by Andrew Fox
“Remnants of past efforts to align ourselves with the American zeitgeist. When my father first began working here, the company was strictly a purveyor of nostalgia. A nostalgia too narrowly focused to be economically viable. My father’s initial impulse was to broaden the company’s focus to include nostalgia for Elvis’s era. Utilizing Elvis as the fulcrum for an entertainment experience which immersed the visitor in the glories of the 1950s — years when American might was second to none, when our families and churches were strong, when our economy was bigger than the rest of the world’s combined output — during the awful years of GD2, this was a masterstroke! Virtually overnight, my father’s strategy made Elvis relevant again.
“A few years later, when the rise of young world powers like India made our relative decline painfully apparent, he shifted his strategy to focus on Rebellious Elvis. The Elvis with the constant sneer, who dared combine all the gauche forms of American vernacular music into something brazenly new, who flaunted his incendiary sexuality even on The Ed Sullivan Show — this, my father recognized, was the persona to anesthetize America’s wounded pride.”
He still hasn’t answered my question. “So what was out there — museums? Theaters? Roller coasters?”
“All of that, and more.”
“And it’s all gone now? Knocked down?”
“Some of it still stands. But times and needs have changed. Ten years ago, our prognosticators concluded that America is on the cusp of another Great Awakening, a spiritual revival of the kind that occurred during colonial times and again in the Civil War era. Your Good Humor movement has been a foreshadowing of this — the masses seeking to purge their bodies of evil. We seek to predict such gathering waves, then position ourselves to ride them. In the most profitable way possible.”
“But how do you make money off of churches?”
Swaggart’s laugh is startlingly loud. “Was that — was that a serious question?” He regathers his composure. “I’m very sorry,” he says soberly. “To answer your question, the Graceland Corporation owns all the land within a two-mile radius of the mansion. The dozens of churches, synagogues, and temples you see all pay rent to the Corporation. The Corporation provided loans for the construction of said edifices and will be making money from interest for many decades to come. The religious institutions raise money in all the ways such institutions always have: weekly collections, televised appeals, tithing, et cetera. The Corporation takes a flat twenty percent. And we benefit in other ways. The pilgrims all need to eat and sleep, and the Corporation is happy to provide restaurants and hotels.”
I can’t help wondering what Elvis would think about this spiritual commerce being carried out in his name. “I can see what Graceland gets from the churches. What do the churches get from Graceland?”
Swaggart stares at me like I’m a simpleton. “That should be obvious,” he says. “They get Elvis. On a strictly licensed basis, of course.” He turns back to the panorama below our feet. “Those churches, they’re like a hundred petri dishes. Each one an experiment by a different preacher, all praying that his particular mix of Jesus or Moses or Krishna and our Elvis will bloom and spread through the country like a burgeoning epidemic.”
He turns back to me. “It’s easier to show you than tell you. Would you like to visit one of our most promising churches? It’s not far from my office.”
“I’d be very interested, thank you.”
My host leads me out of our bubble of artificial warmth onto the western side of Elvis Presley Boulevard. My lightweight California overcoat is immediately overmatched by the weather. At least the church isn’t far.
“Welcome to the Church of the Third Resurrection,” Swaggart announces grandly. From the outside, the building isn’t all that remarkable. Apart from Art Deco neon fins, its traditional Protestant architecture wouldn’t look out of place on any Midwestern suburban street.
It’s empty and quiet inside, and much bigger than I thought it would be. They can probably squeeze between six and seven hundred pilgrims in here. I follow Swaggart toward the front stage. We pass stained glass windows depicting what I recognize as the Stations of the Cross. After the window of Jesus on the cross, there is one with his disciples surrounding an empty tomb. Then a taller window depicting what can only be a young Elvis on stage, his sideburns and pompadour looking oddly Byzantine when formed from hunks of colored glass. The final and tallest window doesn’t depict any figures at all; only an abstract flame or radiance.
Swaggart watches me trying to puzzle out the story behind the windows. “The worshippers here consider the first resurrection to be Jesus’s emergence from his tomb. Can you guess the second and the third?”
“The second resurrection must be as Elvis. The third… I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”
He climbs onto the stage and stands beneath a sculpted representation of this church’s trinity: the cross, the face of Elvis, and a stylized, abstract radiance. “Jesus died on the cross to free man of his sins. Three days later He appeared to His disciples and promised He would again return. With His second resurrection He appeared to the world as Elvis Aaron Presley, whose mission on this earth was to free man of our false dreams, which had accrued in our souls during the centuries since the cross. Elvis lived all our darkest fantasies for us so we wouldn’t have to — the worldwide fame; the fawning multitudes; the love of any woman he desired; mastery of his chosen art; freedom to alter his consciousness; enough wealth to acquire anything that he wanted, and more. He had it all, and the world watched it poison and kill him. A lesson worth heeding, Dr. Shmalzberg.”
The smug little hypocrite. The evils of wealth — as if he isn’t swimming in preferred stock options. I glance up at the stylized flames above Swaggart. “So the third resurrection — he returns as a ‘hunka hunka burning love’ and redeems the world?”
“A very inventive pun, Doctor. No, the exact nature of the third resurrection is kept deliberately vague. Whatever the actual nature of the third resurrection, it will serve to free mankind of our fleshly bodies, the source of all sin. To reduce us to our most basic essence, that of pure spirit.”
To free mankind of our fleshly bodies… A chill slithers up my backbone. Swaggart’s “third resurrection” sounds frighteningly like the ultimate denouement of MannaSantos’s runaway Metaboloft gene.
He leads me toward the exit, oblivious to the fact that his treasured third resurrection is much closer than he could dream. “Our Protestant sects have been the most creative when it comes to theology,” he says. “Not to denigrate what our rabbis or Hindu or Muslim clerics have tried. You’re of the Jewish faith, aren’t you? We’re especially happy with what Rabbi Goldblum has come up with. The way he’s been able to translate traditional Presleyan recipes into strictly kosher meals has been nothing short of amazing. And the rabbi himself is a very credible Elvis replicant.”
We reenter the heated walkway. Snow flurries have begun falling. They melt on the glass overhead. He points the way to a large, warehouse-like building. “My office is in there. In the Collections Overflow Annex.”
He punches in a security code at the door. We walk past a pair of what appear to be Elvis-themed Mardi Gras parade floats, each a hundred feet long. One is a tableau from King Creole, another from Blue Hawaii. A bit farther in, one of the demons of my childhood grins down at me from a thirty-foot-tall photograph. Oh, how my father hated Richard Nixon. There he is, shaking hands with Elvis in the White House. Elvis is wearing the belt, the gold World’s Championship Attendance Record belt presented to him by the Las Vegas International Hotel; the belt he gave my father as a gift. The one I have with me in my satchel.
The wall-length windows of Swaggart’s office provide a spectacular view of Elvis Presley Boulevard. He motions me to an overstuffed velour chair, then showers me with a smile that could pull the gold from my teeth. “Can I offer you a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich? One of Elvis’s favorites.”
Although I’m hungry, I shake my head
no, not wanting to consider what “peanut butter” is made of nowadays. He pulls several forms from a drawer. “There are substantial tax benefits for donating artifacts to the Graceland Heritage Foundation, our non-profit branch. Given your family’s connection to our founder, I’m certain that my Board would be happy to valuate your donations most generously.”
So that’s what this whole show-and-tell has been about. Without even knowing what it is that I have in my bag, he’s tried to dazzle me into giving it away. “I’m not interested in making a donation, Mr. Swaggart. I’m interested in a trade.”
He leans toward me. “What is it we have that you want?”
I take a deep breath. “I intend to reacquire what I sold your predecessor twenty-six years ago. The jar of preserved adipose tissues my father extracted from Elvis in 1977.”
To his credit, Swaggart doesn’t immediately react. “I see,” he says at last. “May I ask why?”
“My father is dying. The ‘souvenir’ he kept from that experience was possibly his most precious possession. Until he entrusted it to me.”
“And you sold your birthright for a mess of pottage.”
“Yes.” Should I tell him about Emily, her cancer? No; he doesn’t need to know. “My father’s memory is dying faster than the rest of him. Having the Elvis near him, where he can see it, could restore his glory years to him.”
He leans back in his chair. “That’s admirable, Doctor. Truly. I was very devoted to my father, myself. But surely you must realize the extraordinary nature of what you’re asking. You’re asking me to surrender a piece of Elvis Aaron Presley. I don’t know how religious you are, but wouldn’t you say that those ten pounds of fat your father extracted should rightfully rest in the same place as the body they were taken from?”
My heart stops. “So you buried the fat?”
His lips part, but he pauses before answering. “No, we didn’t bury it,” he says. I begin breathing again. “An extraordinary request. What you have there to offer me in exchange must be equally extraordinary.”
I place my satchel on my lap. I’ll start with the ring. “These are both tokens of appreciation Elvis gave my father. This ring was originally given to Elvis by the Jewish members of his Memphis Mafia.” I hand Swaggart the ring, a weighty chunk of twenty-one-carat gold surmounted by an oversize chai, symbol of a happy life; the Hebrew characters are outlined by rows of diamonds. “His friends had their names engraved on the inside.”
He retrieves a jeweler’s loupe from his desk and examines the ring closely. “I’d have to authenticate this, you understand.”
“Of course.”
He hands it back to me. “What else do you have?”
“This.” I pull the belt from the satchel. I get a much more noticeable reaction out of Swaggart. His hands tremble as I hand it to him. He flips the gargantuan gold belt buckle over and brings it very close to his face. I’m sure he’s looking for some minute flaw, some tiny identifying mark that only he and his staff would know should be there.
When he lowers the belt to the desktop a minute later, his expression is both enraptured and wary. “This… this is authentic,” he says. “From the opening of the first museum, back in the 1980s, we’ve always had a reproduction on display. No one ever knew what had become of the original.”
“Keep in mind that I’d be able to make my father’s cannula available for your collection, as well.” He’s still staring at the belt, but there’s a twinge of sadness around his mouth. “The jar of fat — I’d like to see it now, if that would be convenient.”
His voice is flat, airless. “We don’t have it anymore.”
“What?” A sudden pain makes me clench my eyes shut. “But you said you didn’t bury it —”
“We didn’t. My predecessor stored it in a vault, away from public view. It was… stolen. A disgruntled ex-employee. We’re virtually certain of that.”
Of all the ironies — here I was, contemplating somehow stealing it myself if Swaggart wouldn’t deal, only to learn someone beat me to the punch years ago. “If you’re so certain this employee did it, why didn’t you ever go after him?”
“Her.”
“Her. It’s not as though Graceland doesn’t have pull with the authorities. You must fund half the Memphis Police Department —”
He cuts me off with a forlorn sigh. “There were… complications. Matters I’m not at liberty to discuss. The likely thief was cognizant of the fact that her knowledge of certain internal matters effectively shields her from legal pursuit on our part.”
“So she’s still alive? You know where she is?”
“We have kept tabs on her, yes. In case she should ever decide to attempt to harm or embarrass the Corporation.”
I thought this “Chase for the Great Whatzit” would end here. But I guess this is an E-ticket ride. “Maybe you all are constrained from going after her. But I’m a free agent, with no connection to Graceland. Tell me where to find her, and I’ll go after the Elvis.”
I see one of his eyebrows arch. “You’re serious about this?” he asks. “Your father’s handiwork means that much to you?”
“It does.”
His fingers caress the belt. “Information is a commodity like any other, Doctor. And all commodities cost.”
“No.” I reach across the desk, scoop up the belt, and stuff it back into my satchel. “The belt is no longer on the table. Not in exchange for information that may or may not prove useful. I may need it for when I negotiate with your ex-employee.”
Grabbing the belt was a good move. The sweat on Swaggart’s lip has gotten beadier. He dabs at it with a crisp white handkerchief. “When you… ahh, if you are able to reacquire the artifact, you realize that, legally, it will still remain the property of the Graceland Foundation. However, as I said before, I’m fully sympathetic with your dying father’s emotional needs. I see no reason why we shouldn’t be able to work out a shared custody —”
“I’ll think about that. When and if the time comes.” Like hell I will.
“But surely you can’t expect me to release the information to you for no recompense…” His face regains some of its self-possessed slyness. “Actually, I’ve thought of a trade neither of us would object to. You were once a very highly regarded plastic surgeon. Do you still retain your old skills?”
Swaggart certainly doesn’t look like someone in need of a liposuction procedure. “You’ll have to be more specific. My ‘old skills’ cover a lot of territory.”
“I’m speaking of facial reconstruction. Back when you were practicing, it was available to anyone with enough money. Now the law limits it to people with medical necessities, or accident victims. Can you still do it?”
I take a closer look at Swaggart’s face. There’s nothing wrong with it. Good bone structure, normal musculature… not perfectly symmetrical, but then again, no one’s face is. “It depends on what you have in mind. Some procedures were extraordinarily involved. Others were relatively simple, and I did them hundreds of times. I’ll bet even my father could still perform a passable nose job.”
His lips press themselves into a tight smile. “Good. It’s a nose job I’m thinking of. Does my surname mean anything to you, Doctor?”
“Your surname?” Actually, it had seemed faintly familiar. Swaggart. Some news story from a very long time ago… a sex scandal in some socially backward Southern state, Mississippi or Louisiana. “Wasn’t there a preacher, a televangelist… yes. Jimmy Swaggart, wasn’t it? ’I have sinned against you’?”
“Correct. The Reverend Swaggart was my great-grandfather. Which means The Killer was a cousin of mine.”
“The Killer?”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the musical rivalries of the early Presleyan period. During the first half-decade of his career, only one other rock ‘n’ roller challenged Elvis for preeminence. My greatgrandfather’s first cousin, Jerry Lee Lewis. If Jerry Lee hadn’t married his own thirteen-year-old cousin, scandalizing the nation… who k
nows? He could’ve been crowned King. Perhaps you remember when a coterie of music critics tried to rehabilitate my cousin at Elvis’s expense?”
I do recall a Time magazine cover with the caption, “Who’s the REAL King of Rock ‘n’ Roll?” It featured snarling portraits of Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis, both dressed in boxing garb.
“My father had nothing to do with any of that,” he continues. “But the Board of Directors always looked upon him with suspicion after that damnable Time article appeared.”
He turns so that I can look at his profile. Portentously, he taps his nose with his index finger. “This is my genetic curse, Doctor. The spitting image of The Killer’s nose. At every Board meeting, I have endured the unwavering, hostile stares of Elvis’s descendants, all aimed at this traitorous protrusion.”
Swaggart pulls some strings. The next morning we drive to a municipal hospital where he’s managed to rent a surgical suite for the day. A nurse pins up photos of Elvis’s profile, photos Swaggart brought to guide me in my work. Just before we put him under, I learn the name of the city where I’ll be traveling next: New Orleans.
When Swaggart removes his shirt, I see the results of an earlier attempt at ancestral renunciation. His entire torso is covered with tiny square tattoos. Photo-quality reproductions of dozens of Elvis’s record covers, each exquisitely engraved in his flesh.
The grid is interrupted only on his solar plexus. In that place of honor are the cross, the face, and the flame that will consume all flesh.
Breaking Swaggart’s nose isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
CHAPTER 9
New Orleans was once one of America’s top tourist destinations. Now the only tourists who still come are connoisseurs of ruins and scavengers of illicit foods. Hurricane Katrina flooded eighty percent of the city decades ago, and then Hurricane Edwin flattened much of what was left.
A damp, cold breeze makes me step inside a boarded-up doorway. The man I’d spoken to on the phone told me to stand in front of the abandoned Catholic church opposite my hotel, the Fairmont, a once grand hotel just outside the Quarter. Clumps of homeless men and women are burning trash fires just up the street. The wind blows gray smoke in my face. My escorts should be here soon, the men who’ll take me to see Oretha Denoux. It didn’t take too much prodding of the leads Swaggart gave me to locate Denoux’s organization. Just mentioning the name “Elvis” on the phone was enough to make her people take me seriously.