” I told Wanda and Morrison, and stepped over to the F.B.R.M. agent.
“Time’s up. You can stay, but Morrison has to leave. Now,” he said.
“Or else?” I asked.
“Yes. Or else. I have a car waiting outside.”
“He won’t need it,” I said.
It didn’t seem right, letting the F.B.R.M. run Morrison out of town all by himself. The least I could do for my partner was do the driving.
“What was that about?” Wanda asked.
“Morrison and I have to leave. Now.”
“But you can’t go yet!” she protested.
“We go, or else,” I told her. “Morrison, get your stuff and meet me at the car.”
“I don’t have anything I can’t live without,” he said.
I grabbed Wanda’s hand and said, “Say goodbye to everyone for me, okay?”
“Sure,” she said, squeezing mine back.
“Wait!” Morrison said.
“What?”
“Aren’t you at least going to kiss her?” he asked.
This time I was sure Wanda blushed.
“No. Call me when the beard grows back in. Then we’ll see.”
“I will,” Wanda said. She turned away from us both and walked toward the bar.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two days later Morrison and I were driving up to Vernon’s estate.
“What are those?” Morrison asked as we drove by her corral of giant flightless birds.
“Emus. They’re like ostriches. Just smaller.”
“What are they for?” he asked.
I
looked out the window of the Camaro at the birds.
“No idea.”
Morrison was quiet as we pulled up to the main house and I parked the car under the shade of the weeping willow.
We got out and walked up the gravel path to the front door. Louisa came out with a glass of sweet tea in her hand.
“Hola, Señor Floyd! I thought I heard Roger’s car pull in.”
She handed me the glass of tea, which I accepted gratefully.
Louisa looked Morrison over from head to toe.
“I didn’t know you were bringing a friend. Would you like a drink?” she asked approvingly.
“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” Morrison told her.
Louisa looked at me. “And polite, too?”
“Sometimes. Louisa, this is Morrison.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Señor Morrison.”
“Is Vernon home?” I asked.
“In her study, go on back, Señor Floyd.”
“Thanks, Louisa. Oh, what happened with Roger?”
Louisa snickered.
“Ms. Vernon put him on an allowance and has him mucking the emu corral.”
“Fitting punishment,” I said.
“No,” Louisa corrected me. “Ms. Vernon has already started divorce proceedings. That is a fitting punishment.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I will go get you that tea, Señor Morrison,” Louisa said, then headed back into the house.
I led Morrison through the foyer and toward Vernon’s study. Morrison stopped and pointed to one of the paintings on the wall.
“That’s a Picasso!” he said, amazed. “It’s just hanging on her wall?”
“Vernon has stuff like that all over the house,” I told him.
“Is this a Matisse?”
“Come on.”
Morrison turned away from the paintings and followed along behind me, looking around in wonder as I pushed through the large double oak doors into Vernon’s study.
Vernon rose from behind the same corner desk she’d been at when I left for Kresge. She was wearing a pink crushed velvet jumpsuit modeled after one that Elvis liked to wear around Graceland when he was relaxing. I’m sure it looked good on Elvis, but she made it look better.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
“Vernon, this is James Morrison. Friend of mine I brought back from Kresge.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister Morrison.”
“Call me Jim,” he said. “Floyd’s told me a lot about you, Ms. Pritchard. But now that I’ve seen you with my own two eyes, I have to say, you’re far more impressive a woman than he led me to believe.”
Vernon flushed a little. The red in her cheeks complimented the pink crushed velvet.
“Call me Vernon,” she said.
“Vernon,” Morrison said.
The two stared at each other, ignoring me.
“Vernon,” I said.
“What? Oh, sorry,” she said, breaking eye contact with Morrison. “About Buddy...”
“That can wait,” I said. “We found him. Elvis.”
“You told me.”
“No, we found him alive. The body we discovered at Burrows’s place was Cougar Watts. Elvis is still walking around out there.”
Vernon circled out from behind the desk, excited.
“Where is he? What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
Vernon looked at her watch.
“I’ll have Louisa make lunch.”
* * *
A few hours later, over sandwiches and a bucket of beers, I’d told Vernon the whole story. But I kept my promise to Morrison and left out how he came to find himself in Happiness.
Throughout my telling, Vernon would turn to Morrison, ask him a question about a detail, or ask for his insights on my odyssey through Kresge. By the end, he was as much the hero of the story as I was.
Vernon leaned back in her chair and let out a petite, ladylike belch.
“Sounds like you wouldn’t have found this Roman guy without Jim’s help,” she said.
“I suppose not,” I said guardedly.
“I’m sure Floyd would have done just fine without me,” Morrison added, but didn’t try to sound convincing.
“I’m sure he would have,” Vernon said.
“So you saw this Roman guy for, what, twenty seconds? Less?” she asked me.
“About that, yeah.”
“But you really believe this is him?”
“I do.”
Vernon sat forward again and put her hand on top of Morrison’s.
“What about you? Do you think it was him?”
Morrison put his free hand on top of hers, making a Vernon hand sandwich, and looked into her eyes.
“I don’t know. We’ll probably never know, but I’d like to believe it was.”
Vernon gazed back at Morrison like a schoolgirl with a crush. She was even holding her breath.
Without removing her hand, she exhaled and turned to me, “Do you think you can find him again?”
“I’d say he practically invited me to,” I told her.
“But there’s no rush, is there?”
“No.”
“Good!” Vernon said. “Jim, how would you like to come out and see my emus?”
“I’d love to. They’re magnificent-looking birds,” he said. “After that could you give me a tour of the house? You have some amazing artwork. The Picasso you have in the hall really blew me away.”
We all got up from the table and went through the open arch that led to Vernon’s living room.
“I have another one in my bedroom. It’s supposed to be one of his masterpieces or something,” she told him. “I keep it there because I think it’s a bit too pornographic for polite company.”
Vernon turned to me again. “You don’t mind, do you? If I go show Morrison around a bit?”
“Nope. I’ll keep Louisa company in the kitchen.” I said. “Just don’t take too long. I’d like to get back on the road before dark.”
“Jim, have you thought about where you’ll go? Do you have a place to stay?” Vernon asked.
“Not really, no,” he said.
“He can stay with me,” I said.
“Don’t be silly, Floyd. Buddy told me all about that basement apartment of yours. Jim, I want you to stay here, on the ranch. There’s plenty of room. I’m sure you have some wonderful stories to tell.”
“That would be great,” he said, then hurriedly turned to me, “If that’s okay with you, partner?”
“Sure, stay with Vernon.”
Morrison turned his grateful smile back to her.
“Great. Let’s go see those birds.”
“I really should get back to Pocatello, see if I have any other clients,” I told the couple.
“Okay,” Vernon said without looking at me. She and Morrison had almost completely tuned me out.
“I’ll see myself out,” I said.
“Bye, Floyd,” Morrison said.
“Yeah, bye,” Vernon said absently.
It was hard to imagine Morrison and Vernon as a couple, but then, I had a thing for an authoritarian bearded lady who carried a big gun. I left the two of them making goo-goo eyes and headed for the door.
Louisa was waiting for me in the foyer.
“Ms. Vernon likes your friend,” she said.
“Seems that way,” I told her.
“Is he a good man?” she asked.
Roger was still fresh in her mind.
“He’s not the best man in the world, but he’s far from the worst,” I told her. “And he won’t end up in Reno being photographed naked.”
“Adios,
Señor Floyd,” she said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Adios, Louisa.”
I walked out to the Camaro and opened the door. I was about to sit down when I saw Roger coming down the gravel road behind the wheel of an ATV. He was towing a small flatbed trailer with a heaped pile of emu droppings on it. His fine clothes had been replaced by dirty overalls covered in bird crap up to the knees. I couldn’t see his hands but I’m sure the manicure had taken a beating.
He looked up and saw me. I waved to him.
Roger scowled back and kept driving.
The Camaro burst to life on the first turn of the ignition. I revved the engine a bit, just to make sure Roger could hear it. I pulled out of Vernon’s driveway and headed out on the highway into the setting sun.
Thinking about Morrison and Vernon reminded me of something else that Elvis once said, “Love is like when you pull into a service station and know that you don’t want to go any farther, that you can be happy right there.” He loved cars, so it would make sense for him to use an automotive analogy to describe amoré. I’m not, by nature, a car guy, so I hadn’t given this particular aphorism much thought until now, but for the first time I sort of understood it.
One of the nice things about desert highways, you can slow down and make a U-turn and nobody notices.
I put the setting sun behind me and drove east, following the same highway that had taken me to Kresge the first time. It would take a few months for Wanda’s beard to grow in, but I’d decided not to wait.
* * * * *
About the Author
Ricardo is a comic book writer, producer and web publisher. His comic book credits include Resident Evil, Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight, Teen Titans Go, and the Kickstarter-funded A Hero’s Death graphic novel, among many others. In addition to comic book and fiction writing, Ricardo is an accomplished video and game producer, and won an Emmy for his animated series Tomb Raider ReVisioned, based on the Tomb Raider game franchise. When he’s not writing, Ricardo is an avid driver of ’70s cars, attends classic toy shows, and enjoys watching ’70s cartoons with his daughter.
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