The lobby stank of cigarette smoke and something else I didn’t try too hard to place, the sixties-style furniture matching the C-9 bulbs in worn-out sadness. A positively pitiful tree leaned in the far corner, one half-functional strand of orange lights draped around it. Droopy garlands dangled from the walls with the “throw it up and see what sticks” look of al-dente pasta.
I smothered a guffaw when my eyes landed on a gilt-framed velvet Elvis on the wall. “They’re not serious,” I whispered to Darcy. She sniffed the air and tucked her face under one paw.
I was just about to spin back for the door—the Elvis theme wasn’t that important—when a deep voice with an obviously-affected feminine lilt stopped me in my tracks. “Can I help you?”
I turned to find the biggest, bustiest, most spectacular drag queen I’d ever laid eyes on. Not that I saw drag queens every day, but I had done a story on a bar frequented by them in college. Some of the nicest folks I’d ever met.
The queen behind the registration desk was a full head taller than me—and in my stilettos, I touch six-three—with red-orange hair teased into a bouffant that probably required enough White Rain to eat a hole in the ozone right over top of this joint. She had a dainty brown mole on the bow of her top lip, a thick layer of blue eyeshadow, at least three sets of false eyelashes, and cracked true-red lipstick outlining an earnest smile. Her square-necked orange top matched the era of the lights and furniture.
She gave the dingy little Heartache Motel a certain level of awesome. How many hotels have a seven-foot drag queen with a sweet-tea smile working the front desk?
“I called about a half-hour ago,” I said, smiling and striding to the desk. “I got your last room, I think? Nichelle Clarke.”
“Welcome to Memphis, darlin’,” she drawled, pushing a paper across the desk. “I’m Man-Margret, and you’re in our Love Me Tender suite.”
“And you said pets are okay?” I asked, looping Darcy’s leash around my wrist and setting her down so I could fill out a registration card that looked older than my mom. I jotted my cell number in the top corner and printed my address in Richmond on the faded red lines.
“Dogs and cats, sure. Some asshole brought a snake in here last summer and the damned thing got out and hasn’t ever been seen again, so no exotic animals. I ask you, who the hell keeps a python as a pet? Weirdos.”
“Different strokes and all that, I guess,” I said, grinning. “Which floor?”
“The fifth. The top floor is always the best, like Elvis said.” She winked. “Drink specials and menus are in the TV stand. There’s a nightly show in the bar. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas.”
I grabbed the key—a real one on a pink, heart-shaped fob with what probably used to be the hotel’s address in faded gold print—and turned for the elevator.
“It’s too bad we don’t have a travel section anymore,” I muttered as the doors rattled open. “This place would make a hell of a feature story.”
As if on cue, my Blackberry binged a text from my editor. “Having fun yet? Crime doesn’t take holidays, you know.”
I shook my head. Bob had been giving me shit for taking this week off since before Thanksgiving. It was good-natured. Mostly.
“R&R is good for productivity, chief. Try it sometime,” I tapped.
The elevator opened and I scrunched my nose at the stale-B.O. smell. “Gross. Haven’t these folks heard of Febreeze?”
The lights flickered when the doors closed. I studied the green walls as we lurched upward—until I figured out I was squinting at a crude drawing of some kind of advanced tantric-sex move. The walls were decorated with several others, and some misspelled dirty words for good measure. Before I’d deciphered them all, the elevator wheezed and the doors rattled open to a hallway that belonged in a Stephen King movie.
“Stairs. Definitely the stairs.” I would’ve kissed the red shag carpet in the hall if it hadn’t smelled faintly of urine and smoke.
Darcy growled at a flickering light as I picked my way to room five-twenty-eight. I shoved the key into the lock and jiggled it, then turned the dirty brass handle and pushed the door open.
The fluorescent overhead fixture only turned halfway on, but it was enough to decide I probably didn’t want to see the Love Me Tender suite in any better light.
The whole room was decorated in a bad cowboy theme, down to the cacti mural on the walls and the faux (I hoped) barbed wire outlining the mirrors. The back of the door was home to a cracked stick-on of young Elvis on horseback. Life-sized. Watching me sleep. Yay.
I put Darcy down, folding her carrier top back and making her a little bed. She looked around, sniffed the carpet and the leg of the lone chair, and shot me a you’re-not-serious look before she hopped into her bed and curled up.
I tossed my bag onto the round bed. The saddle-printed spread slid to one side and revealed sheets I was sure weren’t actual satin in an unfortunate vomit-brown hue. Lovely.
This place was sold out? Really? Who knew Memphis was a Christmas tourist destination? The clerk at Graceland’s hotel had apologetically explained that holiday pilgrimages were a fan tradition because Elvis loved Christmastime. My cell-phone operator search for an Elvis theme and a reasonable rate had led here. That operator might get a call back in the morning.
I filled Darcy’s water bowl and spooned some Pro Plan into her food dish. She eyed the carpet like she didn’t want to step on it again, but gave in because she was hungry.
My Blackberry buzzed another text. Bob again: “I can rest when I’m dead. I have Shelby covering a turkey fryer fire while my cops reporter is gallivanting around Tennessee.”
I rolled my eyes. “Always on the lookout for a headline, chief. This place where I’m staying...I may find one,” I tapped back.
Watching Darcy wolf her food down made my stomach rumble. It had been a long time since my chicken salad lunch, but the thought of getting back in my car was less appealing than sleeping with an empty stomach. Man-Margret had mentioned a bar. Maybe it had food.
I put a puppy mat on the floor next to Darcy and went to find out.
Suspicious Minds looked as seedy as it sounded, and I wondered idly how much interesting reading I’d find in the FBI database with a fingerprint kit and ten minutes alone in there. Every table was full, the clientele not shy about their drinking from the way the waitresses—all dressed like starlets from Elvis movies—were running.
The crowd ranged from Elvis wannabes and fans (most of them in t-shirts emblazoned with the King’s face) to a table of large men who looked like they’d be equally at home under a hot rod or in a tattoo parlor.
The bartender had her back to me, a black spaghetti-strapped tank dress showing off chiseled shoulders, topped by a perfectly-pouffed chestnut flip.
“Be right with you,” she said in a voice way too deep for a woman who wasn’t Kathleen Turner.
She turned with a bright smile, and I grinned. “Good evening, Miss Natalie.”
She was a muscular photocopy of Natalie Wood from All the Fine Young Cannibals. Which wasn’t an Elvis movie, but I knew my pop history. The King and the actress had a fling back in the day.
She nodded. “Charmed, sugar. What you hankering for tonight?” She had a lisp that disappeared into another dazzling grin.
“Food. And sleep.”
She pushed a menu across the black leather bar. “We do a mean peanut butter and banana sandwich. Pretty good grilled ham and cheese, too.”
Elvis’s love of peanut butter and bananas was legend, and I was a fan. I scanned the menu. “I’ll take a Hunka PB Love and a Diet Coke, please.”
She jotted the order down and pushed it through a window behind her, then poured my soda into a tall glass.
“Where you in from, sugar?” she asked, her accent more deep south than I’d expect in Memphis.
“First time?”
I nodded. “Mom and I are big Elvis fans. I feel like a kid on her way to Disneyland. I bet I don’t get five minutes of sleep.”
“Enjoy. ‘Scuse me a second.” She turned to a thin man with a pompadour and a flipped-up collar at the end of the bar, and I looked around and sipped my Coke, tapping the heel of one chestnut Louboutin bootie—my latest eBay score—on the leg of the barstool.
At the other end of the bar, in front of the flashing Elvis pinball machine, a large man in an apron and a hairnet leaned on one elbow, deep in conversation with a busty woman with big blond hair, an Elvis Lives crop top, and a Santa hat. I watched them, never sure if my curiosity was an outgrowth of my job or the other way around. Their discussion dissolved to bickering, then she smiled, resting her double-Ds on the bar, and pushed a wad of cash to him. He pulled a small package from under the bar. She palmed it, dropping her hand out of sight. They exchanged a nod and parted ways, him to the kitchen and her to the tattoo-parlor at the corner table.
“Oh, yay. Dealing drugs in plain sight. Nice place,” I muttered, my attention turning back to my stomach when Natalie laid a plate in front of me. I’d seen worse, chasing stories through some questionable establishments. This place thrummed with the junkie-haven vibe.
I smiled a thank you, lifting the sandwich and biting through its perfect honey-gold crust. It was seriously the best thing I’d ever eaten. Or I was really hungry. Either way, I snarfed it up in less than three minutes, drained my Coke, and threw a handful of bills on the bar.
Back upstairs, I heard Darcy yapping from halfway down the hall. Sprinting to the door, I fought with the lock, shushing her. She almost never barked.
“Darcy! What’s gotten into you?” I hissed as I flipped on the light, much more politely than the gruff chorus of “shut up, mutt!” echoing in the hallway. She snarled and pawed at the air vent next to her bed.
“Rattly furnace,” I sighed, snatching her up and scratching her ears, then moving her bed. She disliked the one in my nineteen-twenty-four craftsman back in Richmond, too.
By the time I took the dog out to tinkle and scrubbed my face in the closet that passed for a “deluxe bathroom,” even the vomit-colored sheets looked inviting. I did get more than five minutes of sleep, and I ended up needing every second.
TWO
Visiting the King
I bounced in my seat as the bus turned through the famous musical gates that led to Elvis’ mansion, staring at the front of the house as it came into view.
“It’s so close to the street,” I said to no one in particular, and the lady in the seat in front of me laughed.
“I said that the first time I came here, too,” she said in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I love seeing young people who appreciate good music.”
I grinned. “I’m a big fan.”
The bus stopped and I popped to my feet, hoping Darcy was content to stay quiet with her food and potty pad in the motel room. Not that dog pee was the worst thing to ever happen to that carpet, but still.
“I’m Teresa,” the woman said when she stood, turning to show off a Comeback ’68 shirt she’d likely purchased during the original tour. She stuck a hand out for me to shake. “Where are you from?”
“Richmond,” I said, wondering when that had become my default answer, instead of Dallas. “How about you? New York?”
She nodded. “I moved to Miami about ten years ago. The older I get, the more I despise the cold.”
“I’m not fond of it either, but I like coats and boots better than blistering heat and bugs the size of birds,” I said. “I grew up in Texas. Not too different from Florida.”
She shrugged. “I’m a Brooklyn broad. If New York rats don’t scare me, I can handle palmetto bugs.”
“I guess so,” I said, fiddling with the headset they’d given me at the ticket office. “I’m going to Texas, actually. I stopped to see the sights and grab a souvenir for my mom.”
“Well, they have plenty to choose from. I’ve been here every Christmas since my Murray died in nineteen-ninety-eight, and they get more stuff every year.” She patted a shoulder bag emblazoned with an Andy Warhol-style picture of Elvis. “I’m choosy, after all this time. I have my own towel the King wiped his face on at Madison Square Garden in nineteen-sixty-nine. Never been washed.”
Um, gross.
“This year, I’m collecting coins,” she said over her shoulder as we filed off the bus. “Got three on my Elvis wall so far. Good investment and souvenir in one.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I smiled and turned on my headset, following the crowd up the steps to the house. It was gorgeous, and impeccably maintained, with the Christmas decorations making it grander. I had to admit, though, a few episodes of Celebrity Cribs had left me expecting Elvis’s home to be much bigger. Not that it was anything to sneeze at, but Dennis Rodman had twice as much square footage, and he was no king of rock ’n roll.
I walked through the front doors, following the honey-voiced narrator in my headset, who took turns with Priscilla Presley describing rooms and telling stories. Marveling at the timeless snowy decor in the living room, I pictured Elvis sitting by the tree strumming a guitar. Just looking at the piano was enough to make me hold my breath for a moment of silence. It was a borderline religious experience, standing in the space that had once been home to such amazing music. An older couple in front of me in the foyer cracked me up, her bouncing and swatting at his arm over every little thing, and him feigning interest. Poorly, though she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
The kitchen was flashback fabulous, with amber glass in the cabinets, Tiffany hanging lamps, and crazy-patterned flooring—and also surprisingly cozy, unlike some of the industrial-looking kitchens I saw in high-dollar homes on TV. I could see myself perching on the barstool and sipping coffee.
People moved through the rooms at different speeds. I noticed uniformed guards in the corners, trying to blend in with the decor. It was probably funny to see all the silent tourists, listening closely to their headphones, wandering around the house.
Cringing, I watched a pair of small boys dart around the china-set dining table. Their mother waved half-hearted objections toward them, which they ignored. I snapped a photo and scooted out before the children could break anything.
I followed a short set of steps down to the famous Jungle Room, tucked off the kitchen, and stared at the carpeted walls and ceiling and the rock waterfall, sure I could feel the laughter in the walls as the headset droned about Elvis’s affinity for the space.
The second floor of the house, where all the bedrooms except the one that belonged to Elvis’ parents are located, is off limits. My headphones directed me downstairs. I clicked the tour off while I walked.
I ducked under a low door facing at the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the basement, nearly walking into a tall man in baggy coveralls carrying a large bin out of a side hallway. “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back and waving him ahead of me.
“My fault. ‘Scuse me, ma’am,” he said in a heavily southern lisp, smiling and dropping his dark eyes to the floor as he backed up. “Ladies first. Where you headed?”
I stared for a second, his voice ringing familiar for a reason I couldn’t place. Talking to so many people each day gave me a good ear for nuances. Then again, with the headphones off it was hard to hear myself think over the people gabbing about various artifacts.
“Just to the rec room, I think.” I smiled, scooting around him.
“Enjoy,” he said. I spun back, watching as his dark head disappeared up the stairs. Weird.
I turned my headphones back on as I walked into the game room, the headset track telling a s
tory about the nick in the pool table, the product of a wayward bullet fired by a member of Elvis’ “Memphis Mafia” group of friends.
The TV room was high-tech for the sixties, with three sets enclosed in a cabinet and a huge lightning-bolt “TCB” logo mural on the wall behind the sectional sofa.
I was almost back to the stairs, ready to go out to the old racquetball court that serves as the trophy room to see Elvis’ platinum records, costumes, and awards, when I heard a woman shouting. I clicked pause on the audio tour.
“I don’t know which one of you is doing it, but if it doesn’t stop today, I’ll fire every last one of you,” a voice bellowed from behind a heavy door on my left. I resisted the urge to open it, but stayed put, feigning interest in the framed photo of Elvis and his mother on the wall. If what didn’t stop? My inner Lois whispered about the possibility of a story, and I shushed her. For all I knew, Bellow McYellerson on the other side of the door was pissed about someone eating her ham on rye.
Murmurs of agreement.
“Good. Get back to work,” she snapped.
See? I shook my head and reminded myself that I was on vacation. Which meant I wasn’t supposed to be looking for a story under every gold record.
Upstairs, I stepped out into the sun, only a little chilly in the warm December weather, detouring to the meditation garden to pay my respects. It was a peaceful resting place, protected, befitting a man who spent half his life trying to hide from his sometimes-rabid fanbase.
From the garden, I passed the small shooting range and stepped into the trophy hall—one wall housed enough gold and platinum to keep a small European country afloat for years. I clicked the recording back on and browsed, surrounded by ogling tourists and beautiful things. I made it back outside, my destination the cars and planes on the other side of Elvis Presley Boulevard, before everything went bonkers.
Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) Page 15