He gazed at the paper and glanced at me. “That’s my mug, all right. Say, you’re fast. I bet the other cats would like their picture made, too.”
I shrugged. “I worked as a quick sketch artist at Six Flags during high school.”
“The fellows and I have been talking and we need a good blind for the visitor’s center. We think you’ll be just the ticket.”
“Ticket for what?”
“Fred knows a guy, who knows a guy. You think you can pretend to paint a wall?”
Blessing my foresight to carry a box of sharpened Berols, I kept my hand flying over the pages of my sketchpad. I planned to show Byron my sketches, hoping he might identify a suspect. But I also figured I might make Byron a few bucks selling sketches to players. When they weren’t looking, their face materialized in my book. As games broke up, players stretched their legs and sauntered to the bar, where I offered to make them a quick sketch.
Dropping a twenty on a drawing meant nothing to these big spenders, and, in my most humble opinion, their egos enjoyed the quality artwork depicting them playing fast and loose with the cards.
Above all else, a portrait artist must feed the vanity of their subject. Either that or lose the commission.
So I happily zipped off my contribution to the underbelly of illegal gaming. One night’s work could buy a tree, turkey, and stocking stuffers for the kids. And if Byron were smart, he’d buy Tina something extra nice. Like a girl’s weekend to Branson.
Luther had returned to Todd’s table. I concentrated on my sketchpad and not on Lucinda’s flirting or the dwindling pile of chips in front of Todd. I knew nada about poker other than it required one to sit for long periods of time, which in my book, rivaled jabbing a pencil in my eye.
When hot, fetid breath blew down my neck, I jerked around in my seat and found myself squaring eyeballs with Little Jimmy.
“What ‘cha doing?” he growled. “We can’t allow loafing in here.”
“I’m watching the bar for Lucinda while she plays,” I said honestly.
“What ‘cha doing with that paper and pencil?” Little Jimmy’s neuron connectors needed some greasing. Or perhaps he was not a connoisseur of the art world and had never seen doodling such as mine.
“Quick sketches,” I said with less humility than usual, “which your customers are loving.” I pointed to a particularly lucrative table where my portraits lay next to their corresponding players.
Oddly, instead of praising me on my craftiness, Little Jimmy’s face turned an interesting shade of puce. Then he tried to snatch my pad.
“What the hell.” I shoved the pad into my bag and jumped off my barstool. “Didn’t your momma teach you not to grab?”
“Give me that notebook.” Little Jimmy reached past his glacier-sized overhang to snatch my bag.
Lucky for me, I easily out dodged Jimmy’s T-Rex arms. I circled the bar to get additional barriers between me and his stumpy range.
“Chet,” Little Jimmy called over his shoulder, “this gal’s drawing everyone in the Green Room.”
I peeked over the bar. An average looking, middle-aged man jerked his head up at Little Jimmy’s holler. I tried to remember if I had sketched Chet, but his blend of ordinariness set him apart from the Green Room’s more interesting characters.
With a scowl, Chet tossed some chips into the center of the table and folded his hand. “Dammit, Little Jimmy,” said Chet. “Why do I end up doing everything myself?”
“What’s the problem?” I called over the bar. “Does Little Jimmy expect a cut from my commission?”
Chet didn’t care to answer or he was deaf. My voice carried to Todd, who suddenly blinked out of his poker slump and straightened. Lucinda also turned in her seat, with Luther and Fred following suit. The other guys at the table took the distraction as a chance to relax their features and check their cards.
Chet pushed out of his seat and rose, sharpening his gaze on my half-stoop behind the bar.
I ran for the door, ready to protect our sketchbook lineup of possible suspects. I assumed Todd would come after me.
I hoped Todd would come after me.
His major character flaw would be his ability to forget about me while playing poker. A pretty big flaw if your girlfriend is about to run out of an illegal gaming room and into the gritty streets of a city she’s never visited.
But that was just a brief flash in my mind as I yanked open the first green door and hurled myself through it. Three steps past the cage and I was at the outer green door.
Behind me the first door slammed into the wall and I could hear Little Jimmy’s labored breath. I was not much on organized exercise such as running, but I had no doubt I could easily beat Little Jimmy.
However, I did not count on Chet.
I had the door handle in hand when Chet grabbed my shoulder.
“Hold on there,” he said and spun me around with a shove.
I slammed against the door and winced. “What’s the problem?”
“I need to see that notebook.”
“It’s just sketches. I’m an artist.”
Chet jerked my satchel off my hip and flipped up the front flap. Reaching inside, he pulled out the sketchpad and pushed aside my attempts to snatch it back.
“You can’t take my sketch pad,” I said. “I’ll charge you with robbery. That’s an expensive book. I’m going to use it in Vegas.”
Drawing by drawing, Chet tore sheets of the one hundred pound superior paper from the sketchpad and let them fall to the dirt and damp cement.
“Hey! Those are my works.” I tried not to panic, wondering if Chet or Little Jimmy would tear me apart like my notepad. Did they know we wanted those sketches to identify the hustlers?
When the sketchpad was half-empty, Chet used two hands to try and rip it in half. And couldn’t. With a menacing glare at me for buying quality supplies, Chet shoved the sketchpad through the hole in the cage and ordered Little Jimmy to toss it into a shredder.
I gasped, watching my luxurious, acid free, multi-media paper turn into confetti strips.
“If you had asked nicely, I would have given you your portrait for free.”
“Get out,” Chet said. “I don’t ever want to see you or your notebooks in the Green Room again.”
“Gladly,” I said. “But I’m waiting on someone.”
He reached behind my back to jerk the door open and shoved me through. I teetered as my boot heels struck the stair behind me. I sat down hard on the third step and the heavy door slammed shut.
“Chet,” I said. “I have no idea who you are, but you just ticked me off.”
SIX
The Slowroll
“We’ve got a busy day,” I said to Todd and Byron the next morning. We breakfasted in a diner down the street from the Heartache. After sharing a room with two men and their raucous snoring, I needed a stronger brew than the tepid brown sludge the Heartache tried to pass off as coffee. Rather than sleep on the padded plywood and cigarette burned object the Heartache called a sofa, I used my time resketching the Green Room’s players from memory on the motel stationary.
I also made a fair likeness of Chet and Little Jimmy and faxed them to Uncle Will using the Heartache business office. If you can call a closet holding a fax machine and a Commodore 64 with dial-up a business office.
“I don’t think I can take another night sharing a bed with Byron,” grumbled Todd. “This set-up better work because I’m not taking him to Vegas.”
“You’re just grumpy because you lost money last night,” I said. “I sure hope it was worth the time with Lucinda when you could have watched Chet and Little Jimmy roughing me up.”
Todd wisely kept his eyes on his gravy and mouth full of biscuit.
“That’s a first for you, Todd.” Byron laughed.
“You never lose.”
“I apologized plenty last night.” Todd’s ears brightened to Rose Madder. “I found out Chet runs the Green Room.”
“I’m not asking for another apology, Todd. I’m merely pointing out the facts of last night to Byron. And I must say, Byron, you are lucky to have a cousin so full of holiday cheer that he was willing to lose at poker for an entire hour and forty-five minutes more while his girlfriend sat on a cement step outside the Green Room. Freezing her hiney off. Of course, he was distracted by his new friends, Chet, Little Jimmy, and Rockabilly Goth Girl.”
“What the heck is a rockabilly goth girl? You mean Lucinda?” Todd’s ear color deepened to Red Medium. “She’s coming tonight.”
“Then she better learn to keep her hands to herself. That’s why you lost. Couldn’t concentrate with Lucinda breathing down your neck. And don’t think I didn’t see her rubbing your leg with those trashy press-on nails.”
“Lucinda’s pretty good at cards,” Todd said to Byron. “Knows a lot of people in Memphis, too. You know she once met Chris Moneymaker? Played a round of Omaha with him. What a gal.”
That remark almost put me off my ham and egg sandwich, but I was never one to let Goth girl crushes interrupt my love for a good biscuit.
My irritation with Todd was somewhat dissipated by the approach of the Colonel and Priscilla. The Colonel still favored his hat and tweed coat, but Priscilla had changed to a denim jumpsuit with plum platforms.
I brightened at our complimentary outfits. With the brisk December weather, I wore hand studded jeans and a cropped denim jacket. The back of my jacket had been emblazoned with a Christmas tree and the pockets of my jeans had silver and gold ornaments. Adorning my butt with bling tended to disguise what God had forgotten to contribute.
“Howdy, visitors,” the Colonel said, clenching an unlit cigarillo in his hand. “How was your visit to the Green Room last night? Luther and Fred all set?”
“Yes, sir,” said Todd. “They’re spreading the word about the game and they also had a good idea on how to get the party into Graceland without causing too much fuss.”
“I heard you’re gonna paint a wall,” said Priscilla.
“I have a great idea. I’m going to draw a series of Memphis musician pictorials as a mural,” I said. “Unfortunately, my good sketchpad was eaten by Little Jimmy last night. I still have my pencil box. But, I’ll need more supplies.”
“Well now, Miss Thing,” said Priscilla. “I hope you include me in this mural. ’Cause you know the heads of famous Memphis musicians need to include Priscilla.
“You missed me on the stage at Suspicious Minds last night. Even Santa Elvis and his elf congratulated me on my natural singing abilities. The Lord did not just stop at good looks when he handed Pricilla His blessings.”
“I’d be happy to draw you,” I said. “But I’m charging twenty dollars a sketch. It’s for Byron’s kids.”
“Girl, you should be paying me for the chance to make your pencil happy.”
“I don’t think my pal Lonnie wants you actually painting or drawing on the visitor center walls,” said Byron.
“Byron is right. Your painting act is just a screen in case a guard shows,” said the Colonel. “Todd, I’ve got one more place for you to visit. We’re driving out to Arkansas this morning. I’ve a feeling we need to spread some mustard across the line.”
“You’re taking Todd to Arkansas? What about me and Byron?” I said.
“Byron’s going to Graceland, honey. We don’t want anybody recognizing him at the tables. Besides he needs to make sure we’re all set for tonight. Word’s traveled about the game, but I want to cover all our bases. We’re taking Lucinda.”
“Lucinda,” I gasped. “What the hell do you need Lucinda for?”
“She wanted to go.”
“I don’t trust her. She works for Chet and Little Jimmy.”
“Chet’s just touchy is all. He’s protecting his establishment from the law. What were you thinking drawing the players? If Memphis Police get wind of your little sketches, it’s not just his business he’ll lose,” said the Colonel.
“Those were practice drawings for the quick portraits I made for the players. They paid me for drawing them,” I bluffed.
“You’ll prove useful tonight, providing us a cover for the game. You need to get your painting deal together.”
“Getting supplies’ll take an hour tops.”
“Priscilla here will help you with anything you need,” said the Colonel. “Fred knows the art shop where you can get supplies. Just remember, we don’t need a finished product, just enough to keep the guards and cops from wondering what’s going on in the visitor’s center at night.”
He shoved the cigar in his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth. “Come on, Todd and Byron. Let’s get going. Graceland closes at four. We need to park the painting truck in the lot before the gates close.”
“See you later, baby. Remember this is for Byron and his kids.” Todd gave me a friendly peck on the cheek. “I promise I’ll be a big winner in Vegas.”
“You better win tonight for Byron,” I grumbled. “I’ll try to recapture my Christmas spirit, but I still don’t think it’s fair that I have to stay. I’ve never been to Arkansas.”
“Everyone has a job,” said the Colonel, relishing his role of Mr. Bossy Pants. “And you’re the lookout.”
I remembered being cast the lookout as a kid when the boys didn’t want me interfering in their games. I didn’t like it much then either. However, I’d suck it up for Byron’s children and the baby Jesus.
“What about the real workers?” This wasn’t like breaking into the Halo High School stadium to drink behind the bleachers. This was an office building belonging to the property of one of the most important figures in American history. According to my now deceased Grandma Jo.
“Graceland is giving the construction workers a few weeks off for the holidays, but they’re also waiting for some flooring something or other that’s been delayed,” said Byron. “We won’t see any of those guys.”
“‘Course if we’re caught, we’ll be in a hell of a lot of trouble. Yourselves included,” said the Colonel, brandishing his cigar at me. “Maybe y’all especially.”
“How’s that?”
“Your idea, ain’t it? And you’re tourists. It’s not like you know the local PD.”
“I guess you play cards with a few of Memphis’s finest.” I folded my arms over my chest. “And if we’re busted, they’ll need a couple names.”
“Well, darlin’, it may be your game, but you’ve still got to play with the hand you’re dealt.” The Colonel smiled with his teeth. “Todd. Byron. Let’s leave the ladies to their breakfast.”
I scowled but scooted off the seat to allow Todd to leave. The Colonel had just confirmed what I feared. These players would sell us out quicker than a hot knife cuts through butter. We couldn’t trust anyone.
“I don’t see what you’re all het up about,” said Priscilla after they left. “You do get to spend the morning with me.”
“Never mind.” The last thing I needed was a drag queen lecturing me on jealousy and my lack of holiday cheer. “So, do you know anything about painting murals?”
“Honey, what I don’t know about murals I make up for as an excellent embellisher. Hand me a bottle of glitter glue and I’ll go to town on your Elvis wall.”
“Why aren’t you playing in the poker game?”
“Because I also know my limitations and unless we’re talking strip poker, I ain’t about to lose my shirt. The boys coming to this game play rough.”
“Lord, I hope Todd knows what he’s doing.” I stared at my plate of biscuit crumbs.
“He’s the bait, girl.” Priscilla grinned. “How else do you think they’re going to hook the sharks?�
�
SEVEN
The Catch
Priscilla and I pushed through the glass doors of the Heartache into a flurry of Saturday morning checkouts. With shades resting low on his nose and still wearing his dumpy Santa jumpsuit minus the cape, Santa Elvis sat by the Christmas tree, smoking the stub of a cigarette.
“I guess he’s really attached to his character,” I said to Priscilla.
She arched a brow and rolled her lip. “I suspect Elvis is dressed for the walk of shame, although I don’t know if Suspicious Minds covers his brand of beer goggles.”
Outside a horn blared. Santa Elvis flipped his cigarette into the tree stand and stretched from his seat.
“Maybe I should get his autograph for Todd,” I said, trying to cool the excitement in my voice. “He did enjoy last night’s show.”
“Lord, put an Elvis wig on a man and the little girls lose their minds. Honey, he is a terrible Elvis.”
My face reddened. “It’s not like that. The autograph is for Todd.”
“You think I haven’t heard that one before?”
Hitching up his giant, glittery belt, Santa Elvis shoved through the cracked glass door. Before Priscilla could antagonize me with Elvis groupie comments, I slammed out the front door.
“Elvis,” I called. “Can I get an autograph?”
He stopped, squinted through his glasses, and mumbled something about paper.
“Unfortunately, my paper has been absconded. I do have a Sharpie.” I dug in my bag and fished out a Dixie Cake wrapper. “Can you write on this? It’s only got a little chocolate stuck on.”
He took my Sharpie, jotted on the paper, and slapped it into my palm. Shooting me with his finger, he winked.
“Thanks, Santa Elvis.” I knew he had to be the lamest Elvis in creation, but I had enough of Grandma Jo’s DNA to get a teensy thrill from the autograph.
With a mumbled, “Catch you later, sugar,” Elvis strolled to the curb.
Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) Page 10
