What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  “Yes.”

  “And now you’re in the witness protection program.”

  “Could you say that a little louder?”

  “Sorry.”

  The waiter came by, a very metrosexual-looking kid with rectangular glasses and mussed hair. He topped off my decaf, asked Kelly if she wanted more OJ. She shook her head sharply once; he got the hint and split.

  She said, “Can I ask what you did that was so bad?”

  “No, not yet,” I said, mostly because I didn’t know yet myself. “Let’s pace this a little, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, but I could see that she was humming with excitement, bursting with a need to spread this news. I felt bad for lying, but the bigger picture was far more important.

  “This has to be our secret, okay?” I said.

  She nodded slowly. Almost reluctantly. “It will be, I promise.”

  “If you can keep this one secret, perhaps I will tell you more. But you have to prove to me that you can keep this one.”

  “You sound like you’re lecturing a little girl.”

  “Well, you are fifteen years my junior.”

  “Okay, fine,” she said, sticking out her bottom lip. “I can keep a secret.”

  “You need to call your investigator off, too.”

  “Okay, I will,” she said.

  We were silent. Three loud young men came into the restaurant, spotted the cops and quieted down immediately. Kelly reached out and took both my hands. Her palms were moist.

  “I’m sorry, Aaron. I really am. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  I couldn’t let her off the hook. I needed this issue to go away, and I needed to show her how much I was bothered by this. Perhaps then, in the future, she would think twice about pulling another stunt like this.

  “No, it’s not easy,” I said. “Not to mention your private eye might very well jeopardize my life. Kelly, who I was in the past is dead. You have to let that go.”

  She nodded slowly, and then more vigorously. “I understand, and I’m sorry. I’ll call him off tonight.” She kept holding my hands, running her thumbs over my thick fingers. “Maybe with this out in the open we can finally move forward. Do you want that?”

  I looked up at this beautiful woman who had put up with me for the last few years. Sure, we had our ups and downs. Sure, the downs were mostly because of me and my secrets. But she had persevered. She loved me and did not want me for my wealth or fame or because I was the King. She wanted me for me, because I made her feel good. And that made me feel damn good, too.

  “Yes,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I want that.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dr. Vivian Carter was a small woman with big glasses. She was also my therapist, and as I stepped into her office and eased down into her wingback chair for my weekly appointment, I could feel the weight of her considerable stare upon me now; a weight, no doubt, made more considerable due to her incredibly thick glasses.

  A month ago, in one long rambling session, I disclosed to Dr. Vivian my super-secret Elvis identity. I never intended to, but I found myself trusting her deeply, and since all my other problems were tied to this one big issue—this one epic issue—then I was going to have to come clean.

  And so I did.

  Now, of course, the good Dr. Vivian thought I was a nutcase. And why shouldn’t she? Just another loony claiming to be Elvis. Still, this loony had given her evidence—proof—that I was, in fact, Elvis Presley. Whether or not she chose to believe the evidence was another matter.

  Now we were in her office, located on the ground floor of her stately two-story bungalow-style home here in Echo Park. Dr. Vivian sat behind an executive desk that seemed entirely too massive for her small office. Had she been a male therapist, I would have suspected penis compensation issues. Being a female therapist, as it were, I was out of theories. The blinds behind her desk were partly open and the sun was pouring in. As I looked out the window, the small shadow of a small bird flitted by and alighted on a nearby skeletal tree branch. The bird twittered pleasantly. Seconds later, the silhouette of a cat appeared on the window’s ledge, creeping toward the bird.

  Ah, the wheels of life keep on turning....

  Dr. Vivian was forty-seven, petite, and quite the looker; that is, if you liked the nerdy type. And with her it was easy to like the nerdy type. Luckily, no pocket protector.

  Admittedly, I had the hots for her. In a bad way, actually. Officially, she was a family and marriage counselor. Unofficially, she took a sort of holistic approach to people and their problems, which is what appealed to me in the first place. After all, I didn’t want to know why I was messed up. I wanted to know the greater purpose behind why I was messed up.

  “What would you like to talk about today?” Dr. Vivian asked, completely unaware of the cat stalking the bird directly behind her. And, no doubt, completely unaware that I had it bad for her.

  “Let’s talk about me for a change,” I said.

  She smiled but said nothing. Dr. Vivian didn’t find me nearly as entertaining as I found myself.

  “Actually,” I said. “I would like to talk about who I really am.”

  “Who you really are?” she said, and I could hear the slight disapproval in her voice.

  “Unfortunately, doctor, I still think I’m Elvis.”

  She shifted in her chair and tapped the eraser end of her pencil against a poster-sized desk calendar spread over the surface of her voluminous desk. Numerous scribblings covered the desk calendar. Unfortunately, I was sitting too far away to read the scribblings, although I was admittedly curious. What did therapists scribble about, anyway?

  “Fine, let’s talk about it. So what is it, exactly, that you want from me, Mr. King?”

  “I want you to believe me.”

  “To believe that you are Elvis Presley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Last week I had a patient tell me he was God.”

  “Did he turn your Liquid Paper into wine?”

  Again, she didn’t smile.

  “You see my point,” she said.

  “Yes. You deal with a lot of crazies.”

  “We don’t use the term ‘crazy’ here. Delusional, perhaps.”

  “You think I’m delusional?”

  “My beliefs are not the issue here.”

  “I beg to differ,” I said. “I need a therapist who believes me, who believes in me. A therapist who does not patronize me.”

  “You’re asking a lot of me,” she said.

  “I think you’re up to the challenge.”

  She studied me. “The easy diagnosis is that you suffer from a dissociative identity disorder.”

  “In English.”

  “You think you’re someone else.”

  “Maybe I should have picked Brad Pitt, then.”

  “This isn’t funny, Mr. King.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “So what’s your diagnosis?”

  She took in some air, held it, tapped her pencil on the calendar some more, then looked me squarely in the eye. “You don’t have a dissociative identity disorder.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, Mr. Presley, you don’t.”

  * * *

  I stopped breathing. Had I heard her right?

  A hint of a smile touched her lips, then spread to her entire face. As it did, a fabulous weight fell from my shoulders and I nearly wept.

  “You gave me proof the last time we met,” she said. “I checked your proof. Everything checked out.” She suddenly stood, leaned across her desk and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Elvis Presley. I’m Dr. Vivian Carter.”

  Too stunned to speak, I reached numbly across her desk and took her hand.

  Chapter Nine

  “You believe me then?” I asked.

  She didn’t immediately answer, nor did she release my hand. Instead, she stood there looking down at me, her eyes searching every square inch of my face. Beyond Dr. Vivian, framed nearly perfectly in the wind
ow, was the silhouette of the tomcat sitting motionless on the window ledge. The bird, clueless, went about its business energetically, hopping contentedly from branch to branch. Finally, the good doctor released my hand and sat back in her chair.

  “I do, Mr. King, but this is highly irregular.”

  “Highly,” I said.

  “You have a lot of issues.”

  “More than you know,” I said.

  The lens of her considerable glasses caught some of the afternoon sun, nearly blinding me. From behind her desk, she carefully crossed one leg over the other, and from where I sat, I could see some of her exposed knee. Hubba hubba.

  “So what made you finally believe me?” I asked.

  “The list of names you provided. The plastic surgeon, in particular.”

  “You called him.”

  “I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing at first. Until I gave him the password. Cute.”

  “Well, we all have a little hound dog in us, doctor,” I said. Hound dog, was, of course, the password. Dr. Castro, my plastic surgeon so many years ago and a wonderful friend, had been sworn to silence. Unless he was given the password. “So what did Dr. Castro tell you?”

  “He described the surgery he performed on you. Radical face-altering surgery. Nose job, chin implant, reshaping of the ears, mouth, eyes.” She paused, studied me again. “He did a wonderful job, you know. You look nothing like him—or you. You know what I mean.” Her face actually reddened.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “I know what you mean.”

  “But now I can see the similarities.”

  “Lucky me.”

  The clock on the wall behind me ticked loudly, filling the big room with its small noise. The bird hopped over to another branch, then to another, moving ever closer to the statuesque cat.

  Dr. Vivian said, “Admittedly, I was slow to move forward, slow to believe. I mean, you have to understand my hesitation.”

  “I understand.”

  “But everything checked out. Everything. Especially the surgeon.”

  I smiled. “And here you thought I was crazy.”

  She smiled back at. “The verdict is still out, Mr. King. You did, after all, fake your own death.”

  “You should try it sometime; it’s very liberating.”

  She ignored that. “We’re going to have to start over with your sessions, you know.”

  “I understand.”

  “Everything has changed. I mean, you went from being Aaron King to Elvis fucking Presley.”

  “Such language for a therapist.”

  “I think our once traditional doctor/patient relationship might have flown out the window.”

  Much like the bird. It suddenly darted off the branch, swooped down, then disappeared from view. The tom watched it go, flattening his ears, his wound-up energy dissipating in an instant. He flicked his tail once, then slinked off.

  Dr. Vivian was studying me, completely unaware of the drama behind her. “You have issues with guilt,” she said. “And now I see why. You abandoned your daughter.”

  “You get right to it,” I said, shifting.

  “You’re paying me to help you, not gush over you.”

  “How much to gush over me?”

  She ignored that. “You take painkillers to deal with your guilt.”

  “You’re good,” I said.

  “You want to stop the pain.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very much so.”

  “Life is pain, Mr. King,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I wanted to hear that.”

  “Life wasn’t meant to be easy. At least, not at first.”

  “Not at first?”

  “Life is about living, and making mistakes. But more importantly, life is about learning from mistakes. With growth, mistakes are not repeated, and thus the path becomes smoother. You are stuck in a cycle of repeating your same mistakes.”

  “So what do I do?” I asked.

  “It’s time to learn from your mistakes, Aaron. It’s time to grow up.”

  “I’m too old to grow up,” I said.

  She smiled and might have gushed a little. “You’re never too old.”

  Chapter Ten

  Although not pink, I do drive an old Cadillac. Granted, it’s not the ideal vehicle for a part-time private investigator, but the windows are tinted and it’s roomy enough—both key ingredients to a successful surveillance. And for picking up chicks.

  I parked along a curb in front of a massive colonial home. Next to the curb was a sign that read: Tow Away After 8 p.m. I checked my watch. 2:33 PM. I liked my chances.

  The home was near the Sunset Strip, just around the corner from a night club called the Key Club. Been there a few times myself to watch some of the local rock bands. You can take the man out of rock, but you can’t take the rock out of the man. Sometimes on Monday nights, from the back of the club, nursing a beer, I watched the lead singer of Metal Skool entertain the frenzied young females with his gyrating hips. There was a time when I would have been arrested for such gyrations. He could thank me later.

  The morning sky was overcast and threatened rain. Perhaps the sky would have felt more threatening if this hadn’t been L.A. I’ve lived here for nearly thirty years and still can’t get used to the perpetual sunshine. Granted, I liked the sunshine, and it had done wonders for my health, but I was still a sucker for some good old-fashioned gray skies.

  The colonial house, complete with Corinthian pillars and alabaster lions, was massive and brooding. The front lawn was manicured to perfection.

  As I approached the house, a deep-throated dog began barking. And with each step that I took, the dog’s barking grew louder and more frequent. As if on cue. I looked around and didn’t see any dog—nothing in the front windows, and nothing along the side of the house. Maybe it’s inside and can sense me. Or smell me. Either way, it sounded big and vicious and I kept my eyes peeled.

  As I crunched up the crushed seashell drive, apprehension crackled through me, and it had nothing to do with the dog. Indeed, it was an old fear born from years of living in hiding, or living on the run, so to speak. Would this be the person who finally sees through my disguise, see beyond my reconstructed face, and sees the real me? Would this be the moment when my cover is finally blown?

  Crazy, I know, but the fear was real, and it lived within me.

  The drastic plastic surgery was, of course, nearly foolproof. Nearly. Still, the apprehension persisted.

  And so what if I was found out. Would that be so bad?

  Probably not. After all, wouldn’t I then be able to see my baby girl again? And why should she want to see you? You faked your death, split, and left her behind.

  Could I make her understand my motives? Hell, did I even understand my motives? And what about the embarrassment of being discovered? Especially the embarrassment of being discovered living in near poverty?

  Jesus, it would be off the charts.

  Anxiety gripped me again, completely. My throat constricted. I paused there on the driveway and forced myself to take a deep breath. My chest expanded out against my red Hawaiian shirt. I continued breathing deeply, in and out. The faux dog continued barking a steady staccato. I sensed someone watching me through the big bay windows in the front.

  In and out. Deep breaths. Better, better.

  Heartbeat slowing. Another breath. Calmer. Good, good. It’s going to be all right, big guy. No one’s seen through your disguise yet.

  But what about the package yesterday with the Elvis watch?

  At the thought of the package, my heart rate picked up again. Blood pounded in my ears. I felt like turning around, going home, and crawling into bed with a six pack of Newcastle. Someone out there knew, and they were toying with me.

  I hate when that happens.

  I looked at the massive home in front of me. A stiff wind rustled my thinning hair. A girl was missing. A young starlet. She needed help. Her family needed help.
r />   Could I be of help? Wasn’t I just a washed-up old man?

  Yes and no. I had been working as an investigator for many years now. I specialized in finding the missing. I had helped many, many people.

  I’ll deal with whoever sent the package later. Hell, it’s not the first time I’ve dealt with a stalker. Granted, it’s been a while; still, this will be no different. Okay, maybe a little different. There was a lot more on the line this time: My reputation. My identity. My everything.

  Deep breaths, big guy. It’s going to be okay.

  I was going to be okay.

  Breathing. Lungs expanding. Heart rate lowering. And the more I was able to control my breathing, the calmer I became.

  The sun was shining. The dog was barking, and I was moving forward once again, with some degree of confidence. My disguise would hold and I would see about helping these people and their missing daughter.

  I stepped onto the wide wooden veranda and knocked on the front door.

  Show time.

  Chapter Eleven

  The door opened almost immediately, and a tall woman holding a glass tumbler materialized in the doorway. She was wearing a terrycloth robe and pink slippers.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You’re the investigator, I assume?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re awfully polite.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where you from?” she asked.

  “The South, ma’am,”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding, as if that explained everything.

  She was standing in the doorway with her left arm tucked under her right. Her glass tumbler dangled from her right hand. Something clear was inside it, mixed with clinking ice. Lean bicep and tricep muscles rippled under her paper-thin skin. Veins undulated in places most women did not have veins. At least, not in my day. She was tanned beyond reason. Welcome to Hollywood. Somewhere in the massive edifice behind her I heard a vacuum cleaner running. Other than that, total silence. At least the dog had stopped barking.

  She continued standing in the doorway. She wasn’t sure about me and wasn’t sure she wanted to hire me. I knew the drill. I was old. And, in her mind, no doubt too old to do the job. I was used to the drill, and wasn’t offended. Well, not that much, anyway.