"It belonged to the AAA guy, the deceased."
"Any leads?"
"We're following a few. Neighbors thought they saw some suspicious characters in the area. And we have information that Mr. Nunn has left town. We're in the process of looking for him."
"So you can report progress?"
"You could call it that."
D'Onofrio seemed satisfied.
This, Wiley thought, was going to be too easy.
Smith and Spew wandered through the woods somewhere in the park adjacent to the Graceland RV park in Memphis, between some railroad tracks and the interstate. So far, they had stumbled upon a couple of homeless guys and some high school kids smoking weed. They had seen no sign of the RV park.
"It's got to be around here somewhere," Smith said.
It was hot and the air was thick with humidity. They had been hiking for about an hour. Spew stopped, shucked his pack from his shoulder and dropped to one knee. He pulled a compass from his pocket and stared at it. Then, he looked around. Then, he stared at the compass some more. He scratched his head and looked off into the distance. Then, he shook the compass and stared at it again.
"Well?" Smith said.
"This thing stopped working. It says it's quarter to E."
Smith shut his eyes and let out a long breath. It was Spew's idea to park five miles away from the RV court and approach through the woods, with the sun to their backs. It would be more "clandestine" that way. He said he learned all about that shit in the Corps, being "clandestine."
"Do you know how to read that thing?"
"Read? What's there to read? This piece of shit is supposed to tell us where we're at. And it ain't talking."
Perfect, Smith thought.
"Didn't they teach you this shit in the service?"
"They taught us all sorts of shit at the island, how to stand, walk, sit, talk and shit like a Marine. I don't remember learning anything about how to get your ass unlost in the woods. I mean, they might have taught us that, but I don't remember."
Smith looked around. All he saw were trees, little scrub oaks. He made a decision.
"Get up. This way."
They walked in silence for a while. They came to a clearing by a road. Smith looked to his left and saw the Focus, right where he left it.
"I think I know where we are now."
Papa waited by the phone.
"It was supposed to be done by now," he told Fat Sam.
Fat Sam was testing the limits of the couch in Papa's office. He sank into the cushions, melting into it, as he inhaled a family-sized bag of barbecue waffle potato chips.
Fat Sam grunted.
"Do I have to hold their fucking hands to get this shit done?"
Fat Sam grunted again.
"I know what you mean, but I can't be doing this shit myself. I need – what do you call it? – plausible deniability. Fucking guy was a Marine. They know a hundred ways to kill a person. All I need is one."
Fat Sam cleared his throat. It sounded like he had a dead animal stuck in there, and he probably did.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in."
It was Kathy. She caught sight of the mass of protoplasm on the couch and took a short step back. Jesus Christ, she thought, what the fuck is that? It looked like a pile of flesh wrapped in a cheap polyester suit.
"I was, uh, wondering whether you had a minute to discuss some issues the sociologist is having with the Greek doctor," she said, trying hard not to stare at Fat Sam.
It never ends, Papa thought.
Kathy looked for someplace to sit in Papa's office. The couch was out of the question. She didn't want to come in contact with Jabba the Gangster. She felt she could catch something terrible, perhaps Elephant Man's disease, just being in the same room with him.
She stood in front of Papa's desk and fumbled with her briefcase, balancing it on her knee as she opened it and removed some papers, which she handed to Papa.
"The sociologist has asked me to file a restraining order against the Greek doctor. As you can see, the order requires the Greek doctor to maintain a distance of 20 feet from the sociologist."
Originally, the sociologist wanted the Greek doctor to stay 500 yards away from her and her idiot boyfriend. But Kathy explained that would be nearly impossible to enforce, considering The Happy Beaver wasn't nearly that big.
"So?" Papa asked. "Tell the sociologist she's fired."
"It's not that simple. You can't fire her as a result of this filing. It would be considered an illegal labor action and would open you up to a wrongful discharge suit."
"OK. I'll fire the Greek doctor."
Which would have been fine with Papa. The Greek doctor was a pain in the ass and she didn't pull in the money like the investment bankers. Her routine based on the lesser works of Herodotus was incomprehensible and stilted. Besides, her tits were too small.
"You can't do that either."
Papa sighed. He looked to Fat Sam for advice. Fat Sam belched, spraying the front of his suit with fine orange crumbs.
"We'll figure it out. For the time being, the Greek doctor can use the ladies room for a dressing room. Nobody goes in there anyway."
Kathy nodded.
"And about that other matter…"
She glanced at Fat Sam, who seemed to be asleep.
"Anything you say to me, you can say in front of Sam."
"OK. I looked up some court decisions, and principles in churches are not considered the same as those in the private sector. Now, if you formed a nonprofit and installed the principles as officers, you could get around that."
"A nonprofit?"
"You know, like Habitat for Humanity, Save the Whales, something like that."
Kathy caught herself. Talking about whales in front of the largest mammal she had ever seen kind of seemed insensitive. She blushed.
"It's OK," Papa said. "He knows he's fat."
Nunn and Traci approached the Graceland gates like pilgrims to Lourdes. Traci, hobbled by her damaged knees, was hoping to heal her torn ligaments, and Nunn, hobbled by guilt and suspicion, was hoping to heal his torn psyche.
"I thought it would be more…I don't know," Nunn said.
"Majestic?" Traci offered.
"Yeah, majestic. I thought it would be bigger."
He had been expecting a supersized version of heaven on Earth as envisioned by a former truck driver from Mississippi, a palace befitting God's middle child. He expected the mere sight of the home of his savior to cause the music of the spheres to ring in his ears and intoxicate his soul with the spiritual equivalent of Jack Daniels. Instead, he felt underwhelmed.
They walked to the ticket window where Nunn shelled out $138 for two "Entourage VIP" tickets. The VIP tickets got them to the front of the line. Nunn felt giddy anticipation, entering the sanctum of The King.
They walked through the front door. The foyer was impressive, but it seemed kind of tacky that the grand staircase was lined with portraits of Elvis and mirrors. Nunn looked to the right and saw Elvis' living room, complete with the stained glass peacocks. Beyond that was a room lined with heavy gold velvet drapes.
It looked like the anteroom of a high-priced whorehouse.
They walked through the house – the pool room with its quilt-like wallpaper and matching furniture; the jungle room with its fake stone wall, Astroturf carpet and animal print chairs; the '70s-era kitchen with the print carpeting, yellow refrigerator and Formica countertops; the TV room with his multiple screens, none bearing the signs of bullet holes. Heavy velvet drapes hung everywhere. Yard-sale art hung on the walls.
Nunn was in shock. It all looked so cheap and ugly, he thought. He was speechless.
Traci tried to start a conversation.
"I thought it was interesting how the wallpaper and furniture in the pool room were identical. It was like you couldn't even see the furniture. Pretty, um, interesting."
Nunn had no response. Interesting wasn't the word that came to m
ind. He and Traci walked outside to visit the King's grave. Nunn expected some kind of spiritual epiphany. He expected his soul to be touched and his heart uplifted and his worries to float away.
He stood by the lopsided stripper and thought, This is it?
Traci wasn't very happy about the tour either.
"I don't see what the big deal is. He was just some guy who had a lot of money and really bad taste."
The whole time, she felt the gaze of the other pilgrims on her chest and her knee braces. They could put me in a tent on the Midway and I could make a few bucks, she thought. Nunn seemed oblivious to it. He just stared at Elvis' grave and waited for something to happen. Nothing did.
He looked around at his fellow pilgrims. Most of them looked like they had been raised on a diet of lead-based paint chips – portly hillbillies, trailer park Jesus freaks, couples wearing matching outfits. Suddenly, he was embarrassed.
"Can we go now?" Traci asked.
"Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here."
Smith and Spew didn't get lost this time. Smith decided they didn't have to be clandestine and could park just a few blocks down Elvis Presley Boulevard from the RV park. He found a convenience store – one with a pay phone – and pulled around back.
Smith twisted in the seat and asked, "Now, you know where you're going? Do you need the compass?"
Spew shot him a look.
"I can do without that."
No, you can't, Smith thought.
Spew got out of the car, crossed the parking lot and jumped into a drainage ditch. It was good cover.
Smith listened to the UFO guy on the radio talk about 2012 and its significance. The end of the Mayan calendar or some shit like that. The end of the world.
"We really are in the end times," the radio guy said. "You can't help but notice it. Lots of weird things happening. Something's in the air. You can feel it. The end is near. We have Dwayne from North Dakota on the line. Dwayne, go ahead."
Loud squealing came from the radio.
"Dwayne, please turn your radio down."
"How am I supposed to hear you?"
"You're on the phone with me."
"But you come outta the radio."
"I'm on the phone too."
"But you're on the radio."
It went on like that for some time before Dwayne got to his point, which had something to do with receiving secret radio transmissions in his teeth.
"And the weird thing, they're all in Spanish."
Spew returned to the car. It was done.
"Are you sure we have the right one?"
"Yep. I made that stripper. What's the deal with her tits?"
Chapter Seven
The retired dentist, Robert Langdon, hit the road just after dawn. He was hoping to make Grand Rapids and the kids' place by dinner. It was rough going. He was feeling the effects of staying up late drinking Jack and Coke with the guy from the RV park and his girlfriend.
They talked late into the night. Nice guy. Langdon couldn't remember his name. He remembered the woman's name – Traci With an I – because she introduced herself as Traci With an I and it just kind of stuck. She was a nice looking woman, Langdon thought. Looked sort of like a porn star. He tried hard not to stare at her tits. There was something wrong with them. They seemed lopsided.
They were RV rookies and Langdon wanted to show them the ropes. He loved life on the open road. He had shed all of his worldly possessions the year before and decided to see America.
"Best thing I ever did was take off in this thing," he told Nunn.
"You don't have a house at all?" Traci asked.
"Nope. Just me and the RV."
He told them he took to the road after his wife passed. She never liked traveling. She even complained when they had to drive just 20 miles for a regional dentists' conference, and when the cancer finally took her, Langdon grieved for an afternoon before putting the house on the market and buying the biggest RV he could afford.
And now, here he was, King of the Road, in his castle on steel belted radials.
"I go wherever I want, whenever I want. Spent the winter in Florida and the summer driving across Canada. You get a real appreciation for God's creation driving around it."
His previous view of America was through its molars. The view through the windshield was a lot better.
"All the things I've seen – the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, driving into Vegas at dawn – they're all great. But that's not what it's all about. It's not all about parking in some lot in Memphis. It's not the destination; it's the journey, the things you see along the way, the people you meet. Remember that, and you'll be happy."
Nunn thought about it. He was in the midst of a serious spiritual crisis and this seemed like as good advice as any, coming in a close second to finishing off a bottle of Jack and seeing whether Traci's boob had healed enough for them to set the RV to rockin'.
They said good night. None of them noticed Spew under the RV.
Now, the sun was rising and Langdon was cruising on Interstate 40 when he noticed a weird noise. He frowned and struggled to hear the noise over the din of the road. This thing was pretty much brand new. If there was something wrong with it, he thought, he's going back to Toledo and driving it straight up that salesman's ass.
A truck passed him and he couldn't hear the noise anymore.
Then, it came back.
"What the hell is that ticking noise?" he said to himself.
Smith and Spew were headed home when they became snarled in traffic on the interstate. Cars were stopped for as far as they could see. Nothing was moving and it didn't look like anything was going to be moving any time soon. Some drivers were out of their cars, standing by the side of the road, chatting.
Smith switched the engine off and got out.
"Where you going?"
"Be right back."
He walked over to a gathering of drivers by the guardrail.
"What's going on?"
"Cops said some RV blew up on the highway about five miles up."
"They say how long until we can get moving again?"
"Nope. It looks like we're here for the long haul."
Smith returned to the car and nodded to Spew.
Spew nodded back.
Spew interrupted the silence that followed.
"What're we nodding about?"
A mile ahead, Nunn sat at the wheel of the rented RV. Traci was sleeping in the back, dreaming of symmetrical boobs in an Oyxcontin-induced slumber.
He looked for a way out, perhaps driving up the shoulder to the next exit. But it was blocked. So he sat.
It gave him time to think, just what he didn't need at this moment. He was having a crisis of faith. He was starting to have his doubts about the Elvis thing. After seeing Graceland, he wondered about all of it and whether he had been a fool. He wondered whether he'd be able to believe in anything ever again.
He came to Elvis at a low point in his life. Now, things weren't too bad. He swiveled in the captain's chair and looked at Traci, sleeping. She looked so peaceful – a little lopsided but peaceful. He watched her sleep for a few minutes. She was beautiful, resembling, as people often told her, the porn star Jenna Jameson. He was developing feelings for her.
He got out of the RV to stretch his legs. He approached a couple by the guardrail.
"Some mess, huh?"
The guy looked at him and then looked away quickly. The woman's eyes were red; she'd been crying. She walked away.
Nunn said, "Hey."
"Hey, yourself," the guy said.
"Little domestic trouble, eh? Been there."
"Fuck all if I know what she's pissed about," he said. He paused, "This time, I mean."
Nunn extended his hand. "Name's Walter."
"I'm Johnny. That's my girl, Frances. Everybody calls her Frankie."
Nunn felt faint.
Wiley sat across from Papa in the church office. He wanted to meet at The Happy Beaver, but Papa insisted on the c
hurch. Less conspicuous. Wiley wanted to argue the point with him. What's so unusual about a cop in a strip joint? It might as well be a precinct house. Papa told him that's the point. Some other cop might see him and put two and two together and come up with four for once in his beshitted little cop life and he and Wiley would be fucked.
Papa stared at Wiley. Wiley wasn't sure what to say.
"You know I'm good for it, Papa. Just a little bad luck. Sage Fucking Rosenfels. Who knew?"
"What's the expression? If it wasn't for bad luck, you'd have no luck at all."
Wiley considered debating the expression's redundancy, but after the business about the holes, he thought he better not.
"I can make it up. I have a feeling about the Raiders this weekend."
"I didn't call you to talk about the money you owe me."
"Really?"
Oh Christ, Wiley thought, he's going to start in about the fucking holes again.
He didn't.
"How's the investigation going?"
"Oh, that. Not so good. The theory is it's some kind of jihad against the strip club. You know, the decadent West and all of that shit. They're chasing every Arabic looking motherfucker between here and Pittsburgh. Brought a few of them in and haven't gotten shit out of them."
Wiley thought it was brilliant. Play up the Arabic angle. Get everybody chasing illusionary terrorists and he'd keep the heat off of Papa. And Papa would keep Fat Sam off of him.
"That was the idea," Papa said.
"It's working. We have some Mohammed guy locked up right now. He's not talking because, well, you know, he doesn't know shit. The LT went to the DA to ask permission to waterboard the shitbird. He figures that'll get him to confess. He does and we're square, right?"
"Not quite. It's worth some money, but not the whole nut and certainly not enough to erase the past, if you know what I mean."
Wiley knew what he meant. Papa never let him forget, as if he could. Guy makes one mistake, he thought. As far as mistakes go, though, the one he had made won the blue ribbon, involving as it did a hooker who turned up dead and a videotape in Papa's possession.
Papa said, "I have something else in mind, another favor, or two, you can do for me."
Don't Be Cruel Page 5