Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble

by Webb, Peggy

  I hurry into the chopper, then collapse against Uncle Charlie as it lifts off, destination unknown. At least to me.

  We’re out over the Caribbean before I notice that I’m traveling with twin Incredible Hulks—men so large they look as if they could bench press Texas before breakfast and then jog to Canada and back before supper. Two men I wouldn’t want to meet in the dark—or anywhere else—without Uncle Charlie or Jack Jones.

  Well, there you have it. Jack Jones, who at this very moment may be lying somewhere in the jungle bleeding and torn limb from limb and no-telling-what-all, is always on my mind.

  Listen, with that kind of mindset, I’m in the wrong business. I ought to give up beauty and become a country-andwestern singer.

  “Uncle Charlie?” I nod my head in the direction of the twin Abominable Snowmen.

  “Company men.”

  No use to ask more. He won’t tell, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know.

  All I can say is that since I’m going into hostile territory with nothing but the weapon under my skirt, I’m glad these two are my backup.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 15 on Diplomacy, Jaguar Traps, and Explorer Dog

  While I’m licking my human daddy’s face, Lovie races toward us in full goddess regalia.

  “Jack. Thank god you came.” She glances around, obviously searching for the man she expected to storm out of the jungle, barrels blazing, to rescue her. “Where’s Rocky?”

  “On a wild goose chase with Seth.”

  Lovie says a word that would cauterize wounds. “When I get my hands on them, they’re both dead.”

  “Who kidnapped you, Lovie?”

  Two natives grab her before she can finger the criminal. I try to tell him with a hasty version of “Devil in Disguise,” but all bedlam has broken loose.

  The natives are screeching, and Lovie’s spitting and clawing. If you think the makeup brought out the tigress in Lovie, think again. She’s been a jungle cat since she turned fourteen (the year her mama died and a heartbroken Charlie left his daughter to her own resources).

  Just because these villagers are not a bunch of warriors who practice ancient murderous rituals, that doesn’t mean they plan to sit back and twiddle their thumbs while they lose their long lipped god as well as their Earth and Moon goddess.

  If Jack had left things to me, Explorer Dog would have had Lovie out of here tonight. As it stands, all his well-honed skills were no match for a jaguar trap.

  He’s trying to get up and quell the natives, but he’s lost too much blood. Besides, he’s all tied up.

  I try to warn Lovie to cool it, by howling a few bars of “Stay Away, Joe,” but she’s in full Lovie mode. Nothing can stop her now. Except yours truly.

  Flattening my ears and sucking in my portly stomach, I light into the wad of humanity. I know I could bare my teeth, nip a few heels, take a chunk of flesh here and there, but I’m basically peaceable by nature. I’m a diplomatic dog. I much prefer building a “Bridge Over Troubled Water” to fisticuffs.

  Finally I restore some order. Listen, these natives might not pay homage to the King, but they’re very fond of their long lipped god.

  “It’s high time somebody came to my rescue. Even if it’s not the man I was going to let discover my Holy Grail.” Lovie straightens her feathers and marches over to grab my human daddy’s hand. “Take me out of here, Jack. I’ve got scores to settle.”

  “I’m a bit tied up right now.”

  The natives have bound him, hand and foot. Plus, they’ve followed Lovie, and now they’re surrounding us.

  Never show your fear. I shake my ample hips at them, curl my lip and howl, well’a, well’a, well’a.

  All of a sudden the natives take up the chant.

  “‘Little Darlin’ in the Yucatan jungle?” Jack says. His color is fading fast, but thankfully, not his sense of humor.

  “Blame Elvis,” Lovie tells him.

  “What’s going on, Lovie?”

  She briefs Jack about our status as gods and speculates that the natives are getting ready to turn him into their next living idol.

  As the dog who has seen it all, I can vouch for that. Especially if these natives get a gander at Jack all cleaned up. He’s a fine figure of a man. Reminds me of myself when I was wearing black leather in my comeback concert and had women fainting at my feet.

  Considering my skills as a dog of diplomacy, not to mention talent, I’m not worried about Jack’s becoming a god. I can do some fancy howling and set these natives straight on that score. If anybody is all man, it’s Jack Jones. It won’t take me long to convince the locals he’s not woo-woo god material.

  My most pressing concern, though, is the state of Jack’s injury. If that leg doesn’t get some attention fast, my human dad is liable to end up losing a limb.

  And let me tell you, I don’t want to be on or near the premises when somebody tells him.

  I prance my ample self over to the only native in the village who speaks English—the little old woman who was in the hut with the pregnant girls demanding Lovie’s skill as a diviner of unborn-baby gender. I’m going to grab ahold of her bony ankles and not let go till she gets the idea that it’s time to quit trying to turn Americans into gods and let’s us get back to our pickled pigs’ lips, back yard barbecues, and Rock ’n’ Roll.

  I’m fixing to haul off and chomp her leg when suddenly my mismatched ears pick up the sound of my master. Speaking fluent Mayan.

  Leaning on one elbow, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Jack has the natives mesmerized. I hope he’s explaining that Lovie’s and my god days are over. I think he’s explaining that we’re leaving now, and there’s not a doggoned thing the villagers can do about it.

  It’s my fondest hope that he’s also asking the cook to go straight to the kitchen and fetch me a little smackeral of something good for the trip.

  I have to say, I’m proud of my human daddy. He’s got the whole village in the palm of his hand.

  All of a sudden, I hear the sweetest sound this side of Mooreville.

  Chopper blades. Thanks to Jack’s quick thinking, I’m sure. He’d have called for backup the minute he sensed trouble.

  Lifting my handsome head, I put my eyes to the sky and see my human mom in the helicopter, waving down at me, her face streaked with tears and split with a smile that’s the stuff of Jack Jones’ dreams.

  Chapter 22

  Wild Goose Chase, Return to Civilization, and Captives on the Warpath

  From the helicopter, the scene below looks like something from a blockbuster Indiana Jones movie—tiny Mayan Indians in colorful native garb, Lovie in feathers and war paint, Jack trussed like somebody they plan to burn at the stake, and Elvis with his floppy ears flying outward. I don’t know who I’m the happiest to see. Well, all of them, really.

  But when the chopper sets down, Elvis is the first one in my arms. He leaps up and starts licking my face, and I vow on the spot never to lose him again.

  Over the top of his head I wave at Lovie. Screaming her name, I head her way, but suddenly I’m hemmed in and grabbed by little people who are either happy to see me or plan to eat me for dinner.

  I glance around for Uncle Charlie, but he and the Hulks are hustling Jack into the chopper. Thank goodness.

  Suddenly Lovie gives a rebel yell and lights into the natives, snatching and shoving my captors until my cousin and I are the only ones standing. With her feathers and flowers askew and her fierce war paint melting in the sun, she’s never looked more beautiful to me.

  “Back off,” she snarls, “or I’m going to turn you into a village of toads.”

  I grab my cousin and think I won’t be able to let go until Christmas.

  “Lovie, did anybody hurt you? Are you okay? What happened? I was worried sick about you.”

  “Are you kidding me? If anybody had tried to lay a hand on me, there’d be a pile of dead bodies all the way from here to Cozumel.”

  I’m relieved to see that the cousin
I know and love is completely intact. But what did I expect? This is Lovie we’re talking about.

  Grabbing her by the hand, I say, “Come on, Lovie. Let’s get out of here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elvis has already trotted after Jack and is waiting by the helicopter. Like Mama, he thinks my ex walks on water. One of the Hulks reaches down to lift Elvis aboard.

  “Wait a minute.” Lovie strikes a pose. “I’ve got something to do first.”

  Holy cow! What now?

  Swooping in a circle that sends flowers and feathers flying, she looks like a molting wild bird. While the natives are on their hands and knees picking up the scattered blossoms, Lovie lifts her arms over her head.

  “Blessings from the goddess of Earth and Moon,” she shouts. “Long may your little pea-picking hearts prosper.”

  The villagers start shouting something back that I believe is an ancient Mayan chant. Lacing my arms through my cousin’s, I lead her toward the helicopter.

  Behind us the chant begins to sound suspiciously like “well’a, well’a, well’a.”

  “Little Darlin’” in the middle of the Mayan jungle? That can’t be right. I know extreme stress can contribute to all kinds of bizarre illnesses. I wonder if it can cause you to hear things.

  Lovie clambers aboard and I’m right behind her. I’m sorry to report that it’s impossible to be graceful climbing into a helicopter in a short skirt while trying to maintain decorum and hide a gun.

  When I finally get aboard, the first thing I see is Jack, looking as pale as old man Morgan in his sheet. He winks at me. Knowing he was watching for—and probably saw—a glimpse of glory, as Lovie would say, I kneel beside him and take his hand.

  Listen, I may be trying to make no my middle name where Jack’s concerned, but I’m still the same compassionate woman who encourages my clients at Hair.Net to come to me with all their problems and sordid secrets.

  “Jack, don’t you dare die on me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Cal.” Just when I’m thinking he’s going to get the wrong idea, and I’m wondering whether I should release him and sit with Uncle Charlie, my almost-ex says, “I’ve got divorce papers to sign.”

  “You bet your britches,” I tell him. But I keep on holding his hand.

  Blood is my excuse. His. Which is rapidly soaking through his pants and dripping onto my shoes.

  I glance toward the front of the chopper, where Lovie and Uncle Charlie are deep in conversation.

  “Hurry,” I tell my uncle, but by the time the words are out of my mouth, the chopper is hovering over the island and setting down on the hospital rooftop. Jack is whisked off by men in white.

  While I’m standing on the rooftop wondering if I ought to call Mama first or find the waiting room, we’re approached by a severe-looking woman with her hair pulled back so tight her eyes are little slits.

  “Mr. Valentine?” Her nametag identifies her as Sonia Mendoza, the hospital administrator, no less. “Right this way. We have a room for you.”

  The formidable Sonia gives Elvis a look that means she’s not too happy that he’s part of the Valentine party, but I tell her, “He goes, too,” and that’s that.

  She escorts us to a board room, from the looks of it—long, polished table, plush leather chairs, coffee and doughnuts on a mahogany credenza.

  I’m famished. While Sonia and Uncle Charlie stand in the doorway in quiet conversation, Lovie and I fall on the doughnuts. I put two on a plate for Elvis. Forget his diet. He’s earned some fat and sugar.

  After Sonia leaves, Uncle Charlie joins us.

  “Rocky and Seth Alford will be here shortly. Lovie, they don’t know you’ve been found. I don’t want them to see you until they’re in this room and the door is closed.”

  “What in the world’s going on?” I ask. “Rocky’s not part of Morgan’s ugly scheme.”

  “No, but Seth Alford is, the sorry snake. When he took me off the beach I was so sloshed I could have mistaken him for Santa Claus. By the time I came back to my senses, I knew it was Seth. When I get my hands on him, he’s going to be nothing but a greasy spot.”

  For once, Uncle Charlie doesn’t pat Lovie and say now, now, dear heart. If I had my guess, I’d say he’ll have to use every bit of his restraint to keep from doing bodily harm to the man who did this to Lovie.

  “Rosita’s fingerprints were all over the voodoo doll. She’s already been picked up,” Uncle Charlie says. “Jack and I have suspected Seth for some time.”

  “Why?” I ask. “He seemed so nice.”

  “He’s Morgan’s nephew, and the two of them have been after the lost tomb for years. They knew Rocky was close. In order to get credit, they had to get him out of the way. They thought kidnapping Lovie would do the job.”

  “It should have. Rocky Malone should have been combing the jungle day and night. Forget the lost tomb. He ought to have been tending his lost love.”

  “He was desperate after you were kidnapped, Lovie,” I tell her. “I’ve never seen a man so distraught.”

  Rocky’s really a sweet guy. Somebody has to defend him.

  Lovie is not mollified. “I don’t know whether I want to give him a piece of my mind first or strangle him.”

  I would tell her it’s just a lover’s quarrel that will blow over, but Lovie’s still wearing war paint. Under the circumstances, I think it best if I keep my mouth shut.

  “Has anybody told Mama?”

  “I called her,” Uncle Charlie says. “I told her to wait with Fayrene at the hotel until we get there.”

  “She won’t listen. She never does.”

  “Yes, she will,” Uncle Charlie says.

  I’m so glad to see the twinkle back in his eye that I don’t take the time to wonder why he’s so certain Mama will do what he tells her. The older I get, the less I understand my mama. And my uncle, it turns out.

  Footsteps echo in the hall and all of us freeze.

  “Quick.” Uncle Charlie nods toward a chair behind the door, and Lovie scoots in.

  I prefer to stand. I want to see Seth Alford’s face when he realizes his goose is cooked. Besides, I’ve got a gun. I don’t care if this is a hospital and I am the most horrible shot in the South. If he makes a run for it, I’m going to shoot him.

  Rocky is the first through the door. He looks horrible, poor man. “You said Jack’s been hurt.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” Seth strolls in and smiles at me. “He should have searched where I told him instead of chasing off on his own. The jungle’s a dangerous place.”

  “Not nearly as dangerous as this room, you lying shit.” Lovie steps from behind the door and Seth turns chalky.

  Like a man shell-shocked, Rocky glances from Seth to Lovie. Then he strides toward my cousin.

  “Stop right there, Rocky Malone. Do you think I want a man who values the lost tomb more than he does his lost national treasure?”

  “If I were you,” Seth says, “I’d listen to her, Rocky. She’s crazy as a loon. People lost in the jungle almost never come back with their full senses.”

  I never thought Seth would try to bluff his way out of this. Why doesn’t Uncle Charlie say something? Is he waiting for Seth to incriminate himself?

  And why hasn’t Rocky jumped on him and beat the snot out of him? No wonder Lovie’s miffed.

  “By the way, Lovie. We’re glad you’re back.” Seth has the audacity to blow a kiss at her.

  The room goes quiet. If fury were a country, Lovie would be China. Any minute now, she’s going to jump on her kidnapper and I don’t think even Uncle Charlie can stop her.

  Suddenly there’s a low growl. Elvis. Something’s wrong.

  When Seth darts to the door, I’m the first to react. Maybe it was my dog’s warning growl. Maybe it’s because I’m facing the culprit who snatched Lovie and my dog.

  In a move worthy of Clint Eastwood, I whip out my gun, aim with both hands, and shoot.

  Seth goes down in a howl, blood blooming
on his pants.

  I stand there numb while Uncle Charlie takes the gun from my hands, cleans it with his handkerchief, and kneels to put it in Seth’s hands.

  While I’m trying to decide whether to get hysterical or thank my lucky stars for Uncle Charlie, two security guards burst into the room, guns drawn.

  “The man on the floor is wanted for kidnapping,” Uncle Charlie tells them. “You’ll want to get him seen about his wound before he goes to jail. He was so distraught he shot himself in the groin.”

  Holy cow! I’ve ruined Seth Alford’s family. I guess I ought to feel awful about that, but I don’t. I’m just glad to have my dog and my family back.

  One leaf I don’t have to turn over is gratitude. I know how to be thankful I love and I am loved.

  Elvis’ Opinion # 16 on Mooreville Homecoming, Mayan Calendar, and a Whole Lotta Hanky Panky Going On

  Thanks to Jarvetis, who issued daily bulletins to the home front regarding our tropical double trouble, yours truly and crew get a hero’s welcome. Darlene has banners stretched across the front of Hair.Net, Jarvetis has helium-filled balloons tied to the gas tanks, and Mooreville Feed and Seed is serving cookies and punch with every purchase of dog food and Yard Guard mosquito spray.

  Even Bobby Huckabee has put up signs. Though I’ll have to say his WELCOME HOME signs on the lawn of Eternal Rest Funeral Home are getting mixed reviews from the friends and relatives of the newly deceased. Charlie’s so busy fielding irate phone calls, he hardly has time to put into practice the new techniques he learned in the last few days of the undertakers’ convention in Cozumel.

  Fayrene and Ruby Nell have taken up consulting the Mayan calendar and wearing feathers—earrings, hair ornaments, necklaces—anywhere they can put them. Last I heard, they were busy planning seminars in the back room of Gas, Grits, and Guts on “finding your inner animal.”

  But the biggest changes are with this intrepid jungle explorer dog and the Valentine cousins. Though Callie advises otherwise, Lovie never did patch it up with poor, befuddled Rocky. She left him in Tulum, almost too devastated to continue his search for the lost tomb. And she vows he’ll never get another chance to find her national treasure.