by Ben Adams
“Shirley? Yeah, this is John Abernathy. Is Sheriff Masters there yet?”
The sheriff came to the phone. “John, what can I do you for?”
“Well, how can I say this, our friend came to visit me?”
“Our friend?”
“Yeah, you know the one. He’s here with me right now. Wants to see you.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll be right over.”
John scrolled through his call history, not wanting to dial the next number.
“Rex Grant, please. Tell him it’s John Abernathy.”
“John. What have you found out?”
“Rex, how would you like an exclusive with an Elvis body double?” John didn’t need to sell the story. Rex Grant would have jumped at anything Elvis.
Leadbelly raised his hands, shook his head, objecting.
John put his hand over the phone and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’m just bluffing.”
John told him everything, the alien conspiracy, the Air Force’s involvement, even the Elvis connection. He could see Rex drooling on the other end of the phone, envisioning old women lined up at the supermarket, issue in one hand, a couple of dollars and a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream in the other.
“Here’s the catch, Rex, you gotta get us outta the state. The Air Force’ll lock up Leadbelly the minute they see him, and you’ll be out a story.”
“Hold on, John, I’m looking at a map right now. Can you get to Santa Fe?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“If you can get to Sante Fe, I can meet you there with a chartered flight to L.A.”
Rex Grant told John to take back roads in case the Air Force was watching the highway. He suggested which roads to take, planned their route. John wrote them down and hung up.
John quickly texted Rooftop, telling him the case had taken an interesting turn, that he’d be a few more days. Rooftop wouldn’t mind. A few more days meant more money. John debated telling him what was really going on, but knew what his response would be, that John should drive to Denver and leave everything in the hands of the police. John knew that leaving wasn’t an option, that there was nothing for him in Denver, nothing that could help solve the Sagittarian conundrum. Only Leadbelly could help him with that, and he’d given John another incentive to help him. He’d promised to tell John about his father, and to take him to Rosa.
John went to the window, peeled back the yellow curtain. The lot was empty. Every now and then, on the road, a truck going nowhere.
They heard the sheriff’s siren down the block. He sped into the motel parking lot, parking next to John, taking up a couple of spaces. Leadbelly and John ran out the door, not giving him a chance to get out of his squad car.
“What’s he doing here?” John asked as Professor Gentry got out of the car.
“I thought he and Leadbelly could talk about Elvis.”
“I know you.” Professor Gentry stared at Leadbelly, pointing his stubby finger.
“Professor Gentry. Al Leadbelly,” John said, introducing them. “He was an Elvis body double.”
“We met a couple a times at Graceland, man,” Leadbelly said.
“Where’re we going?” Sheriff Masters asked.
“Santa Fe,” John said. “Enquirer’s gonna meet us there. I told them about Leadbelly, the Air Force, everything.”
“Man, that’s not our main worry,” Leadbelly said. “We gotta get past the Air Force.”
“In that case, John,” the sheriff said, “we’re taking your car. It’ll attract less attention. Gimme the keys. I’ll drive.”
Sheriff Masters went to the back of his squad car and popped the trunk. “John, get over here.” Sheriff Masters strapped on his gun belt. He pulled a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun out of the trunk and handed it to John. “You know how to use this?”
“Yeah, I think I remember.” John rubbed his shoulder, recalling the bruise the kick of a shotgun can give a skinny teenager. And smiled remembering Rooftop’s bribe of an Xbox if John promised not to tell his mom.
The sheriff handed John some shells.
“Good. Load it in the car.”
The sky around the trailer park was pink and blue against the brown desert and rusted portable homes. Although barricades still sealed Alamo Street, the road around the entrance to the trailer park, blocking residents from returning to their homes, the tent that had covered it was being dismantled, folded and collapsed. The soldiers that had guarded the tent and protected the crime scene were packing their gear, checking their ammunition. The sliding doors of vans filled with boxes, artifacts taken from Leadbelly’s trailer, were being slammed shut. Standing next to a Hummer, arms crossed, Colonel Hollister admired the crisp and efficient movements of his men.
They’d arrived early that morning, the science team and the platoon, when the sun barely hovered above the ground and the sky had begun to brighten. Colonel Hollister requested them after he received an alert in the middle of the night that the local sheriff’s office was running the fingerprints of one of his operatives. He immediately sent Private Ramsey to Leadbelly’s trailer to check on the old drunk, see if he was passed out. Colonel Hollister watched through the monitors in their converted command center as Private Ramsey rushed from the trailer, shrieking. When he returned, breathless, talking about blood and a dead body smell, although it was only cheap cologne and dirty clothes, Colonel Hollister thought about John leaving Leadbelly’s, how calm he’d been. He scratched his head. He was actually beginning to admire the Abernathy boy. At least he didn’t embarrass himself like this.
Colonel Hollister called Los Alamos and requested everything he’d need to initiate the next phase of his investigation. He almost giggled when he hung up the phone, excited that a dead lead had been revived, his investigation renewed. He felt rejuvenated, like an aging artist that had rediscovered their love for creation.
When his authorization came, Colonel Hollister dispatched Private Mulworth to fetch his men from the town jail. The story of how John Abernathy had interfered with the retrieval of Rosa Jimenez, hospitalizing the other operative, was told to Colonel Hollister as he ate a bowl of microwave oatmeal. He took a bite and burned his mouth on an uncooled chunk of apple when he saw Sheriff Masters run from Leadbelly’s trailer, even though a convoy of Hummers and cargo vans had just exited I-25, was turning onto South Grand.
After a long day, with some unexpected fireworks, his men should’ve been returning to their families. But, as Colonel Hollister knew, their job was never over.
“Sergeant Portersley, are your men ready?” Colonel Hollister asked, shouting over the engine noise. He held an iPad, glancing at the image of a map.
“Yes, sir. The men are loaded up.” Sergeant Portersly said, dragging his finger along a scar that ran next to his ear, from his blond crew cut down to his jaw, an unconscious habit. He had served in Afghanistan before being transferred to Colonel Hollister’s unit, and thought protecting an underground research facility, pacing on the green and white tiled floor beneath neon lights, beat the hell out of getting blown up in the desert.
“And you have the coordinates?” Colonel Hollister asked.
“Yes, sir. You’re sure the target will be there?” A few ambushes on Afghani mountain roads due to bad intelligence caused him to question his commanding officers. It’s one of the reasons he was transferred. The other reason, the reason Colonel Hollister requested had him, was his predisposition for malice and persecution.
“Our intel is reliable.”
“With all due respect, sir, you’re not really giving us much to go on.”
“You have all you need,” Colonel Hollister said, glancing at his map.
“The men have questions, sir,” Sergeant Portersly said, hooking his thumbs under his body armor. “If we could just get a little more information about the target…”
“You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”
“Just telling us where to go isn’t…”
“Dismissed.” Colonel Hollister glare
d at him.
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Portersly stamped over to where some of his men were lounging next to their Hummer. He yelled at them, telling them to step it up, that they were moving out shortly and didn’t want to be left behind.
Colonel Hollister tapped the iPad against his leg. He couldn’t tell the sergeant how he got his information, how he knew John Abernathy and Al Leadbelly would be leaving town, what route they’d be taking, or the significance of either man. All Sergeant Portersley needed to know was where to stand and whom to shoot.
Al Leadbelly.
It had been years since Colonel Hollister had heard that name, not since the days when he visited Elvis in Graceland, sweating in the shade, or when Elvis lived in the suite at the International Hotel, the room smelling like stale cigarette smoke and air conditioning. Leadbelly would stand next to Elvis, whispering jokes about chocolate pudding and pussy. Elvis would laugh hysterically, because he loved both of those things. Usually at the same time. That was how he got close to Elvis, dirty jokes. But he stayed close because he was reliable, talented, always there, ready to step in if needed.
The first time he met Al Leadbelly was on August 6th, 1969. Colonel Hollister was just a major then and Elvis had finally convinced him to let him spend more time in the field investigating alien activity. Elvis had just finished his dinner show at the International Hotel in Las Vegas and was interviewing body double applicants, singers, actors, and regular people who resembled Elvis, to perform in his place. He’d seen several singers that day and didn’t like any of them. Some were too short, fat, bald, sang off key, couldn’t do karate, didn’t like Southern food, drove Lincolns instead of Cadillacs, didn’t know any of Elvis’s songs, wore bad wigs that would spawn rumors that Elvis wore a toupee to hide his drugs in, were missing three fingers on one hand, had burns on half their face from blacking out next to a radiator, or even worse, didn’t know who Elvis was. Reducing Elvis’s expectations. Elvis had pointed out a table full of women during his first show to the stage manager, had backstage passes sent to them along with shots of Southern Comfort. They were waiting in the hall and Elvis wanted to take them to his suite before his next show, but he had to listen to another hack from Buttfuck, Nowhere butcher ‘Jailhouse Rock’.
Then Al Leadbelly strutted into the dressing room. He complimented himself in the mirror, patting his hair into place. Major Hollister wanted to kick him out, but Elvis saw something familiar in Leadbelly, the inexplicable charisma, the irreverent way he asked Major Hollister to get him a French dip sandwich, that he wasn’t intimidated by the most famous person in the world, and that Leadbelly didn’t wait for an invitation to sing. He belted out ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ with all the awkward gyrations, hand gestures, and perspiration of a grown man trying to recapture his youth. Leadbelly stopped after one verse, then suggested that if they wanted to hear more, they’d have to pay him. Major Hollister moved to throw him out, but Elvis stopped him, saying Leadbelly was perfect, just what they needed. He even suggested that Leadbelly do his midnight show. Major Hollister started to protest, but Elvis hurried past him, to the group of women in the hall. He put his arms around them and walked off, telling Major Hollister not to wait up. Leadbelly sat in Elvis’s chair, opened a beer, and called for the next impersonator.
Leadbelly performed Elvis’s midnight show flawlessly, wearing Elvis’s white herringbone suit, a perfect fit. He even hired seven more body doubles, convincing them he was Elvis. Over the next couple of days, he helped Elvis hire the other four body doubles. Standing next to his Hummer, Colonel Hollister wondered if Leadbelly knew the other body doubles, if the whole thing was a set-up so they could get close to Elvis. Or maybe it was that years of working covertly had made him paranoid.
But that wasn’t what truly bothered him. It took him years to admit it, but he was actually envious of Leadbelly and the other body doubles. He had trained Elvis, nurtured him, treated him like a son. And that was the problem, by being a father figure to Elvis, he could never be as close to him as he would have liked. Their relationship would always be two-tiered, master and apprentice, teacher and student, commanding officer and top-secret-operative-that-spied-on-extraterrestrials. They could never be equals. Not like with the body doubles. They gave Elvis what Colonel Hollister never could, someone to party with, someone who mirrored Elvis in every way, shared his self-destructive need for drugs and women, the need to get as fucked up as possible every night. As much as he hated to admit it, Colonel Hollister wished that person could have been him, but that never would have happened. Even though Elvis loved him like a father, Colonel Hollister was not cool. He was still just a square.
Colonel Hollister strapped on his gun belt. He tightened it, feeling the pistol’s weight on his right hip and leg. He checked his clip, made sure there were enough rounds. He’d only need one.
“Sir,” a man said. He stood behind Colonel Hollister.
“Lieutenant Grant, out of the office at last,” Colonel Hollister said, putting his gun back in its holster. “Your first field assignment. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Rex Grant said. “I just wanted you to know that I appreciate the faith you’ve shown in me.” The other men wore desert camouflage, browns and tans, but Lieutenant Grant wore a dark blue suit and a thin black tie. He adjusted the Half Windsor knot.
“Well, you deserve it. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
“It was luck, sir. That’s all.” He was still young, early thirties, but his hair was turning gray. He ran his hand on top of it, combing it forward.
“Nonsense. Luck is just a word used by people with no initiative. You showed what you can do with a little responsibility. We haven’t been this close to winning the war since…” At his feet, a pothole had cracked and eroded the street. It had been patched with asphalt and tar, patted down with a shovel. A black lump in the road.
“Sir?”
“This is a great night,” Colonel Hollister said, putting a hand on Lieutenant Grant’s shoulder. “Just remember that. Whatever happens, whatever you see, this is a great night.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Anyway, I just wanted to come over here and thank you for the trust you’ve shown in me.” His thumb brushed the tips of his nicotine-stained fingers.
“And the promotion doesn’t hurt either.”
“No, sir, it doesn’t.” He tried to smile, but kept his mouth closed. He whitened his teeth with each cleaning, but they were starting to stain.
“You’ll find that now, with your clearance raised, you’ll start to see the world differently, like you’re looking through a window that has just been cleaned.”
“That’s very poetic, sir.”
“You would know. You’re the writer. Now, the Abernathy boy, he doesn’t suspect anything?”
“How could he, sir? To him, I’m just someone who sells gossip at the supermarkets. He has no idea what I really do.”
“Then he won’t know what’s waiting for him.”
“And you’re sure he’s who you’ve been looking for?” Lieutenant Grant searched the pockets of his tailored suit for a pack of cigarettes.
“I made a promise to his father that I’d leave his son alone, assuming his son stayed out of New Mexico, but he’s here now, and with Al Leadbelly, so I have no choice. Now, go get ready. We have a car to catch.”
Lieutenant Grant hopped in a Hummer that was loaded with armed men and smelled of gun oil, gasoline, and sweat. He lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out an open window, and draped his arm outside, his hand tapping the thick metal door.
Colonel Hollister knew Lieutenant Grant would rather stay with the science team, cataloging the various articles of debris they excavated from Leadbelly’s trailer, but it was important for him to see the effects of his work at The National Enquirer. Colonel Hollister had been to his office, seen the cubicles, the old desktop computers, Potato Chips That Look Like John Travolta Vol. 12 wall calendars, novelty coffee mugs shaped like ali
en heads or covered in middle fingers that comprised Lieutenant Grant’s work life. He’d walked past the rows of enlisted men who had been rejected from Stars and Stripes magazine for various minor offenses, usually wanting to publish stories about celebrities and their breasts. These young men, with their desire to exploit and belittle public figures, were sent to Lieutenant Grant to become the writers behind The National Enquirer’s greatest stories and headlines, selling the public on the importance of cloning mermaids and convincing its readers that the ghost of John F. Kennedy haunted a porn studio. It seemed to Colonel Hollister that every time he walked on the beige carpet between the gray, plastic walls, the men giggled at a recently written headline like it was an inside joke. And the punch line was that they weren’t writing headlines or poorly edited articles to fulfill their journalistic calling. The reason they laughed as they created absurd stories about the sex scandals of celebrity pets and fad diets of South American shamans was because they were serving their country by providing a distraction, not from the monotony of hollow jobs or indifferent families, but a distraction from the work that Colonel Hollister was doing.
And Lieutenant Grant was one of the best, although that wasn’t his real name. Rex Grant was a pseudonym given to every editor-in-chief of The National Enquirer, past and present, and the current Rex Grant was a top graduate of the Air Force’s Psychological Warfare Academy. He had an uncanny knack for giving the public just enough truth and just enough fiction, causing them to draw the wrong conclusions. Anytime he needed proof of this, Colonel Hollister went online and searched ‘conspiracy theories’, and was pleased that he never saw his name.
