“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought y’all understood we were doing this for Byron’s kids so their Christmas isn’t all shot to hell.”
“In order to attract our fish, we couldn’t blab about Byron, now could we?” The Colonel stopped at the end of the dark hall and held open the door. “Those of us in the know will help Todd. If we can.”
I eyed the Colonel as I maneuvered through the doorway. I didn’t like the casual ruthlessness he exuded. Seemed this Christmas sting had turned double blind.
While I threw tarps on the ground and created an air of painterliness in the open area, the other men and Priscilla carried sections of a poker table and chairs into an empty room. The area I was to pretend to paint was a central hub within the building. Rooms and hallways spoked off this nucleus. I visualized exhibits behind glass cases, perhaps a desk with docents ready to assist the Elvis lovers in their pilgrimage. Looking at the walls, primed and ready for paint, I saw a medium prepared for my kind of genius.
No way in hell was I going to pretend to slap paint on this giant canvas just in case a guard showed up. And no way in hell could Chet rip up these sketches.
I grabbed the hardest lead pencil in my bag, a 2H, and a tape measure. “Byron, get over here and bring a ladder.”
Byron popped out of the conference room, carrying a stepladder. “What’cha need, Cherry?”
“Follow me around this room. We’re going to make a series of crosses. I need you to help me hold the tape measure, so I can mark off the lines.”
“Crosses?” Byron gave me a look I recognized from folks who drank from half-empty glasses. “I thought you were supposed to pretend you’re painting.”
“This will be more helpful,” I said. “Save your ‘told-you-so’ for later, but for now just help me. I want to draw lines that are about three by three.”
“Inches?”
“Why would I need a tape measure and ladder for inches? I can freehand three by three inches. Feet, Byron. Three by three feet.”
After a grumble, he circled the room with me as I drew light cross lines on the walls. “Now what?”
“Now, I’m going to grab an eraser and a softer lead. You’re going to make sure nobody notices what I’m doing.”
“Lord save us,” Byron mopped his face with his hands, then smoothed his mustache. “I’m a nervous wreck and you’re not helping. Can’t you save your craziness for Vegas?”
“If I’m going to jail, I might as well make my mark in here.”
While I roughed out ovals, squares, and oblong rectangles around the cross lines, Byron donned coveralls, a painter’s cap, and glasses. He found a corner, popped open the stepladder, and made himself comfortable, blending into our screen.
After my quick sketch of shapes, I peeked into the conference room. The Colonel and Priscilla huddled around a corner table. She shoved chips into a sorter while the Colonel fiddled with a laptop. At the long table set for twenty, Todd sat alone, drumming the felt top with his travel drumsticks.
“How’s it going in here?” I sauntered toward Todd and leaned over him. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I placed my lips near his ear. “Are the Colonel and Priscilla doing anything that’d make me fret?”
He abandoned his drumsticks to reach behind my head and pull me closer, nuzzling my neck so I could hear his murmur. “Not that I can tell.”
“Who’s holding the money?”
“Priscilla’s playing the house. They’ve got a software program to count down rounds and increase blinds. Makes the game more official-like.”
As if her hearing was tuned to our sweet-nothings decibel, Priscilla looked up from her chip count and waved a pinky finger. “You ready for the big show, baby?”
I slid an exit kiss across Todd’s lips, and he released me to continue drum practice. I strolled to the other side of the room, examining Priscilla’s newest wardrobe change. She wore a slate and rose pinstripe suit with a silk shirt in quinacridone magenta, a matching tie, and fedora. The bouffant and flowing tresses had been exchanged for a close shave and pencil-thin mustache. The narrow brimmed hat had a tiny silk rose stuck in the ribbon.
“Are we Eddie tonight?” I asked, running my finger across the angled, front brim. “You changed again.”
“Don’t be getting your pencil smudges on this fine trilby.” She flicked my fingers from the hat. “The circle playing tonight doesn’t always appreciate my brand of entertainment. But I still dress for the occasion. I guess you did, too.” She looked pointedly at my borrowed coveralls.
“I didn’t have time to bling out Jupiter’s garage wear.”
“Time should not be a consideration when you’re talking couture, DIY Fashion Girl. I survived a van kidnapping today, but I look sharp. You look like a reject from the cast of Grease.”
I decided to ignore her fashion one-upmanship and studied the rainbow colored chips lying beneath her trimmed and buffed nails.
“What’s the highest amount you’ve got in there?”
She pointed to the shorter column of tangerine colored discs. “Ten thousand.”
I inhaled my spit and the Colonel, helpful as usual, pounded on my back. Spinning around, I stared at Todd. “Ten thousand?”
“We’ve got a big buy-in. Going for long rounds and a slow blind increase. That’ll help us the most. Don’t want anybody getting too lucky.” Todd shrugged and continued his drum practice.
He spoke the language of poker more fluently than his mother-tongue of English. Yet any spark of intelligence hid effectively beneath his vacant, cerulean gaze and the drumsticks tapping the syncopated beat of Jailhouse Rock. Todd did blank absorption well. Almost too well.
“When are they coming?” I asked.
“Anytime now,” said the Colonel and flapped his hands at me. “If you’re done necking with your boyfriend, make yourself useful and help the crowd find our room. Lonnie’s people should be escorting them through the back.”
Before I made it to the door, Todd’s long arm snagged and reeled me into his side. “Don’t worry, baby.”
I snatched his drumsticks and slipped them into the deep pocket of my coveralls. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t drum tonight.” I wondered if his nervous habit had blown the earlier games.
“Kiss for luck?”
Oddly enough, that kiss spoke more confidence than any words ever uttered from Todd’s lips. Which wasn’t saying much. But enough to give me hope. I returned to my wall sketching, wishing I could brave a quinacridone magenta oil stick on the builder white walls.
ELEVEN
The Fade
As the moon rose over South Memphis, players from the tri-state region trickled into our makeshift parlor. Byron kept vigil in his back corner, covertly watching the players file in.
With my HB pencil tucked behind my ear, I studied faces while ushering players into the conference room. I winked at Fred and Luther and whisked Jupiter into the room before he could study my wall art. Between greetings, I took pencil to the wall and roughed in faces.
The next visitor made me itch to draw her face with crossed eyes, mustache, and devil horns. But I’m bigger than marking up the fine Elvis center’s walls with nasty graffiti. I would save that illustration for Jupiter’s sketchbook.
“It’s going to be a long night.” Lucinda patted her forties-styled, victory rolled, cartoon red and black hair. “Hope you brought coffee for your guard duty.”
“And I hope you brought a sweater. It is December.” I scowled at the polka dot print on her transparent blouse that barely hid her shoulder tats and lacy, black bra. Straightening my shoulders within the coveralls, I imagined I also wore an ivory pencil skirt, fishnet stockings, and towering heels.
“I imagine it’ll heat up in that room pretty fast.” She flashed me a quick smile from her pouty, scarlet mout
h and swung her psychobilly rump into a chair next to Todd.
A handful of men walked into the room giving me no time for ugly thoughts about Lucinda. I waved them into the gaming room and glanced over my shoulder at Byron. He brought a cigarette to his mouth and flipped open a zippo, the flame flaring before his face. Taking another look at the three men, I jumped as a hand grabbed my shoulder. I slammed the conference room door shut.
“What are you doing here?” said Chet.
“Painting,” I spun around to face Chet and Little Jimmy.
Little Jimmy looked from Chet to me, trying to conjure my face in his small memory.
“This was the girl who drew pictures of the players last night,” Chet said, recognizing Little Jimmy’s lack of recall.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Byron slip out of the room.
“Right,” said Little Jimmy. “The troublemaker.”
The conference room door cracked open and the Colonel poked his head out. He stepped through the crack and closed the door with his back. “Problem?”
Chet leaned against the wall, his shoulders rubbing against my pencil marks. “You tell me. You know this girl? She was in the Green Room last night.”
“Sure, I know Cherry,” the Colonel slipped a cigar from his pocket and pinched it between his fingers. “She’s our visitor’s gal.”
“What’s she doing out here?” said Chet.
“Hired her to pretend to paint the room. An added distraction to provide us some cover.” Using his cigar as a pointer, the Colonel indicated the tarps and paint supplies.
“I don’t trust her,” said Chet. “She made a book of our faces.”
“That feeling is mutual,” I said. “By the way, the guys playing cards wanted their faces sketched.”
“Cherry’s an artist,” the Colonel shrugged off my affliction and shot me a look that told me to keep my mouth shut. “I guess that’s what she does when she’s waiting for her man.”
“Where’s your sketchpad today?” said Chet.
“Don’t have one.” I met his scowl. “You shredded it, remember?”
“You going to play or what? Let’s get this game started.” The Colonel waved Chet toward the door and turned to Little Jimmy. “Are you playing tonight?”
“Little Jim’s with me,” said Chet. “He’s here to protect my interests.”
“I’d keep your eye on them, if I were you, Colonel,” I said. “No telling what they’re likely to rip up in that room.”
“You stick to your paints, girl.” The Colonel’s cigar jabbed in my direction.
Once again I held the overwhelming desire to snap the damn thing. I waited until they had disappeared into the room before seeking out Byron, hiding in an empty broom closet. “Did you recognize Chet or Little Jimmy?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure? Chet’s got one of those faces that blends into the crowd.”
Before he could respond, we heard the distinct padding of footsteps down the concrete hall. Byron ran for his ladder, and I grabbed a paintbrush. A medium-built man with thinning hair wandered into the room. As he walked, he packed a cigarette box against his hand and dusted us with his disinterested gaze. A thin, weasel faced man wearing cowboy boots and a trucker’s cap accompanied the balding man. Behind me, I heard the snap and flick of Byron’s lighter. Silently applauding my correct hunch, I smiled at the men and pointed toward the conference room door.
“That makes five,” I said to Byron after the door swung shut. “And you know who that was? Elvis and the elf. The elf’s wearing boots with lifts.”
“Are you sure?”
“I sketched out their faces after following that van. Elvis obviously wears a wig and padding when he’s singing. He didn’t change the shape of his nose or the small scar on his chin.” I attended to my mural, this time choosing a cross mark overlaid with an oval. I filled in full lips and a broad forehead jutting over small, dark eyes. I skimmed in a long nose and added a scar to the chin. In less than a minute, I had penciled in the basic features for the man who had just walked past me.
“Watch,” I said to Byron. With the flat side of my soft, B4 pencil, I covered the top of the head with stylized hair, added sideburns, and drew in cartoonish glasses. “Elvis lives.”
Hours later, my excitement had waned.
“Hell, this is boring,” I said to Priscilla, pointing to Byron’s curled and snoring body on the floor as proof. “They’ve been sitting around that table for an eternity. Todd’s got his back to me, so I can’t see his chip pile over those scrumptious,” I paused. “I mean big shoulders. And every time I try to step into that room, I’m shushed and shoved out by the Colonel.”
“These tournaments take time. I’ve seen them go on for days.” Priscilla snagged a Red Bull from the community cooler and leaned against my angry elf portrait.
“Days?” If I had a beer in my hand like I wished, I would have shot suds out of my nose. “We’ve got to catch the bus tomorrow morning.”
“How many poker tournaments have you watched?”
“None.”
“Not even on TV?” Priscilla gaped at me. “Not even the World Poker Tour?”
“Now that sounds real fun. Watching poker on TV. Sounds about as exciting as watching bowling or fishing.”
Priscilla’s plucked and tinted brows disappeared beneath her hat brim. “What did you think you would do in Vegas?”
“I’m fixing to do quick sketches of the players at twenty bucks a pop.”
“Are you planning on cutting out chunks from this wall at twenty bucks a pop?” She motioned to my drawings and slid to the floor.
I laughed and sat down beside her. “This was to alleviate my boredom and get back at the Colonel for making me stand guard. Although, if someone saw a sketch they’d like, I’d be happy to work one up on paper or a canvas and mail it to them. I’ll paint over the pencil marks.”
“That’ll cost more than twenty bucks,” said Priscilla, digging another drink out of the cooler. She handed me a Coke. “Now during the Vegas tournament, you can’t be drawing folks. You can watch, though. But you’d have to be real quiet.”
“Then I’d better wait at the pool and work on my tan.”
“You’re one of those girlfriends, huh?”
I gave Priscilla a hard, what’re-you-talking-about look and popped the top on my Coke.
“Todd’s your boy toy,” she continued. “You’re playing around until something better comes along and he doesn’t know it.”
“Who’s talking settling down? We’re mostly friends anyway.”
“Friends with bennies never works, no matter what the stories say. I guarantee that boy wants more than what you’re willing to dish.” She waved the energy drink can before my face. “Priscilla knows these things, baby. You got another man in the wings, don’t you?”
I shook my head and chugged my Coke.
“Oh, sugar, you are carrying some heavy baggage, aren’t you? What happened to the other one?”
“He’s a soldier. I don’t expect to see him again.”
“Honey, I can hear it in your voice. He done you so wrong,” she sighed with the full dramatic license allotted to drag queens. “You’re from Scarlett country, aren’t you? You know that saying, tomorrow is another day. Let the past go and grab hold those scrumptious shoulders of Todd’s while you can. Although I think I’d rather grab that—”
Before she could tell me which of Todd’s parts she’d like to grab, the room exploded in blue uniforms and badges. I froze with the Coke hanging before my mouth. Byron snorted, rolled over, and scrambled to standing.
The Candy Cane Cop marched through the hall entrance behind the police and pointed at my resting spot on the floor. “There they are. Where’s the blond guy who was with you? Where’s
the rest of your painting crew? I saw the vehicles parked nearby.”
“Lord Almighty.” Priscilla jumped to her feet and threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know nothing. I’m just keeping these painters company while they take a break.”
“You don’t know nothing about what?” Candy Cane growled.
Priscilla clamped her lips shut and edged toward the door. A cop standing at the back exit held up his hand to stop her.
Candy Cane turned his vengeful expression back to me. “I knew you were up to something. Lonnie must have faked that work order.” He spun a slow circle around the room. “Look at this. Vandalism on top of everything else.”
“I told you not to draw on the walls,” hissed Byron.
“So she’s the one who drew on these walls?” said Candy Cane. He tapped the officer standing next to him. “Are you getting this down? This ain’t even an Elvis mural. Who are these people on the wall?”
“Ma’am,” said Cop Number One. “You’re going to need to come with us.”
I couldn’t move. I stared at the officer until he leaned over and hauled me to my feet. When the handcuffs clicked over my wrists, I found my wits.
“We’re just a painting crew,” I yelled. “Call Lonnie. He’ll tell you. I’m an artist. I know I was just supposed to put color on the walls, but I couldn’t help myself. They’re so big and blank.”
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” demanded Candy Cane. “There’s got to be at least twenty people with you. Are you having a big party or something? Or are you some of those Elvis haters, looking to embarrass the King?”
I hoped Todd and the Colonel had heard my hollering and were currently directing the players out the conference room window. I also hoped the Colonel was on the phone, calling his buddy at the station.
“I’ll go with you. This is all just a big misunderstanding,” I hollered. “I’m sure we can get this cleared up at the station.”
Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) Page 13
