by Phil Gabriel
At the first tiny sip of the whiskey, my headache vanished, my back straightened, and my vision cleared. That was some potent stuff.
“So, what’ve you been doing with yourself, Scott?” asked Elvis.
“Oh,” I said, “traveling here and there. Making friends”—with a nod at Kitty-Sue— “teaching students”—nodding at Akiko— “and slaying monsters.”
“Monsters, huh?” he said, taking a large sip of his Pepsi. “What kind of monsters?”
“He fried Jorōgumo with lightning bolts,” chirped Kitty-Sue.
“Jorōgumo,” mused Elvis. “Wait! Japanese, long black hair, great figure?”
“Eight legs, poisonous fangs, ravenous appetite for flesh,” I said.
“Yeah!” exclaimed Elvis. “That’s her! I dated her once. Great in the”—he looked at Akiko and Kitty-Sue and tempered his language— “clinch. But she was really clingy.”
“Well,” I said, thoughts fleeing back to the time I had been cocooned in silk and stuck in her spider web, looking into those eight murderous eyes, “she was very clingy.”
“Still,” he said, “I did get a nice silk shirt out of our time. She’s a great weaver, though it was kind of tight. I had to make her let it out.”
“You forced Jorōgumo to tailor your shirt?” asked Kitty-Sue.
Elvis grinned at her, nodded, then focused through her. He murmured, “That red hair, the white stripe on your...” Then he smiled in recognition. “Do you have an older sister that looks a lot like you? Only with more…” He stood up and shook his hips. I could swear I could see the outlines of multiple tails dancing behind him.
Kitty-Sue’s eyes grew wide. “My auntie, the queen?”
“Yeah, Queenie!” said Elvis, but somehow, I knew Kitty-Sue had heard her aunt’s first name. “She was a lot of fun! We had a great time together.”
Oh God, Elvis had screwed my bodyguard’s aunt, the queen of all kitsune. I couldn’t imagine how this information could do anything but cause trouble.
“You. Had. A. Great. Time,” Kitty-Sue enunciated carefully. Her hands made that “preparing to draw blades” gesture. I was ready to jump in.
“Hey,” said Elvis, making a calming gesture and sitting back down, “pull in your claws, kitten. I’m sure she remembers me fondly. I sure do remember her well.”
I awaited an explosion, for the same words from me would have caused an eruption—any reference to cats was hated by Kitty-Sue. I was ready to jump in like a frog between a hammer and an anvil.
The relief I felt at Kitty-Sue’s laugh was both sharp and unexpected. Damn, I guess Elvis could get away with saying outrageous things.
I took another tiny sip, finishing the whiskey, and my vision suddenly changed. I could see Elvis facing me, chatting about the old days back in Memphis. At the same time, I could see his head facing Kitty-Sue and Akiko, chatting with them. It was like a living Picasso painting.
Ready to pour another shot to clear my head, I found Elvis’ hand on top of the bottle. “I wouldn’t drink any more of this tonight,” he said. “That’s a powerful draught.”
Spinning the cap back onto the bottle, he picked it up and stared at the label, lost in thought, seeing things normal humans could not. “You should put this bottle into that magic poke you got there,” he said, nodding at the dragonskin bag at my side. “You gonna need to share it with a volcano soon.”
“With a vol—” I started, but shut up at the look he gave me. Damn, I hate prophecy. “OK, Elvis,” I said, putting the bottle into my satchel, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As if in apology, a new bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label appeared on the table. This was a pristine, mundane bottle. No magic involved beyond the craft of the distiller. I added a fresh cube to my glass, cracked the bottle, and poured a generous three-finger shot. At my offer to pour him a shot, he shook his head and held up his Pepsi.
The girls were giggling over some of the song selections, each picking out a favorite. Looking out over the room, Elvis said, “You know, I think we should invite more people. We got the makin’s of a great party.”
Who could we possibly invite? I knew almost no one in Las Vegas, due to my long absence. My two favorite people, well three counting Princess, were here with us. As if reading my thoughts, Elvis said, “I’ll handle the invites.”
With that he stood and walked over to the stage, ignoring the steps and leaping up to center stage. Taking the microphone in hand, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I always like to start with some gospel songs. See if you know this tune, it’s one of my favorites.”
“Euterpe,” he said to the empty space in front of the keyboard, “hit it!”
As the first notes came, the keys on the keyboard apparently depressing themselves, Kitty-Sue murmured, “He believes in the invisible Muse too.”
It took me only a second to recognize the tune “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” But there was something more: some special magic imbued the tune. Intricate patterns of woven spells flowed out along with the music. The amazing thing was that the patterns used very little magic. Both Akiko and I felt the shock as a magic circle enclosed the auditorium. How the hell had he created a circle so large and powerful here in the magical equivalent of the Sahara Desert?
He was reaching the second stanza of the old spiritual. A craggy-faced man with jet-black hair stepped from the back of the stage. He was dressed in black leather boots, black pants, a black open-necked shirt, and a black knee-length coat.
As he joined Elvis on the second stanza, “In the joyous days of childhood...” I instantly recognized that gravelly voice. “Hey,” I said to my table mates, “that’s Johnny—”
I was interrupted by a voice at my shoulder. “Dr. Kitsune,” a man asked, “Do you mind if we join you?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Jason and Monica standing there. Jason was wearing a pair of striped pajama bottoms, seeming unconcerned, and Monica was wearing a straining bra in red silk, a matching pair of dainty panties, a garter belt and stockings, and a pair of high-heeled red leather shoes. Monica had a vague, sated smile on her face, the face of an unburdened woman.
I blinked, and the table was larger, with extra seats for our guests. At a nod from Kitty-Sue, I said, “Of course you can join us, please have a seat.”
Jason pulled out a chair for Monica, seated her, then sat himself.
“So how did you find yourself here?” asked Kitty-Sue, forgetting that Jason and Monica were convinced that she didn’t speak English.
Monica had her hands on the edge of the table, fingers moving in rhythm with the music, obviously enjoying the lack of pain, and said, “We were sleeping after, mmm, you know. Then we heard the music and wandered down to here from the penthouse.”
“It was very strange,” added Jason. “It seemed that no one could see us. I was worried until Monica said—”
“It has to be a dream, right?” finished Monica. “Walking through the crowd in our underwear, finding a concert with Elvis and The Man In Black in our auditorium.”
“It’s not concert,” interjected Akiko. “It’s karaoke night. All can get chance to sing.”
“I feel like I know you, dear,” said Monica to Akiko, “but I know I’ve never seen you before.” The Elvis magic was making Akiko visible to everyone. Monica wore a puzzled frown, then said, “But I guess dreams are like that.” She nodded to herself in confirmation.
“Ohhh,” she said, turning her attention to the music. “I love this part,” she said, before joining in.
“You remember songs of heaven
Which you sang with childish voice.
Do you love the hymns they taught you,
Or are songs of earth your choice?”
“Can I offer you a drink?” I said.
“I’d love a shot of that Johnnie Walker,” said Jason. Then turning to his wife, he asked, “Would you like some tea, dear?”
“Hell, no,” responded Monica. “I haven’t had a real drink in five years
because it interfered with my pain medicine. Now that I’m pain free, I want to have a real drink. Johnnie Walker all around!”
A woman after my own heart. I poured the drinks and hummed along with the last chorus of the song, immensely enjoying the show of talent.
When I turned my attention back to the room, several more of the tables had been filled. At the table next to us sat an imposing figure, muscled like a superhero, drinking from a horn. Next to him sat a slim, regal woman. She had on a gown of the sheerest silk that hid none of her charms. On her back, a set of translucent dragonfly wings fluttered in the air. She held a silver chalice, waving it in time to the music.
They both looked over at our table and nodded. I thought they were looking at me, but the hum of recognition from Princess showed that she was the object of their attention. Princess drifted upward from her seat, manifesting her blade form, then tilted in a bow to the king and queen of all fae.
“Wow,” said Monica. “A flaming sword. Even in dreams, this whiskey hits hard.” She dismissed her vision and turned her attention to the songbook on the table. I could tell she was itching to play something.
On stage, our friends started a new tune, “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” There were some changes to the words that I couldn’t quite catch, despite my better-than-human hearing.
Jason looked worried. “Scott,” he asked, “are we dreaming? Am I going to wake up tomorrow with my wife in constant pain? Is this real?”
“‘Reality is a crutch,’” I quoted, “‘for those who can’t handle magic.’” When in doubt, make cryptic quotes. He seemed relieved, taking another drink of whiskey.
On the stage, our host was saying, “That was great. Please give a big round of applause for The Man In Black,” as his guest faded away.
“Now I want to play an intro song with another special guest before asking our very own ‘Foxy Lady’ to come up and sing for us.” With a flourish and a wave, a skinny Black man with a ’70s’ Afro came out from the back. He had a guitar slung across his back and when he spun it around I saw that he was one of those rare left-handed players.
With barely a pause, he jumped into an audacious performance of “Foxy Lady,” better than any I had ever heard. The sonic bombardment of this ghostly artist washed over the audience, captivating everyone. As he hit the last refrain, his fingers moved so fast that his guitar caught on fire. Playing through the flames, he hit a series of final notes that blew away the crowd. The sudden silence was shocking as his abrupt finale. He took a quick bow and headed backstage.
“Give a big hand to our friend Jim,” said Elvis. Turning his attention to our table, he continued, “Kitty-Sue, have you picked out your song?”
Finishing off her whiskey, Kitty-Sue nodded and jumped up. With a lithe leap, she was on the stage. She stretched up and whispered in Elvis’ ear.
“Really?” he exclaimed at her choice. “You’re not pulling my leg?”
“I’m sure,” Kitty-Sue said, taking the microphone from his hand. Only someone who knew her well could tell she was nervous about singing in front of—wait; how many people? It seemed the crowd had grown as they spoke.
Over to my left, three tables down, I caught a glimpse of a kimono-clad kitsune with nine tails arrayed behind her. At my attention, she turned her head, nodded in recognition, then blurred. Try as I might, I could not focus on her again.
The music started, a quick techno beat in a rhythm I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t until the first line that I realized I had heard the song in movies.
Dog goes woof, cat goes meow.
Bird goes tweet, and mouse goes squeak.
But the beat slowed near the chorus, with Kitty-Sue making a plaintive plea for understanding.
What does the fox say?
Who can decode our secret speech?
It was a great performance, and we all clapped enthusiastically when she finished. As she exited the stage, a skinny guy with white hair and mismatched eyes grabbed the microphone and started the song about Major Tom.
Kitty-Sue came back down to our table, picked up her refilled glass, and took a large drink. As she sat down, I asked, “Do you think your auntie liked your song?”
At my question, she turned abruptly and scanned the crowd. “I don’t see her,” she said with a puzzled frown. “Are you joking with me, Scott?” Then she took a deep breath through her nose, using her most sensitive sense. “She was here. She was sad, then happy, then horny...? Oh god, Elvis was right! She misses him!” She dropped into her seat and held her glass out for a refill. Too many shocks in too short a time span tends to do that.
Topping off her glass, I said, “I’m sure she only came to hear you sing.”
Kitty-Sue gave me a tilted head look of exasperation, tapped her nose, and said, “The nose knows.” Then reverting to her basic trait, she gave a mischievous smile. “I’m going to set her stereo to play only Elvis songs from now on!”
Changing the subject, I said, “I liked your song.” I took another sip of whiskey, then added, “So, are you my fox guardian angel?”
She gave me the sweetest look, then her face went back to mischievous. “It’s just a song, Scott. I’m your bodyguard, not your guardian angel.”
She looked up, clasping her hands together by her cheek, and said, using her most mocking tone, “However, we could find a drive-thru chapel...” That’s the trouble with tricksters: you never know if they are serious or not.
Her proposal was interrupted abruptly by Elvis. “Scott won’t be getting married for a long time.” Behind him, Akiko nodded happily. At Kitty-Sue’s raised eyebrow, he continued, “He’s got a lot to get through before settling down.”
“So, no chapel,” added Akiko, nodding to herself.
“But when he marries,” asked Kitty-Sue, “will it be to a real girl?”
“Real?” said Elvis and Akiko in unison.
“Real, as in flesh and blood,” said Kitty-Sue, with a sidelong glance at Akiko.
“Well,” started Elvis, only to notice my frantic headshake, “the future is hazy. There’s lots of twists and turns.”
I don’t want to know my future. Every time I get tangled up in a prophecy, it turns out badly.
Eager to change the subject, I said, “Isn’t it time for you and Akiko to sing?” In perfect timing, the previous singer just finished his set.
With a grin that showed he knew I wanted a distraction, Elvis returned to the stage and motioned to Akiko to come up. Akiko floated up to the stage but appeared shy.
“Ready to sing with the King?” he asked. In response, Akiko reached out, and her hand passed through the microphone. Her ghostly state rendered her incapable of using the equipment.
“Honey,” he said, “you want to sing with the King, and everything works.” He tossed her the microphone, which she grabbed reflexively, and was stunned to catch it.
The music started, and the first notes of “Walking in Memphis” came out of the speakers. A song about a ghost visiting Graceland?
During the song, I noticed more and more of our audience. I saw the pale profiles of the Vegas blood drinkers, the hirsute weres, and even a few witches. Mortal and immortal enemies sat side by side, entranced by the once-in-several-lifetimes concert.
I poured another shot into my glass and enjoyed the parade of singers. Monica turned out to have a wicked sense of humor and told an endless streak of dirty jokes. She had lost her inhibitions after convincing herself that this was just a dream. I wondered if the hangover she would feel the next day would give her second thoughts.
Somewhere around the second bottle, I noticed Akiko and the King had departed. When I looked around, Monica said, “I think they went to take a nap.”
“A nap?” I said. “But ghosts don’t slee—” Kitty-Sue kicked me under the table. Her grin showed she had not missed the interaction between our ghost and the King. Well, what the hell. They were both adults.
Time around paranormals can get weird. I would have sworn the concert h
ad lasted many hours, but the clock on my phone showed 3:00 a.m. Still, the party wound down, as all parties do.
The last set was coming up, and I noticed that Monica hadn’t yet sung. “Hey, Monica,” I said, “do you want to play the wrap-up song?”
“No,” she said. “I’m too shy to play in public.”
With perfect drunken logic, I responded, “This isn’t public, this is just a dream.”
“What the hell,” she said. “I’m up for it!”
In a flash, she was up on the stage, turning the keyboard around so that she faced the audience.
She adjusted the microphone, ran a few chords on the keyboard, then said, “Hi, folks. To wrap up, I’d like to play one of my favorites.”
The first notes of Jackson Browne’s “The Load Out” song wafted over the crowd. Encouraged by the crowd, Monica hit the high notes on the “stay” chorus, and the audience sang along.
I looked around as the song wound down and saw the members of the audience wink out, one by one. Sitting at a nearby table was a balding man with glasses, a notebook computer in front of him and a draft beer near to hand. At his left, wearing a black cloak, sat an imposing skeletal figure. An old-fashioned farm implement was propped against their table. On his right sat a young witch wearing a pointed witch’s cap in a decidedly un-witchlike lavender color.
Recognizing the balding man, I prepared to get up and say hello to an old friend. As I was rising, the skeletal figure reached inside his cloak and brought out a highball glass-sized hourglass. It took me a second to realize what was strange about the hourglass. The sand was flowing backwards, in contradiction to the law of gravity. Mr. D tapped the balding man on the shoulder, interrupting his typing, and pointed to the hourglass. With a reluctant nod, he closed his laptop, drank the last of his beer, and slid out of his chair. All three faded away.
Damn, I had wanted to have another drink with him. I would have traded several years of my life to read what he had been writing. I missed Sir Terry.
The song finished, and we were the only ones left. The bottles of Johnnie Walker were empty, the champagne flat, the ice melted, and the Pepsi bottles gone.
