A Christmas Quick Sketch

by Larissa Reinhart

  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. Would Chet or Little Jimmy 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 re-sketching 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 fixing to come 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. 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.” The Colonel really relished 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 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. “You think you can 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.

  Priscilla sidled up to me with an amused snort. “Santa Elvis write anything interesting?”

  “‘Thanks for the rockin’ night. Sorry about your TV. Love ya, girl.’” I wrinkled my nose. “Ew. He has me mixed up with another Heartache guest. I feel like I need another shower.”

  “If there are two guests who look like you, this really is one sorry motel.”

  A white panel van pulled alongside the curb and Santa Elvis made his move. He yanked on the passenger door handle. The door popped open, revealing the Blue Christmas Review elf.

  The elf had lost his green jingle bell suit and gained a polo, khakis, and glasses. With a suggestive hand gesture and a few curt expletives to Santa Elvis, the angry elf motioned for Elvis to take the back seat.

  I leaned toward Priscilla. “I think the elf’s not thrilled with Elvis spending the night at the Heartache.”

  “That’s the kind of thing that breaks up bands.”

  Elvis and the angry elf jabbered at each other for half a minute. The driver leaned over and jerked his thumb toward the backseat. Santa Elvis offered the elf a choice finger and climbed into the rear.

  “I’ll be damned if that isn’t Little Jimmy,” I said. “What’s he doing driving around the floor show? I don’t like this. That man ruined a perfectly good sketchbook.”

  “Who knows. Maybe Little Jimmy’s got a taxi service as a side job.”

  “I’ll catch up with you later.” I glanced around for a cab. I wasn’t sure if I could trust Priscilla, but I needed to follow that van.

  “Are you dismissing Priscilla? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m the one with the beef with Little Jimmy, not you.”

  “You’re acting like a Charlie’s Angel, all stealthy and such. If you’re following Elvis, I’m following Elvis, too. I get to be Farrah Fawcett. You’re Kate Jackson.”

  “Priscilla, you’re making it real hard to maintain my high standard of gracious Southern charm.”

  The van pulled away from the curb. I ran toward a yellow cab with Priscilla close on my heels. Giving up on the idea of leaving Priscilla, I pounded on the taxi door. The driver sputtered awake and rolled down the window.

  “You see that white van over there? Waiting to pull into traffic?” I pointed.

  The driver nodded.

  “If you’re coming, get in,” I said and shoved Priscilla into the backseat. I slid in behind her and scooted forward to speak to the driver. “Follow that van. But don’t let it know we’re following.”

  “Kate Jackson, you quit with the bossing,” said Priscilla. “You are just like the Colonel, ordering people around and making decisions for everyone.”

  “Are you paying for this cab?”

  Priscilla dropped her eyes to examine her flawless manicure.

  “That’s what I thought. Just be glad I’ve got some money to spend on a cab. It’s an unusual event to find me this loaded.”

  “Loaded?” said the cabbie.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “Loaded for me equals Friday night cruising money for the average sixteen-year-old.”<
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  The cab pulled away from the Heartache. We slid forward in our seats, keeping an eye on the van. Little Jimmy took the exit for the interstate, but instead of turning northwest toward downtown Memphis, the SUV headed on the ramp leading east. We passed exits for various suburbs and I watched the money counter on the digital meter flip into the ouch zone.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “If they don’t stop somewhere soon, I’m going to run out of money.”

  The cabbie darted a look into his rearview and caught my eye.

  “If you think you can pull over on the side of the interstate, just forget it,” I said. “This money was supposed to go toward a tree, turkey, and Christmas presents for some children whose daddy just lost his job.”

  “You don’t pay me my fare, and my kids’ll have a daddy who lost his job at Christmas.”

  Priscilla hooted.

  It looked like I was saving Christmas for all kinds of children this year. “Where the hell are we going? Mississippi?”

  The driver shrugged.

  As the fare inched closer to my breaking point, the van took the off ramp. Our driver slowed and followed, winding through the streets of an industrial area. The van continued over a weedy set of railroad tracks and down a street lined with pawn shops and gas stations offering check cashing services. Young men in hoodies huddled together on corners and watched our cab pass. An honest- to-God hooker waved at us.

  I waved back and got an eyeball full of something I’d rather never see again.

  As our drive deepened into sketchier territory, Priscilla’s Vandyke Brown eyes grew wider. I took to gnawing on my Fa-La-La-Lavender nails and thought about guardian angels who rescued well-meaning folks from railroad bridges at Christmas.

  Finally, the van pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. I directed our cab to park across the street between a discount furniture and a dollar store. The more familiar surroundings of bargain priced shops gave me the shot of confidence I needed.

  The cab driver pushed a button and the fare counter blinked. “That’ll be eighty-nine dollars,” said our cabbie.