A Christmas Quick Sketch

by Larissa Reinhart

  I handed over a wad of twenties. He didn’t offer change. “Can you wait here? We’re gonna need a ride back.”

  He eyed the Christmas shopping clientele at the discount store. A child pointed a toy semi-automatic at the cab and mouthed “boom.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll give you ten minutes and then I’m headed back, fare or no.”

  “Deal. Ten minutes.”

  I slid out of the cab and hurried to the side of the highway. Semi trucks roared past and beater cars moved at a slower gait. I heard the slam of the cab door and patter of plum platforms on concrete. I didn’t bother to turn around. Either Priscilla hadn’t given up her tail on me or she really did enjoy my company. Maybe she didn’t get many offers to play Charlie’s Angels.

  “What were you thinking? Follow that van?” Priscilla set a stony glance toward me and a more menacing one at the van across the street.

  “You followed me, remember?”

  “Now what, Miss Hicksville?”

  “Now I’m just going to jog across this highway and figure out what Little Jimmy, the elf, and Santa Elvis are doing here.”

  The wind whipped up, as it usually does in the nastier parts of town, and bits of debris and garbage eddied around our feet. A flatbed truck drove by, kicking more flotsam into the air.

  “My Sergio Rossi platforms are getting dirty,” she whined. “And I’m getting pink stuff stuck in the faux fur collar of my genuine imitation 1974 Bis & Beau original.”

  “I think that’s insulation.” I said. “At least you’re warm. I’m freezing. I packed for basking in the Las Vegas sun, not playing Frogger with a drag queen.”

  Noting a break in the traffic, I grabbed her hand and darted into the highway. A Ford F-250 barreled toward us, and in the opposite lane a Mack truck roared past. Priscilla broke away from my grip and galloped across the remaining blacktop. I chugged my little legs and worked my arms to keep up.

  Across the highway, I collapsed against her. “Dang, you’re fast. How do you run in those shoes?”

  She patted her hair with the pads of her fingers. “Honey, getting splattered by a truck is not the way to stop traffic. My hair is messed and I need a touch up. Let’s get this gig done so I can freshen up.”

  We climbed over the highway barrier and into the parking lot with our backs bowed, our heads up, and our feet scurrying toward the van. I imagined our Mutt and Jeff act caught a few snickers at the nearby pawn shop. We hunkered behind the van and peered around the side.

  “That door says it’s a realty office,” I said. “What kind of realtor would want an office in this part of town?”

  Priscilla shrugged. “Got to be cheap land around here.”

  “But who wants to buy it?”

  The rest of the mini-mall stretch comprised of the pawn shop, a diner with barred windows, and an office for a set of storage units. As we pondered our next move, Little Jimmy waddled from the office and clambered into the vehicle.

  We dropped to the ground.

  “What we gonna do now, Kate Jackson?” said Priscilla. “Besides get run over?”

  I cut my eyes to the restaurant. “Keep as low to the ground as possible and run for the diner. Maybe Little Jimmy won’t notice us.”

  “Maybe not, but Santa Elvis will.”

  “This thing probably has a back-up sensor. As soon as Little Jimmy puts it in reverse, he’s going to know we’re here.” I peered around the side of the van, jumping as the engine turned over and exhaust shot out beneath my arm.

  Santa Elvis stood in the open realty doorway, lighting up a smoke. His pose gave him an excellent view of our fine circumstances.

  “Crap,” I said.

  Santa Elvis held up a hand and beckoned. Little Jimmy opened his door. The chassis shook as he stepped out of the van and onto the pavement. He lumbered toward Santa Elvis, leaving the van running.

  “Quick.” I reached for the rear door handle and jerked it. Holding the door open a crack, I climbed inside. The back of the van held a rack of Elvis costumes, a sound mixing board, and speakers.

  “You can’t be serious,” Priscilla hissed, dropping her affectation. “I can’t fit in there.”

  “Then stroll back to the taxi and hope Elvis doesn’t spot you hunkered behind his ride.”

  With an effective eye roll, she slid into the vehicle and onto the floor.

  I pulled the door shut and felt the truck rock as Little Jimmy climbed in. Are You Lonesome Tonight? blared from hidden woofers.

  “Lord have mercy,” whispered Priscilla. She lay bent in a position that would make a frightening crime scene outline.

  I curled up next to her. “Don’t worry. I told you I’d get us out of here.”

  “I do not remember Farrah Fawcett spooning Kate Jackson in the back of a vehicle. Getting us out is going to require a historic unfold and fluff.” She grunted as my bony elbow struck soft tissue. “Start thinking, Angel.”

  Eight

  The Idiot End

  Twenty minutes on the road and I was convinced Priscilla’s female whole was not made from the sum of her parts, which were mostly rigid muscle. I feared her crunked angles would permanently injure her long frame. I also feared her knees would permanently dent my backside.

  Her hands were also placed on my body in places for which I normally charged an admission of sorts.

  “Let’s not get too friendly back here, Priscilla,” I hissed under the syncopated beat of Burning Love.

  “I’m just trying to take my mind off the extreme pain,” said Priscilla, “and my real name is Eddie.”

  “I would shake your hand, but it seems to be occupied with my boob, Eddie.”

  “Don’t get so excited, Kate Jackson. There’s not a lot of boob to occupy.”

  The van had slowed from its former interstate cruising speed, but now the engine downshifted into a crawl. I could also hear the steady dinking of the turn signal.

  “He’s getting ready to pull in somewhere,” I said. “Get prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?” Priscilla-Eddie whispered into my ear.

  “To get out, obviously.” I risked a quick pop up looksie through the back window and fell back on top of Priscilla. “I think we’re back in Memphis. Little Jimmy’s taking a lunch break. He’s pulling into some hamburger place. Dixie Queen.”

  “Oh, I love me some Dixie Queen,” said Priscilla. “Haven’t been there since I was a child. They have the best burgers and fries. And their freezes, Lord almighty. Not too icy, not too liquidy. Dixie Queen makes them just right. I would love an orange freeze right now.”

  My stomach sputtered into high alert.

  Beneath me, Priscilla cringed. “What’s wrong with this van? I think the engine’s going to blow.”

  “Hush, he’s pulling into the drive-thru. When he stops, we’re getting out.”

  Little Jimmy turned down the music and braked in the drive-thru lane. I grasped the release handle and pulled. The back door flew open and Priscilla and I spilled out onto the asphalt. I scrambled behind the nearby holly bushes, dragging Priscilla behind me.

  Inside the truck, Little Jimmy had turned around in his seat and stared openmouthed at his rear door.

  “Poor Little Jimmy, let’s hope that didn’t give him a heart attack,” said Priscilla. “He’s gonna think the van has turned into Christine.”

  After filling up on bacon cheeseburgers and purple cow milkshakes, Priscilla and I caught another taxi back to the Heartache.

  In the Suspicious Minds Bar, Todd and Byron occupied stools on one side of the black pleather bar, while the Colonel held court on the side holding the bottles. They whispered among longnecks until they caught sight of Priscilla and I traipsing across the beer and tequila stained carpet. Double takes ensued, which Priscilla took none too kindly.

  “Honey, I’ve shed a ton of Swarovski crystals, my hair is unbalanced, and I lost a falsie,” said Priscilla. “Never set me alone with this child again. I’m going to the little girl’s
room to freshen up.”

  “Did you get in a fight at the art shop?” asked the Colonel. “You’re limping.”

  “She’s still a little jacked up,” I said, “but we didn’t get in a fight and we never made it to the art store. However, it’s been an interesting morning. I saw parts of the country I hope never to see again. Except for the Dixie Queen, which I would visit every day if I lived here.”

  The Colonel served me an eyeball roll I did not appreciate, so I turned toward the man who never found my statements eyeball-rolling worthy.

  “Hey baby,” Todd said, once again forgetting I had a given name. “Did y’all have fun?”

  I pondered that question for a few and waited for the Colonel to pour a drink for a customer. “I wouldn’t exactly call it fun. More like a fact-finding mission,” I whispered. “I learned that Little Jimmy knows Santa Elvis and the Angry Elf, from the Heartache’s Blue Christmas show. They like to hang out in real estate offices in dicey parts of town.”

  “Cool,” said Todd and elbowed Byron. “Told you Cherry was good at figuring stuff out.”

  “What do you think it means?” said Byron.

  “I don’t trust Little Jimmy and we already know he’s involved in the underground poker scene. The elf and Santa Elvis might be, too. Or it’s one odd coincidence.”

  I cut short our conversation as Priscilla wandered back into the bar with her phone in her hand. She tucked the phone into her purse and scooted onto a bar stool next to us.

  “I didn’t have such good luck today,” said Todd. “I lost a bunch of money at the tables in Arkansas.”

  “What the hell, Todd,” I said. “I thought you were good at poker. How did you end up getting in a Vegas tournament when you can’t even beat these Memphis losers?”

  “Watch your mouth now,” said Priscilla. “This ain’t no hayseed town like where y’all are from.”

  “How are we going to save Byron’s Christmas if Todd can’t win tonight? I spent my day wrapped around a drag queen in the back of a van when I could have been at an art museum. A guy named Little Jimmy stuck my best sketchpad in a paper shredder. I spent all my sketching money on taxis and the Dixie Queen. And now Byron’s kids’ Christmas memories will be of their momma taking the cast iron to their daddy.”

  Byron rubbed the back of his head and winced.

  “Todd, you have to play better tonight,” I begged.

  Todd circled his arms around me and pressed me to his chest, probably more to smother my hollering than in affection. He smoothed my hair and set a kiss on top of my head. “It’s going to be all right, baby. These nice people here are going to help us win Byron’s money back. We’re going to work together. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  I turned away from Todd and eyed the Colonel. “I’m counting on you to make this work.”

  “Then I advise you to stop following around Elvis and focus on your part.” The Colonel drew a cigar from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. “We still need those art supplies. Our guy at Graceland has a work order written up. We need to pick it up and set up your scene before four o’clock. You’re the cover, so you’ve got to be inside before the players.”

  “I’ll take you to the art shop,” said Todd. “Byron, are you coming?”

  He shook his blond mane. “I’m catching a ride with the Colonel.”

  “Be at Graceland by four,” said the Colonel. “Jupiter is Fred’s buddy who works at the Art Shop.”

  “Jupiter?” I said. “Like I need more space cadets in my life.”

  Nine

  The One-Eyed Jack

  Todd hummed a tune and strummed the steering wheel of Byron’s F-150, perhaps forgetting he was bait in a poker game that had attracted every skeezy pro in the tristate Memphis area. And he couldn’t seem to win a game to save his life.

  Which was very odd considering his reputation as a poker shark in Halo.

  Population three thousand.

  Maybe not so odd.

  While Todd hummed, I had picked the Fa-la-la Lavender off my nails and now sat on my hands to stop myself from eating my cuticles. I had participated in some unbrilliant activities in my twenty-something years, but never had I purposefully committed acts of breaking and entering, vandalism, illegal gambling, and intent to commit a felony.

  Well, at least not all in one night.

  And my nefarious activities were done at home, under the jurisdiction of my uncle, the sheriff.

  I needed Todd to share in my jitters. I also needed him to stop with the hum and strum.

  “How can you be so relaxed when we’re about to commit a number of illegal acts that might result in losing every penny attached to our names and getting thrown in an out-of-state pokey? Thereby ruining Christmas for not just Byron’s family, but ourselves as well.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  I knew Todd lived in the moment, but moments like these were the kind that gave ulcers. “I don’t trust these Memphis players. They look like they want to eat you.”

  “Aw, that’s cute.”

  “Not cute. Particularly Lucinda, who does want to eat you. Tell me what happened today besides losing at cards.”

  “We drove to Arkansas. Went to a gaming room at a track. The Colonel introduced me to a bunch of dudes. We played poker. I lost.”

  “How’d Lucinda do?”

  “She won a couple hands. And then she just kind of hung around. Brought me drinks and a sandwich.”

  He glanced at me with blue doe eyes I found suspiciously too doe-like. “And you said you were wrapped up with Priscilla in the back of a van? Now that sounds fun. I like how you’ll try risky moves like that.”

  I pulled my hands from under my butt to grab Todd’s arm. “Priscilla and I never checked out that realty office. I kept an eye on the road when we were in the taxi. We could slip over there before we head to the art shop. Hour round trip.”

  “That sounds like fun, baby. But we can’t be late for Graceland. The Colonel said so.” Todd’s strumming had turned to rapid-fire tapping.

  “I promise I will just grab the supplies we need and leave. Let’s scoot over to that real estate office and see if we can learn anything.”

  I had remembered the exit by the giant ribs sign that appeared just before the interstate off ramp. After that, it was a piece of cake. Follow the road until the pawn shops almost outnumbered the check-cashing shops and hang a left across from the dollar store.

  Todd’s eyes grew wider the further we traveled into the heart of the industrial jungle.

  Only one vehicle had parked in front of the strip mall holding the realty office. It was not the white van, for which I was thankful. I could not handle hearing Little Jimmy singing Christmas carols again. He was not a tenor and had no falsetto, no matter his aspirations.

  “You didn’t go inside?” asked Todd, parking before the office.

  “Didn’t get a chance,” I said. “Little Jimmy just dropped off Elvis and the elf.”

  We approached the glass door.

  “Venture Realty,” read Todd. He yanked on the door handle and finding it locked, we mashed our faces and shielded our eyes against the dirty glass to see inside.

  Venture Realty had seen better days. Possibly in 1975. The dingy, wood paneled office had maps tacked on the wall and a dying fern. Beside a metal folding chair, a TV tray held a massive glass ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. One metal desk had been plunked before a back door. An actual rotary phone sat on the desk next to an old metal safe with a combination dial that might have interested 1930’s gangsters but would be shunned by modern thieves.

  “I can see why they don’t need bars on their windows like the Cash-N-Carry.”

  Todd hooked an arm around my waist. “This reminds me of my grandma’s house.”

  “Can you see what’s on those maps? Looks like states.”

  We squinted at the dim room. I could feel the grime transferring to my nose.

  “Six of them,” said Todd. “Ten
nessee’s got the most pins.”

  “The others must be the surrounding states,” I said, recognizing Alabama. “Most of the pins are near the border of Tennessee.”

  I held my phone to the door and took a grime-filtered shot of the maps. “Let’s check out the rest of the block. Maybe someone in one of the other shops has information about Venture Realty. But first, smile pretty.”

  I held up my phone and on cue, Todd struck a pose before the Venture Realty door.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “Memories,” I said and forwarded the pictures to Uncle Will. Shoving the phone into my back pocket, I took Todd’s hand to amble down the sidewalk. The diner’s closed sign let me breathe a sigh of relief. There’s nothing more depressing than an unloved diner.

  At the warehouse office door, Todd peered into the high, single window, then jumped back.

  “What is it? Storage for body parts or something?”

  “No.” He tapped his fingers inside his cargo shorts pocket. “I just recognized the guy working the desk.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Fred’s buddy from the Green Room.”

  “Let me see.” Todd grasped my waist and hoisted me so I could peer into the tiny window. I remembered sketching the man’s likeness. “Set me down, hon’.”

  For a long moment, we stared at each other with Todd’s hands wrapped around my waist and mine on his shoulders. More of a convenient resting place than for a romantic interlude. I could tell Todd’s thoughts were similarly occupied as his hands were busy pounding the Bossa Nova Baby rhythm on my behind.

  “Now what’s Luther doing working at a storage warehouse in this part of town?” I said, wriggling under Todd’s tempo. “I thought he was a musician or something.”

  “You want to go in and ask him?” asked Todd, stilling his hands.

  “Is he coming to the game tonight?”

  “Think so.”

  “In that case, maybe it’s best for him not to know that we know that he’s out here in East Bumcrack.”