by Leanna Ellis
Rae thanks her and sips her Coke. She sings along with the entertainer, her voice low and husky.
“I guess you were right,” I say. “He does remember you.” How, I wonder, could anyone, even Elvis, forget Rae?
* * *
NIGHT HAS NOT yet arrived, but the sun is setting, shadows growing longer, and the light taking on a peach hue. We walk through the alleyway, past a dumpster and several dark doorways. The thick smell of stale beer and grease surrounds us. Music pours out of doorways. Depending on where we’re standing along Beale Street and what store or restaurant we’re near, we can hear B. B. King, Johnny Cash, or Jerry Lee Lewis. Right now “Great Balls of Fire” rocks the air around us. Rae sings along, giving a little shimmy with her shoulders.
My nerves tighten and my heartbeat quickens. I remember Ben’s story of Stu’s encounter with an Elvis impersonator on a dark road, and I glance over my shoulder. I wonder if Stu was nervous or scared. Knowing him, he’d have been wired to be around anyone or anything remotely Elvis. Rae doesn’t seem nervous. She never does. Her confidence amazes me. But I tighten my grip on my purse and keep close beside Rae.
“A drink, sister?” a voice from a concrete stoop beckons.
I almost jump out of my skin. “I’m sorry but—”
Rae grabs my arm and pulls me away. I glimpse a figure hunkered down behind the garbage dumpster. The rest of the way down the alley, I can hear our footsteps on the asphalt clipping along with the rapid beat of my heart.
“This is it,” Rae says with confidence.
“Have you been here before?”
“No.” She stumbles to a halt.
I look past her shoulder and see two persons in close conversation. They are partially hidden by a stack of crates. The man is shorter than the woman, who has long dark hair. Their low voices mingle with Jerry Lee jamming on the piano keys. Rae clears her throat, once, twice, then loud enough to wake the real Elvis from the dead.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” a gruff voice asks. The woman turns. It’s then I realize that she’s a he, dressed up like Priscilla Presley with a bouffant hairdo straight out of the sixties. And she, actually he, is talking with an Elvis wannabe, a skinny short guy with a wig that’s tipped slightly off center.
“Excuse us,” Rae says. She breezes between them to reach the door.
The alley door to Double Takes has no handle, just a place to put a key.
“If you want in,” Priscilla says in a voice more suited for football huddles, “knock loud.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
Rae bangs on the metal door. Nothing happens. So I reach around her and pound harder, jarring the bones in my hand, in hopes the sound makes it through to the other side. Slowly the door opens with a creak and a groan.
“Yeah?” asks a woman with a voice as rough as the lines on her face. Her heavy eye makeup reminds me of the sixties before the art of blending came into vogue. “Elvis has left the building.”
I laugh.
She narrows her gaze on me.
“But has Howie?” Rae asks. “We’re here to see him.”
“Howie?” She grunts. “Hang on.” She slams the door closed and leaves us waiting in the alley with Elvis and Priscilla moving away from us. I hear Rae breathing softly next to me. I imagine all the creepy things that could happen in an alley. Once again I glance over my shoulder. “Maybe we should go—”
The door opens again, and the woman steps aside. “Come on.”
Looking back, I notice Elvis and Priscilla have slipped away into the shadows.
Backstage another Elvis puffs on a cigarette and downs a beer. “You wanna autograph?”
“Oh, uh … thanks but …” I sidestep after Rae.
She moves along like she’s the real Priscilla. “We’re here to see Howie.”
Elvis nods toward his right. “In his office.”
I grab Rae’s elbow and steer her in that direction. We step over cords taped to the floor. “Nowhere to Run” blares from the speakers in between the Elvis sets. When we reach a door with a sign stating “Office,” Rae doesn’t bother knocking. She pushes it open and steps into a small room.
“Howie, you going to keep me waiting forever?”
A low whistle escapes the man sitting behind a crowded desk. The man, who looks like an overinflated turtle, plops down a thick cigar into an Elvis ashtray and pushes his chair back from the desk. His eyes tilt down at the outside corners, and his nose hooks downward to a sharp point. “Rae! Where the blazes have you been for forty years?”
“Here and there. Mostly there.” A full smile crinkles her features, revealing her age while at the same time taking years off her face.
He comes around and hugs her, lifting her off her feet. It’s an intimate embrace, and I feel like an intruder. “Been too long,” he says, “too long.”
Rae, still smiling, moves away but pats his shoulder. He ushers her into a wooden chair and hollers out the door, “Polly, bring us a chair.” He sets up a folding chair for me beside Rae. “Here you go.” He sticks out a hand toward me. “Howie Restin.”
“Claudia McIntosh,” I say, shaking his hand.
He looks at me for a moment, sizing me. “You Rae’s—”
“She’s my niece,” Rae interrupts.
He peers closer, studying my features. “Huh. Well, good to know you. Rae, whatever happened to—”
“We need your help, Howie,” she says without preamble.
“Oh?” He squints his bloodshot eyes at me. “You Irish? You don’t look Irish.”
I laugh. “No. My husband was. Or someone in his family was once.”
“Catholic?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head, amused by his intensity.
“Good. Don’t trust Catholics. Church of Christ myself. But that’s what I was raised. If it was good enough for my mama, then it’s good enough for me.” Then he snaps his fat, yellowed fingers. His attention shifts abruptly to Rae. “I took you to church once.”
“A lot of good it did me,” she laughs, “or you.”
“Ah, but that’s where I learned your secret.”
“Secret?” I ask.
He nods, his gaze caressing Rae. “You ever sit in on one of them jam sessions with the boss?”
“A few,” she says.
“I bet he ate your voice up. Why didn’t you ever tour with him?”
“I don’t have a gospel sound.”
“You ain’t black, that’s for sure. But you got soul.” He looks at me then. “This little lady,” he waves a finger at Rae, “could sing the horn off a rhino.”
“Yes,” I agree. “I’ve recently discovered that.”
“And the boss … man, oh man, he could really get to the soul of them gospel tunes. Still can get me right here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. Then he sniffs loudly. “Have a seat, have a seat.” He waves at me and returns to his desk. He plops into his own chair, almost tipping it over backwards with his weight. “You gals wanna drink or something?”
“We’re fine,” Rae says.
Howie rocks forward then back in his chair, clasping his hands over his large belly. “Rae. It’s been ages.”
“Bet you didn’t expect to see me again.” She grins.
“I thought you’d already gone heavenward. If I’d known you were still livin’, I’d have looked you up after my divorce.”
“From Glenda?”
“Polly.” He sucks on the end of an unlit cigar, swirling it this way then that and making popping sounds with his lips. “Nah, Glenda and I never married. She went off with some yahoo to Nashville, wanting to sing. But I ain’t never heard her on the radio, have you? No, and you’re not likely to. She didn’t have it. But Rae here, she could have been like Loretta Lynn or Trisha Yearwood. You was something.” He waves his arm as if dismissing his own thoughts. “Nope, Polly and I hitched up after that. Had a couple of kids. But she took a shine to Rance Skye, one of our Elvises. Looks just like the boss. And I should know.
But you know me, not one to hold a grudge. They both still work here. And I married Roxanne. She used to be a showgirl. We hooked up in Vegas, and she moved here. But that’s enough about me.”
He props his seventies-style boots on the edge of his desk. “What ever happened to you? Ol’ Joe Dixon and I were tossing back a few beers not too long ago, reminiscing ’bout old times, and he asked, ‘Whatever happened to Rae Picard?’”
“Not too much,” she says. “I’ve lived a quiet life.”
Howie laughs, a full-blown belly laugh. “You, quiet?”
I feel the urge to laugh with him. My aunt is anything but quiet. She walks into a room and draws attention without even speaking a word. She lives life in a big, bold way.
“I changed,” she says softly. “Do you think you can help us? We’re—”
He waves away her question with the flick of his wrist. Flecks of cigar ashes fall on the desk. The acrid smoke chokes me, and I swallow a cough. “You ever marry? Have kids, ’sides that one—”
“No,” she says, her tone icier than normal. “I never married.”
“I bet you had a few offers though.” He chuckles and looks to me. “She could wrap a man around her little finger in a heartbeat. But she was always aloof. Hard to get. But which one of us didn’t try? The boss woulda married you. We all thought so. After you left, we were all lookin’ for you.”
“Howie,” she interrupts his wandering comments, “we’re looking for infor—”
“Oh, sure, sure. You in trouble, darlin’? Need some money?” He plops his feet on the floor and leans forward to grab his wallet out of his back pocket. “I’m a bit low at the moment. You know how things are in the biz—flowing one minute then dry as a nun’s—” He stops himself, coughs, and turns a watermelon red. “You can have what I got here.”
Rae puts out a hand to stop him. “No, Howie. I don’t need your money.”
“Howie,” I attempt, “we don’t need any money, although you’re very generous to offer. We simply need some information.”
“This is a very delicate matter.”
“Oh!” His bushy eyebrows rise. He rests his forearms on the desk. “So tell me.”
“It has to do with Elvis,” I venture.
“What doesn’t around here?”
“We’ve … ,” I decide it’s best not to divulge all our secrets, “there’s some memorabilia that we’re trying to—”
“Yeah? When did it go missing?”
“Around 1987.”
He frowns. “Well, I don’t know nothin’—”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
His head jerks to the side, then gives Rae a broad wink. “You wantin’ to sell some memorabilia? Some pretties the boss give you? I don’t handle that stuff. But I always have my ear to the ground. I know a fellow—”
“Could he tell us the value?” Rae ask.
“Oh, sure. He’s honest as they come.”
I squelch a laugh. Dealing with red-hot Elvis artifacts, Howie’s friend couldn’t be too honest.
“You ’member Baldy, Rae?”
“I don’t think so.”
He leans back in his chair, making it squeak and groan in protest. “Matt Franklin ring a bell?”
She makes an inarticulate sound that neither confirms nor denies.
“Well, no never mind. He’s got a place across town. Here I’ll write the directions.”
I notice how he knows it off the top of his head. He scribbles notes onto the back of his business card that boasts five shows a day at Double Takes. “You tell him I sent you. He’ll take care of you right fine. Just takin’ care of business; right, doll?”
Rae takes the card. “Thank you. For everything. Especially your discretion.”
“’Course. No problem. You need anything else, just come see Howie.” He coughs. “Howard,” he corrects himself. “It’s Howard now. Roxanne thinks it makes me sound more professional. Come on in for a show anytime.” He stands and rocks back on his heels, his Elvis-sized belly protruding. “I got a new Elvis comin’ next week. And he’s better than ol’ Rance. Reminds me of the boss back in the fifties. He’s young and can swivel them hips like there ain’t no tomorrow.” Howie does his own version of free-wheeling hips. “I’ll give you both a free drink.”
“It’s a tempting offer.” Rae gives him a quick hug and a kiss on his cheek.
He keeps an arm around Rae’s waist. “The boss was upset when you left.” His voice turns soft. “I figured he missed you. But I hadn’t heard you’d …” He glances at me, then back to Rae. “Well, no never mind. Now you wanna sell some of his stuff? That’s cool. A girl’s gotta take what she can get. Believe me, my ex-wife took what she wanted. But whatever you got, Rae, you deserved more. You be careful, Devil.”
“I’m always careful. Thank you for your discretion. Take care of yourself, Howie.”
“Oh, sure, sure. Roxanne doin’ a fine job of that.” He pats his rounded belly. “Makes me biscuits and gravy every mornin’.”
Rae gives him a gentle smile.
“Where you livin’ nowadays? You ain’t back in Memphis now, are you?”
“No,” Rae and I say simultaneously. We glance at each other and smile sheepishly. By the time we hit the alleyway again, we’re laughing, our arms interlinked. She hugs me as the door closes behind us and laughs until her eyes glitter.
“I can’t believe you knew that guy,” I say.
“I’ve known a few characters,” she says, walking beside me.
“But Howie. What a trip.”
“He was not quite so humorous back in the old days. Mostly he was a good friend when I needed one.”
“And now he thinks you stole stuff from Elvis?”
She shrugs. “An easy assumption. Many did. But I know the truth. As you do. That’s all that matters.”
* * *
IT’S GETTING LATE, later than I anticipated, when we arrive back at the Heartbreak Hotel. The lobby is like a graveyard, and I wonder if Elvis’s contemporaries and fans are too old now to stay up late and party. Together Rae and I ride up in the elevator to our floor. I push the plastic key into the door, and we enter the darkened hotel suite. The noise of the television greets us. Elvis lights up the screen. He’s in black leather, sitting in the midst of a screaming group of women. A few of his band sit with him on a small circular stage. He’s singing “That’s All Right, Mama.” But Ivy isn’t in the main sitting room.
“Ivy?” I call out, assuming she’s in her room or bathroom. “We’re back!”
“I don’t know if it’s safe,” I say as soft as I can, so as not to disturb Ivy, “for her to go with us tomorrow. I mean this could be another club or some kind of a racket. If this guy … Baldy is dealing with stolen items, then it might not be safe. And I’m responsible for Ivy.”
“Matt’s harmless,” she says. “No trouble there.”
“How do you know?”
“I know him.”
“You do? But I thought you told Howie—”
“It’s best not to reveal too much.”
“I suppose. So is this his house, you think? A club? Warehouse? What?”
“If I know Matt, then it’s safe. I should have thought to go to him first. I regret I didn’t. Howie will be telling everyone he knows that he saw me.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “There is no way he could know about our problem.” My problem. I jab my thumb in the direction of Elvis who sits on the table in the living area. My stomach coils in a hard knot. I’d expected Ivy to be watching television or talking on her phone, not sleeping. I hope she’s not sick again. “I better check on Ivy.”
Rae nods. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
I notice a red light blinking on the phone. “I think we have a message.”
Sitting on the sofa, I dial into the hotel phone system to retrieve it.
“You girls having a hunka, hunka burnin’ night?” Ben’s voice comes through the phone. “Tried calling Ivy on her cell but couldn’t get he
r. Just wanted to know how things are going on your search. Hope you got Elvis returned to sender.” He laughs at his own joke. “Call me back.”
Shaking my head at his attempts at humor, I place the receiver back on the phone’s base. “Hmm.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Ivy didn’t answer when her dad called.”
“You know teenagers. The last person they want to talk to is their father.”
“I guess. I just worry about her. You know?”
“Have you checked her bathroom,” she lowers her voice, “for drugs?”
“No, I didn’t want to be intrusive. But maybe I should.”
“There’s time.”
I place my hands on my knees, reluctant to go snooping around like a concerned parent. I’d rather be Ivy’s friend. “So when do you think we should go tomorrow? Do you think Baldy … Matt has regular business hours?”
“Always takin’ care of business,” Rae says in a thick imitation of Howie’s accent.”
“You’re sure?”
“We can ask for directions from the concierge.”
“Okay.” I stand and walk to the closed door leading to Ivy’s bedroom. I decide to hold off searching the bathroom. It feels too dishonest. “I better let her know what our plans are.”
“I’m going to bed,” Rae turns toward her own room. “Good night.”
“Rae?”
She turns back toward me.
“Thank you for your help today.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know if we’re any closer to solving this mystery, but I had fun.”
“Me, too.” She looks at me for a long moment, and I feel something I don’t understand. If for no other reason than it’s brought us closer together, I decide this trip has been good. I understand her better. And my mother as well. Yet at the same time I’m not sure I understand either of them completely. She turns and enters her bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.
Turning back toward Ivy’s room, I knock on the door. I wait but there’s no response. I knock again. Then louder.
