03 Heller's Girlfriend - Heller

by JD Nixon

  Heller’s Girlfriend

  by JD Nixon

  Copyright JD Nixon 2012

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.

  Also by JD Nixon at Smashwords:

  Heller series

  Heller (free ebook!)

  Heller’s Revenge

  Heller’s Girlfriend

  Heller’s Punishment – due end February 2012

  Little Town series

  Blood Ties (free ebook!)

  Blood Sport

  Blood Feud – due end April 2012

  Cover design by JD Nixon

  ~~~~~~

  Chapter 1

  “Excuse me, pretty little lady,” drawled a friendly southern-US accent in my ear.

  I spun around, coming face to face with Elvis.

  “Good morning, Mr Presley,” I said with casual cheerfulness, an easy smile ready on my lips. “I don’t want to be a hard-headed woman, but can I see your ticket please?”

  He winked at me and handed it over with a flourish, striking a pose while I checked it carefully. I handed it back to him with another smile and waved him through. “Well, that’s all right. Good luck today, Mr Presley sir, and I hope you enjoy yourself.”

  He flicked me a brief salute and winked again. “I will, little lady, I will,” he promised, sauntering through the doorway.

  I watched after him from my place in the foyer, noticing that his sequinned jumpsuit wasn’t kind to his podgy butt. In fact, as I cast my eyes over the large number of people milling around inside the cavernous room, I decided that I’d never seen so much straining white polyester in my life.

  Of course it wasn’t the real Elvis I’d just spoken to, but merely an impersonator, one of many gathered in the convention centre for the city’s biennial Elvis talent competition. Its $10,000 first prize attracted Elvis wannabes from all around the country. I guess that kind of money would keep you in sparkly jumpsuits and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches for quite a while.

  “That was two for me,” I boasted, shooting my colleague a smug look.

  “Don’t be cruel, Tilly,” he smiled. Whoops – one for him.

  “You’re just too much for me sometimes, Ben.” One for me.

  “I’m happy to be anyway you want me.” Another for him.

  It was like Elvis tennis.

  I’d been assigned to the security detail at the competition with a man I hadn’t met at work before, but instantly liked. His name was Ben Nguyen and he was tall and hugely muscled like most of my colleagues, with a shock of black anime hair and an amiable smile. We both worked as security officers for a small but growing business, Heller’s Security & Surveillance, and presented as a matching pair in our uniforms – black polo shirts with a gold H monogrammed on the pockets, black cargo pants, black utility belts and black boots. We were currently amusing ourselves while we worked by seeing how many Elvis song titles we could incorporate into our small talk during the morning.

  Even though I was trained and licensed as a security officer and crowd controller, I didn’t normally work events. My duties were usually confined to one-off special jobs that required a woman’s touch. But when I’d found out that we had won the contract to provide security for the Elvis competition, I’d bugged and begged my boss, Heller, to let me be on the security team. For two reasons.

  Firstly, my mother was a huge Elvis fan and I’d grown up listening to little else during my important formative years. So I was quite fond of the man myself, always associating his music with my happy and loving childhood memories. I remember as a little girl colouring-in and playing with my dolls and Lego while humming Elvis songs contentedly to myself.

  Secondly, I personally think that there’s almost nothing funnier in the world than a bunch of Elvis impersonators gathered together, all sparkling jumpsuits, high-heeled boots and black quiffs. A group of Elvises (Elvii?) made me laugh every time I saw one, and I couldn’t bear to miss the opportunity to chuckle while I worked. And so far, they hadn’t let me down.

  There were Elvises in every shape, size and skin colour present – large Elvises, thin Elvises, tall Elvises, short Elvises, juvenile Elvises, elderly Elvises, female Elvises. You name it and it was here at the convention centre. I’d been struggling to keep a professionally straight face all morning.

  But despite this assorted chocolate box of Elvis delights, most of the contestants had predictably come decked in one of two of his career stages – the hot Elvis from the 1950s or the Las Vegas Elvis from the 1970s. Unfortunately, from what I could see, the over-stretched jumpsuits far outnumbered the leather-clad hotties.

  Ben confessed to me that he was quite the Elvis fan himself and bragged about his encyclopaedic knowledge of the man’s songs and movies. He had also begged to be allowed on the security team. Heller, who was normally a hardarse about everything, particularly business matters, had indulged the both of us out of all the others who’d also asked him for the opportunity. It amazed me how many secret Elvis fans Heller’s harboured.

  Ben and I weren’t expecting any trouble during the day, but muted excitement buzzed in the air and sometimes excited people can be unpredictable.

  He took a ticket from a female Elvis, checking it before handing it back. “Off through the door with you, ma’am. It’s now or never. Could be your big chance today.” He glanced over her head at me with self-satisfaction.

  A young Elvis, thirteen perhaps, handed me his ticket. “Now sir, you’ll think we have suspicious minds, but I have to check your ticket.” I pulled a theatrical double-take. “Oh, my God! Are those blue suede shoes that you’re wearing?”

  “No,” replied the kid, peering down at his feet in confusion. “They’re my black school shoes.”

  “My mistake. Off you go. Through the door please.”

  “That wasn’t very subtle, you know,” Ben chided when we struck a lull. “I don’t think you can count that one. Non-sequiturs don’t count.”

  I mock-pouted. “You don’t want to be a hound dog about the rules, do you? I just forgot to remember to forget them, that’s all.”

  “Tilly! Now you’re just cheating.”

  “Ben,” I reproached. “I’m all shook up to hear those accusations from you. It really sounds as if you’re in a moody blue today.”

  “Tilly –” he complained, smiling.

  “Ben, now and then there’s a fool such as I, but I can’t help falling in love with you. You’re my good luck charm. I really want you to let me be your teddy bear, and I wonder to myself if you’re lonesome tonight. I’m stuck on you and you know I don’t have a wooden heart. If I can dream about our wedding, I’d want you to love me tender one night, because I think you’re a big hunk of burning love. I hope you don’t leave me crying in the chapel, because I sure don’t want to end up in the heartbreak hotel.”

  He gave me a slow clap of appreciation. “Oh, Tilly Chalmers, the wonder of you! If you keep talking like that to me I’m going to ask you to wear my ring around your neck.”

  I giggled. “Maybe we should have a little less conversation and a bit more ticket
checking?”

  He shook his head, smiling to himself. “Tilly.”

  “Don’t cry, Daddy. Don’t,” I consoled. “Things are always worse in the ghetto.”

  He laughed, his hands up in defeat. “Okay. You win!”

  “So you surrender?”

  “Enough, Tilly! You’re the devil in disguise.”

  I grinned at him and we slapped hands. Elvis had been burned into my subconscious; Ben had little chance of competing against me.

  A surge of Elvises came through the door then, and we were far too busy checking tickets to banter for quite a while. Finally, it was time for the competition to start and we closed the doors to the room behind us, shifting to crowd control duty. One of the competition staff took over the ticket checking job, but contestants and audience members would only be allowed in between acts from now on.

  It was planned chaos inside the room. The organisers made sure that only the ‘serious’ Elvis aficionados attended by charging a nominal entry fee, a portion of which was donated to the city’s children’s hospital. They didn’t want people sullying the competition with stupidity, like the man a few years ago who’d made the TV news dressed as a mutant version of Big Bird. He’d worn a slicked-back black wig and a sequinned-studded white jumpsuit over his bird costume that left everyone wondering how he’d ever managed to squeeze all his feathers into it. He’d performed the Chicken Dance, but in an indescribably Elvis way, with lots of pelvis thrusting, all the while loudly clucking in tune to ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. He’d been a huge hit with the audience, but not with the organisers who were a little over-zealous in their Elvis worship. They’d instructed security to strong-arm Big Bird Elvis out of the venue in haste and the following year they’d introduced the entry fee to discourage the time-wasters.

  Ben and I stood at the back of the room, either side of the door, casting our eyes over the audience. One by one, an astonishing array of Elvises strutted their stuff on stage, hoping to impress the judges – an allegedly world-renowned Elvis impersonator; a local Z-grade celebrity judging for free as part of her community service for a drink-driving offence; and a business-suited gray official from some boring government department that issued licences allowing entertainers to busk in the city’s CBD mall.

  “Geez!” muttered Ben one moment when we were standing near each other again. We’d just watched a very doddery, elderly Elvis almost crack his hips trying to swivel them with enthusiastic, but imprudent, vigour while wheezing out ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. He’d had to be helped down the stage stairs afterwards by the organisers. “The way some of these acts are delivered, they ought to be marked return to sender.”

  I giggled. “You’re not wrong. Did you see the Elvis ventriloquist with the Elvis dummy? I could see his lips moving, but the dummy’s didn’t!”

  “Truly tragic,” agreed Ben, shaking his head in disbelief as he moved over to the other side of the room again.

  A few diamonds shone amongst the lumps of coal, but overall it was a depressingly dreary display of the city’s latent Elvis talent. I could only hope that the next day’s bunch showed greater Elvine aptitude than this sorry lot.

  By delaying the announcement of the finalists, the organisers forced all of the contestants to stick around until the end of the day for publicity shots. I’d brought along my digital camera in the hopes of capturing some of the madness, so in my sweetest voice, asked one of the organisers to take a few shots of Ben and me surrounded by the Elvis troupe. Those photos would keep me giggling for years afterwards.

  The head organiser was himself dressed as a Las Vegas Elvis in a resplendent blue rhinestone-studded jumpsuit and blue high-heeled boots, made from genuine pseudo-suede. He stepped onto the stage and named the lucky ten contestants who’d made it through to the final, disappointing a lot of other Elvises as he did.

  One of those who missed out was a particularly fervent contestant who’d undeniably gone the extra mile as one of the hottie Elvises. He was bedecked in a tight black leather outfit identical to that worn by the man himself at his famous 1968 comeback concert. The contestant bore a passing resemblance to Elvis that he cultivated fanatically, so he really looked the part. In fact, his sideburns were so precise that I’d wager he’d used a ruler to measure them. But he’d been let down by his reedy, unpleasant voice that had made us all cringe with its lack of tone. The applause after his act had been sparse and merely polite at best.

  “That’s bullshit!” he screeched, his shrill voice bouncing around the room. “I was twenty times better than that fat bastard!” He pointed his finger accusingly at a tubby Elvis in yet another white jumpsuit who’d mesmerised the audience and judges with his beautiful voice.

  “Who are you calling a fat bastard, you no-talent loser?” demanded the tubby Elvis, striding over to the angry leather-pants. “I won that spot in the final fair and square. You sucked. Deal with it.”

  “Robbed! I was robbed!” Angry Elvis howled. “Look at him! He’s too fat to be Elvis. What the fuck were you people thinking?” he berated the judges. “I look like Elvis. I know I do. I’ve practiced in the mirror for two years.” He glared at the now-frightened judges, the wildness in his eyes hinting that his failure to validate his devoted efforts was having a slightly negative effect on his mental stability. “Two whole fucking years! Nobody in this competition has worked harder than me!”

  “And nobody has less talent than you either,” sneered Tubby Elvis. “Even that old guy with the dodgy hips was better than you.”

  “Hey!” puffed out the ancient Elvis, half-rising from the seat where he was still recovering from his performance. “You’ll leave me out of this if you know what’s good for you. Or I’ll come over there and kick you in the goolies!”

  “Settle down, grandpa,” soothed Tubby Elvis, palms up. “No offence meant.”

  Mumbling darkly to himself, Ancient Elvis lowered his bony rear back on the seat and addressed the angry young man. “And anyway, that fat Elvis is right – you sucked, junior. Man up about it.”

  “I was robbed!” insisted Angry Elvis, his voice rising a disagreeable octave in fury. “And I’ll take on any fucker that says otherwise!”

  “I say otherwise,” challenged Tubby Elvis, evidently not one to turn the other cheek. “So you better be prepared to take this fucker on, tossbag.”

  Ben and I exchanged glances.

  “Let’s bossa nova, baby,” he suggested, and we headed off to quell Angry Elvis before things turned really nasty.

  He wasn’t thrilled to be politely reminded of his manners and started swinging out in violent fury. Tubby Elvis had unwisely positioned himself front and centre before him, butting up against him aggressively with his big belly. Ben was much bigger and stronger than me, so after another exchanged glance, I moved to force Tubby Elvis to retreat, while Ben tackled the fiery, thrashing Angry Elvis. Before he could though, Angry Elvis struck out with surprising accuracy, cracking Tubby Elvis one on the chin, and sending him reeling backwards. Unfortunately for me, I was standing directly behind him at that point in time and he fell back onto me heavily, taking me down with him. I broke his fall, while he nearly broke my back.

  He was heavy, very heavy, and I had the air thumped out of my lungs as efficiently as if he’d run over me with a steamroller. I didn’t know how Ben was going with Angry Elvis, because Tubby Elvis floundered around on top of me trying to right himself, like a beetle on its back. With every movement he crushed me further into the carpet. All I could think about was oxygen – beautiful, clear, clean, pure oxygen. I needed it and I needed it urgently. I knew it was all around me for free, but I currently suffered a grave deficit of it.

  I mustered up my strength to roll Tubby Elvis off me. Free of him, I laid on the floor looking up at the ugly air conditioning ducts and fluoro lighting on the ceiling of the room, hauling great breaths of air into my lungs. When I’d re-oxygenated my body sufficiently, I roused myself and staggered to my feet. I made sure that Tubby Elvis was okay and w
ith great effort, helped him to his feet.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said to me with that renowned Southern geniality. I bobbed my head courteously and turned to check on Ben. He continued to struggle with Angry Elvis, egged on by the newly revived Ancient Elvis, whose rheumy eyes shone with excitement. That little wizened elf hovered around the tussling duo as annoyingly as a mosquito, getting in Ben’s way and shouting out instructions for him to kick Angry Elvis in the goolies.

  “I’m not kicking him in the goolies,” patiently explained Ben again, trying to swat away Ancient Elvis while simultaneously subduing Angry Elvis.

  I stalked over to them, pain twinging in my back, pulling out my capsicum spray from one of the many pockets in my cargo pants. The spray wasn’t a standard issue weapon for Heller’s security officers, but Heller insisted that I have some with me at all times. He’s a bit over-cautious like that. For some inexplicable reason, he considered me to be a trouble-magnet.

  “Oi! Angry Elvis!” I yelled in his snarling face, giving him fair warning by holding the spray in clear sight. “It’s capsicum spray. Do you want a dose of extreme pain? If not, then I suggest that you calm down right now.”

  To his credit, he stopped resisting immediately. Ben flashed me an appreciative look, but Ancient Elvis seemed disappointed that it was all resolved so quickly and peacefully.

  “You should have kicked him in the goolies,” he grumbled, his entertainment spoiled.

  “Look, we don’t kick people in the goolies, all right?” snapped Ben, his patience dried up. “And I don’t know what makes you think that we do. Now, go and sit down over there and let us handle this, instead of getting in our way.” Still grumbling, Ancient Elvis limped away, his white jumpsuit flapping around his scrawny, bandied legs.