Elvis Has Not Left the Building Read online

  “Go on,” she said. “What are you struggling with?”

  I took a deep breath. Held it. Took another one. Held it. Plunged forward. “I’m thinking about getting back into music,” I said.

  “Ah,” she said, smiling smugly. “Yes, of course, you were a singer back in the day. I think you mentioned that once or twice when you were shit-faced drunk. And when I asked you about it later, you were not pleased that I knew.”

  “Yeah, well, my singing was a long time ago.”

  “And, on the very day you were struggling with that decision, you get my email invitation from me about this concert.”

  “Everyone hates a know-it-all,” I said.

  “And, being the observant investigator that you are, you happened to see the similarities in birthdays, and considered it a sign from God,” she said. “And now here you are.”

  “You talk a lot,” I said. “Even for a broad.”

  She smiled some more at me. “So what did you mostly sing back in the day? Rock, country?”

  “Indian folk,” I said.

  She looked at me some more. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”

  “No, not yet.”

  A true friend, she let it drop and gave me another forearm squeeze. I like squeezes.

  As the house lights went down, the announcer politely asked in his pleasantly rich baritone to please refrain from taking any pictures and to please turn off all cell phones. And because he asked so nicely, I turned mine off and somehow refrained from taking any pictures, tempted as I was.

  * * *

  And by the end of the evening, after two hours of listening to traditional Indian folk music, I came to a decision about my own music.

  Lord help me, I came to a decision.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The frames of Dr. Vivian’s glasses were wider than her head, making her narrow face even more narrow. I liked her narrow face. I liked her big glasses. I liked her, in fact, a lot.

  “I find you very attractive,” I said. We were halfway through my latest session, and I was finding her particularly distracting today, especially her big blue eyes.

  “Isn’t that a little off-topic?” she said. As she spoke, she didn’t move a muscle. If my compliment surprised her, made her feel good, creeped her out, etc., you wouldn’t know it by looking at her.

  “Your beauty is never off-topic.”

  “Charming, Mr. King. But my beauty, or alleged beauty, is not the issue here,” she said. “Besides, you don’t find me attractive, not really.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I chewed on that. Light from her lamp, which sat at the far corner of her desk, was casting angular shadows across her angular face. Angular or not, I was certain I found her beautiful. I said as much.

  “It’s called transference,” she said.

  “Transference?”

  “It’s when the patient develops strong feelings for his therapist.”

  “This has happened to you before?” I asked.

  “Often.”

  “I see,” I said. “And it’s not because you’re pretty.”

  She tilted her head. As she did so, her oversized glasses caught a lot of the lamplight and reflected it back at me tenfold, nearly blinding me. I exaggerate, of course, for emphasis.

  She said, “On the streets, Mr. King—that is, in the real world—you wouldn’t look at me twice.”

  “I wouldn’t?”

  “No. Especially not you, one who has had his fair share of the most beautiful women in the world.”

  “And you are not one of them?” I asked.

  “Most certainly not,” she said.

  “Am I permitted to disagree?”

  She looked at me steadily, unmovingly. If she were breathing, I couldn’t tell. “Mr. King, you see a female sitting across from you, patiently listening to you, helping you, working with you, completely invested in you, viewing you without judgment or agenda. I represent all the people in your life who should love you but don’t.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re not helping.”

  She sat back. “Mr. King, just know that I’m not your type and will never be your type, and you are far too old for me, so just get it out of your head.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tough love,” she said.

  “Ah,” I said. “So you do love me, then?”

  Despite herself, she grinned, and some of the lamplight caught her tiny front teeth. “Let’s get back to the business at hand, Mr. King.”

  “So we’re changing the subject.”

  “Yes, we are,” she said.

  “Fine,” I said. “But don’t you have some questions for me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just discovered a few days ago that your patient really is Elvis Presley, and you haven’t asked me a single thing.”

  “Because we’re not here for me,” she said.

  “You have a lot of will power,” I said.

  “Mr. King, as remarkable as your story is, as interesting as you might be, as storied as your life was and is, I still have a job to do. You pay me to help you—not act like a star-struck teenager.”

  “Are you star struck?”

  She looked me square in the eye, which was appropriate, since the frames of her glasses were mostly square. “Mr. King, I see you as a very troubled man. My job is to help you through your troubles.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “Good luck to you, sir.”

  “So I’m not in love with you?” I asked again.

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe a little?”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  “Ah, hell.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I was at a donut shop on Glendale Avenue with the good Detective Colbert. It was early in the morning and the sun was just out, and so were many of the bums, many of whom were actively panhandling the local intersections.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Colbert. “The bum sees her in a van?”

  “Yes.”

  “The bum’s a credible witness?”

  “He’s a drunk and he’s dying. His words.”

  “But you believe him.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “So the bum follows the girl around the store and then out into the parking lot, where some guy in a van picks her up.”

  “That about sums it up,” I said.

  “Being driven by a menacing-looking character,” Colbert said.

  “With pock marks.”

  “Pock marks are menacing,” Colbert said.

  “That’s an unfortunate stereotype,” I said.

  The donut shop was surprisingly packed. Across the street, through the big glass window, on a sidewalk in front of the Vons grocery store, was a homeless tent city, comprised of a dozen or so shopping carts filled to the brim with Lord knows what, covered with cardboard and blankets. Actually, the structure seemed fairly solid. Hell, so solid it was almost incorrect to call those within homeless. One way or another, that was certainly a home, complete with rooms and hallways. The ultimate kid’s fort.

  “I assume our friend didn’t take down the license plate,” said Colbert.

  “No.”

  “Did he catch the color of the van?”

  “White.”

  “Make and model?”

  I shook my head. “Only that it didn’t have any windows.”

  “A cargo van?”

  “Be my guess.”

  “Great,” said Detective Colbert, “I’ll tell my men to be on the look-out for a white, windowless van driven by a sinister, pock-marked male, who may or may not have our damsel in distress held hostage in the back.”

  “Don’t forget she appears to have gone willingly.”

  He chewed on that. “So she knows the guy.”

  “Be my guess.”

  “So she agrees to go with him wherever he asks her to go, and
gets in the van, groceries and all.”

  “Must have been pretty important,” I said. “For her to get in the van and leave her car.”

  He nodded.

  I was working on a plain cake donut; Colbert was eating a ham and cheese croissant. I was of the opinion that if you went into a donut shop, you ate donuts, not croissants. We were both drinking non-fat milk.

  “How come you’re eating a plain donut?” he asked me.

  “Watching my weight.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m auditioning today at the Pussycat.”

  “For what?”

  “A singer.”

  “A singing detective?” He grinned at his own joke. “You any good?”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  I finished my donut and sipped the non-fat milk from the carton. I had completely butchered the carton while opening it, and I was now drinking from a tattered hole. Colbert seemed to be enjoying his croissant. As he spoke to me, his eyes scanned the crowd inside the donut shop. That was a cop thing, aware of your surroundings at all times. I was aware, too, but I just didn’t care as much.

  “How do we know Milton the Bum didn’t do her,” said Colbert. “And bury her body at this construction site?”

  “We don’t,” I said.

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Your instincts as good as they say?” he asked.

  “Sometimes better,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll tell my guys to keep looking for a mysterious white van, lot of good it’ll do. You still working the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said, and stood. “I can use you. You’re doing good work. What’s your next step?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “Join the club.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I was driving west along Hollywood Blvd. The gray skies from days past were long gone, to be replaced by something hot and mean and shining down from above. Since the Cadillac’s air conditioner had broken sometime during the Carter administration, I was driving with the windows down; hell, in this heat, I would have driven with the doors off, too, if I could.

  The wind whipped my dyed hair, my shades were on, and I looked about as cool as cool gets. Maybe even cooler.

  I knew Hollywood, and I knew it well, which is why I chose to finish out my days here. After all, I had made many movies here, with many fond memories. Bitter memories, as well, but fond nonetheless. Also, with all the whackos, I thought for sure I could disappear in Los Angeles, and for the most part I have.

  I drove with the radio on and my elbow out the window. I preferred the golden oldies of the fifties and sixties. Go figure. At the moment my radio was tuned into K-Earth, and Chuck Berry was doing his groovy thing.

  As I drove, I kept beat to the song by slapping the hot sheet metal of the door. I even sang a little, although I had long ago conditioned myself to stop singing, even when alone.

  And as I sang, I discovered my upper lip curling at the corner. Okay, that had to definitely stop.

  I passed Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and all the freaks were out. And so were the cartoon characters and impersonators. Spider-man was posing with an older Asian couple. The couple looked about as happy as could be. A Marilyn impersonator was blowing a passing car a kiss, and then she blew me a kiss, too. I winked at her. She winked back. It was a damn good impersonation.

  And there, with his arms around an attractive young couple, mugging for the camera, was an Elvis impersonator. He was fat, and his thick sideburns were far too prominent. He was wearing aviator shades and my white rhinestone jumpsuit from the seventies.

  Jesus, what the hell was I thinking back then?

  I passed Grauman’s and made a right and headed up the Sunset Strip. Now Johnny Cash was on the radio, and I had nothing but fond memories of the man and his wife, June.

  Still early in the day, traffic on the strip was relatively light, although that would change with the onset of night. I passed the Whiskey A-Go-Go, the Comedy Club, the Rainbow Room, and there, situated between an adult bookshop and a Chinese take-out place, was the Pussycat, owned by one of the original members of the Stray Cats.

  The Pussycat Theater, which catered to a thirty-five and older crowd, was having auditions today for a new lounge singer. Elvis Presley, lounge singer extraordinaire.

  I parked the Cadillac along a side street, turned the engine off, and sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, sweating and thinking. I asked myself again if I wanted to do this. If I really, truly wanted to do this.

  I was pretty sure I did. Actually, I was damn sure. In fact, sitting here in my hot car, surrounded by beautiful homes and the world-famous clubs of the Sunset Strip, I was having a hard time remembering why I wanted out in the first place.

  A decision I had made a long, long time ago.

  I drummed my fingers on the hot steering wheel, which was growing hotter by the minute. Sweat beaded my brow. I used to get so damn hot on stage, sweat pouring from my body. But I loved the stage. I worked hard to entertain. No one could ever take that from me.

  Yes, I very much wanted to sing again, but wasn’t the risk of getting caught too great?

  One problem was that my singing voice is fairly distinctive. Perhaps too distinctive. But wouldn’t it have changed over time? My speaking voice had certainly changed over time into something far more rumbling and grittier.

  Cars whipped past me, followed by a lot of hot billowing wind and spraying bits of sand and debris. Someone opened the door to the Pussycat across the street and live music thundered out, which made sense since they were in the middle of auditions.

  Perhaps if I stayed away from my own songs, and sang something very unElvis, and, for the love of all that which is holy, didn’t curl my upper lip, well, I might just get away with this.

  And if you don’t?

  I guess I’ll just cross that bridge when I get there.

  That’s a helluva bridge.

  I continued drumming my fingers. Sweat continued rolling from my brow. I closed my eyes and saw the crowd and tears and smiles. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and slid off the hot leather seat, and then headed across the street to the Pussycat.

  I had an audition. Elvis had an audition.

  Go figure.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The nightclub was small and gloomy. A young man was currently on stage, singing loudly in front of a group of people. His voice, at least to my ears, was unpleasantly loud.

  I headed straight to the bar and ordered a Newcastle on tap. The young bartender nodded, poured me one, set it in front of me. I immediately knocked most of it back. The bartender watched me, raising his eyebrows. I was damned thirsty; not to mention I needed to be liquored-up asap.

  The bartender leaned a hip on the counter and went back to watching the auditions. So did I. The first singer, who had pitch problems, mercifully finished and was promptly thanked. He exited the stage as another singer walked on. I couldn’t help but notice he was also in his forties.

  You’re going to be the oldest one.

  I drank more. Standing in a pool of yellow light, this next singer sang something by Frank Sinatra. Or maybe Tony Bennett. Hell, I couldn’t remember. I was finding it hard to concentrate. To breathe.

  Huddled together on the dance floor, scribbling on clipboards, were a half dozen people. A tall man wearing blue shades wasn’t scribbling. Instead, he was standing there with his arms crossed and looking formidable.

  “Okay,” he said, cutting off the singer in mid-croon. “Thank you, we’ve heard enough. We’ll give you a call.”

  The man in the blue shades didn’t sound like he would ever be giving him a call. It was a brush-off, a polite goodbye. And the singer wasn’t that bad, either. Granted, he wasn’t great, but he was certainly good enough to warrant finishing the song.

  Suddenly, I was losing my nerve. I downed my beer, o
rdered another, drank it right there in front of the bartender, who was grinning at me.

  “You must be here for the audition?” he said.

  “How can you tell?”

  He grinned some more. “Nervous?”

  “As hell.”

  He laughed. “Bill can be a real asshole,” he said, “but don’t let him get to you. If you can sing, he’ll be your best friend.”

  “Good to know. He the one with the cool blue shades?”

  “Yeah, that’s him, but I don’t know about cool. You can sing, right?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  I sat through three more auditions, all male. Most had very pleasant voices. All were clearly professionals and all were about thirty years younger than yours truly.

  “You don’t think I’m too old, do you?” I asked the bartender.

  He sized me up. The kid was handsome, and that grin of his probably had gotten him everything he wanted in life and more. I knew the feeling well.

  “Naw, but to be safe, knock a few years off your age. No harm, no foul, right? Everyone does it. Remember that it’s all about the singing. Oh, and the performing.”

  “Performing?”

  “You know...” He jerked his hips a little. “Like Elvis. Bill loves Elvis.”

  Oh, shit.

  I nearly ordered another beer, but refrained. I performed better sober. As it stood now, I was already a little buzzed.

  When the last singer stepped off the stage, Bill the Manager flipped up his cool blue shades and looked around. His slicked-back hair reflected some of the overhead lights.

  “That it?” he asked no one in particular. He didn’t sound happy.

  I said nothing and stayed rooted to the stool, my heart somewhere in my throat. I tried to give myself some positive self-talk, but my thoughts were scrambled and incoherent and I only knew one thing: fear. I couldn’t get myself to move. My chance was slipping away....

  “Okay, then—” Bill began, but never finished.

  Why? Because the good-looking kid behind the bar suddenly leaned across said bar and shouted loudly: “Hey, Bill. We’ve got another one back here.”