Love So Tender: Taking Care of BusinessPlay It Again, ElvisGood Luck Charm

by Stephanie Bond

  She turned, accustomed to the lights in her eyes, to not seeing the folks, but hearing them just fine. “So I was at this club in L.A. and it was crowded and there were all these studs spreading their tail feathers. This guy, and he wasn’t exactly George Clooney, hell he wasn’t even George “Goober” Lindsey, comes right up to me. Plants his boots, puts his hands on his hips, puffs up the chest. He looks me right in the eyes, then looks down. Yeah, there. He knows, see, that I’m gonna look, too. And, boys and girls, he’s sporting the wood. We’re talking major tenting. The pants. Did I mention the pants? Leather. Honest to God. Leather. Brown and so tight I could tell his religion. So we’re both staring at it. It was impossible to turn away. It was, well, big. Mesmerizing. I couldn’t move, not a muscle.

  “I don’t know how long we just stood there. Both of us looking at his crotch. But it was a while. Songs ended and new songs began. Finally, he says, ‘Well? It’s not gonna suck itself.’”

  Waves of laughter poured over her and made her shiver she adored it so much. This was the biggest high known to man. Or woman. When it clicked, when they got it, when they loved her and loved her and loved her…

  This was what she lived for. This was where it all happened, the rest was just a dress rehearsal. She didn’t need a man. She needed a hundred men. And women. All of them right out there, watching, laughing. Loving her.

  CHARLIE WAS still clapping when she met him backstage. She gave him an enormous hug before she turned around to take a curtain call. Damn, it had been a good night. Molly’d been on fire, and the crowd had been in the palm of her hand. He loved nights like this. They’d go out, celebrate. Get something good to eat, talk and talk. And she was her most creative when it was a great show. Some of their best routines had come from late-night sessions after a hot show. Not that he was going to be much help.

  After a really good night’s sleep, well, day’s sleep, he’d come to the conclusion that seeing Elvis was a manifestation of his subconscious. That his subconscious was trying to tell him he was wacko sort of bothered him, but hey, at least there was an explanation.

  He’d tried not to think about it, which hadn’t worked at all. But now that he was going out with Molly, he could focus on his other unhealthy obsession, so okay.

  Here she came again, practically bouncing with energy. She glowed. He always thought she was beautiful but tonight she was magic. She thumped into him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  On the nose.

  “Charlie, you are the man. The main man. The only man. You are…”

  “A warm puppy?”

  “A genius.”

  He wanted to be pleased. Really. But that nose thing…

  “Where are you taking me? How about the Voodoo Lounge? No, too crowded. I don’t want crowds. I know, let’s go to Henderson, to PTs. I’ll kick your ass at pool while you get me drunk.”

  Charlie laughed, hard and fake. “Anything you say.”

  She looked him in the eye, and he knew he’d been busted. Leave it to Molly to know him so well. Only she could have picked up the insincerity—

  “Charlie?”

  He rolled his eyes, trying not to look too embarrassed. “Yeah.”

  “Did you get a haircut?”

  He blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

  “It looks really good. Let me go change. I’ll be ten minutes. See if anyone wants to come. Not Gary though because he’s been pissy all day, but if any of the other guys want to tag along…”

  “Sure,” he said, as she headed for her dressing room. “No problem. Wouldn’t want us to be alone,” he called after her, but she couldn’t hear him. She was already gone.

  He walked over to the mirror in the hallway that led to the dressing rooms. She’d noticed his hair. He checked himself out again, still shocked that he’d spent a hundred and forty dollars in a beauty salon. He’d asked for something cool. And he’d ended up with this kind of slick deal that required gel. He didn’t get it. But the consensus amongst the hairdressers was that it was hot. Hot.

  Twenty minutes later he and Molly were in the parking lot of the Hilton, making their way to his car. Just the two of them. The others would follow. He wasn’t sure how many would show up, but for them, one o’clock in the morning was the shank of the evening. They did their sleeping during the day. Like vampires.

  Molly had calmed down some, but her high wouldn’t end until much, much later. It was like recharging a battery. The reverse was just as intense. If it went wrong, she crashed and burned, and it took a hell of a lot of coaching to get her back to level. No matter what the cause. It could have been her own timing, or a crappy audience. Either way, she let it get to her.

  All the good ones did. The comics who weren’t so jaded they phoned in their routines. Molly wasn’t like that. She needed the folks in the crowd. Needed the immediate feedback. Her ability to make things fresh constantly amazed him. How she played off the audience and made each night’s show her own was a wonder to behold.

  They reached his convertible and Charlie opened the passenger door for Molly. The top was down and the night was beautiful, warm and clear. He’d have preferred a long drive to Red Rock or maybe Hoover Dam, but Molly loved to shoot pool, so they’d go to PTs where the music was loud, the drinks were strong, and at least he’d be with her. Which was better than not. Although if she ever kissed him on the nose again, he’d have to shoot himself.

  She squirmed on the leather seat, watching him as he walked around the car. The moment he turned on the ignition she pounced on the radio. Groaning at his choice of NPR, she switched it to head-banging rock and turned the volume up so high it grounded air traffic from McCarran.

  It took a while to get to the freeway, but not much longer to reach Henderson. Molly sang the whole way. Loudly. With fervor. Hitting him several times in the shoulder for emphasis. But finally, they were inside, and while Molly grabbed them an open pool table, he got drinks.

  By the time he reached the table, she’d racked up for eight ball.

  “Ready to take me on, Charlie?”

  Just as he was about to respond, the music changed. Got Louder. It was him. Elvis. Hound Dog, baby.

  Oh, yeah.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MOLLY HELD her cue loosely in her left hand as she reached for her drink with her right. She paused mid-grope because she couldn’t stop staring at Charlie.

  It wasn’t just the hair, although, damn, it sure made a difference. She’d never thought about him with good hair. His had always been kind of long and dark and shaggy, with no real style at all. He didn’t pay attention to that kind of stuff. Not his hair, not his clothes. He always smelled good, though. Mostly, he wore jeans and T-shirts, and when he had to dress up he wore plain slacks that didn’t fit all that well, and nondescript shirts, ties, jackets. Never anything embarrassing. Just Charlie stuff.

  This haircut…It looked good. She’d never noticed his cheekbones before.

  She swallowed her shot of tequila and shivered as it slipped down her throat. Pool. They were going to play pool. “Wanna shoot for break?”

  He shook his head. “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t be so nice, Kemo Sabe. You’ll curse me before the night is through.”

  “Only if I lose.”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry. Did you infer that you would beat me at this game?”

  He smiled enigmatically.

  “Oh, please. I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “You’re going to try.”

  “Oooooh, you are so dead.”

  He walked toward the rack of cues on the wall, and she watched him, puzzling over this mystery. He never beat her at eight ball unless she did something stupid, like sinking the eight before the end of the game. And that didn’t happen very often. So what was with this cocky attitude? No, not cocky. Confident. Which she expected when he was working, when he knew he’d hit on something good, but not here. Not in PTs, and certainly not at the pool table.

  Maybe it was the h
air? A sort of reverse Samson thing?

  Oh, please.

  She got the white ball, put it in position and broke. The sound of the balls clacking together was balm to her soul. She loved shooting pool. Her own cue was being fixed at the moment, and she missed it deeply. But it wasn’t the cue that made the game, it was the player.

  She got stripes. And something was definitely up with Charlie. Usually, he sat at the closest table, nursed one beer all evening, and accepted defeat with grace. But there he was, standing, watching, rubbing the tip of his cue with blue chalk.

  Molly focused on her shot. Stood up, pushed her hair back and this time she really concentrated. The ball missed the hole by a hair. Her gaze went right to Charlie. He hadn’t moved, except he wasn’t chalking anymore. His expression was different. A slight smile. Calm. As if he already knew the outcome of the game.

  He turned a little to his left, and she sighed. Okay, there was her Charlie. He’d gotten chalk on his cheek. A rather large blue smudge. “Go for it, babe.”

  He came to the table, studied his options, and made his first shot as smooth as silk. After a wink, a wink! in her direction, he got the four ball in the side.

  On his way to his next shot, she stopped him with her hand on his arm. He looked at her questioningly. “Uh, you have some…” She wiped his cheek with the side of her thumb.

  His whole posture changed. Sort of deflated. Weird. Very, very weird.

  “It’s still your shot.”

  He nodded. Lined up. And missed by a mile.

  “Charlie, are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Just fine. Swell. Never better.”

  “Yeah. Right.” She would have pursued it, but he turned, found a seat at the closest table, then signaled the waitress.

  As promised, she kicked his butt. But it wasn’t quite the victory she’d expected.

  CHARLIE STOOD in his bathroom, staring at himself in the full-length mirror behind the door. He was naked. And very, very depressed.

  He’d screwed the pooch. Come to think of it, that expression was deeply disturbing, but that was neither here nor there. The fact was, he’d messed up. It was the hair. The hair, thank you very much, Mr. Presley, had given him false hope, delusions of grandeur. For about half an hour, he’d been James Friggin’ Bond. Cool. Calm. In control.

  And then she’d wiped his face with her thumb. Much like his mother would have, if she’d been in PTs and not Ohio. First a kiss on the nose, then the fatal face wipe. And she’d won every game.

  Yeah, that’s what women want. Losers. He might as well have a big L tattooed on his forehead. Because there was no way Molly would ever see him as anything else.

  “It was only your first night, little brother.”

  Charlie shrieked, covering his crotch with both hands. Elvis Presley was behind him. In his bathroom. His bathroom.

  He spun around. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He would have rubbed his eyes but that would mean moving his hands.

  “Calm down, son.”

  A sound came from Charlie’s throat, but it wasn’t really a word. More like a girly whine.

  “You did good, son, with the hair.” Elvis looked past him to the mirror and checked his own do. “And she noticed, now, didn’t she?”

  Charlie tried to get his breathing under control. He really couldn’t hyperventilate, because, again, there was the hand issue. “You’re not real.”

  Elvis smiled. “I’m real, little brother. But that’s not the point. I told you before, you have to make some changes.”

  After another deep breath, Charlie, with as much dignity as he could manage, said, “Can one of these changes be putting on some pants?”

  Another of those crooked smiles. “Sure thing.” And then he was gone. Just…gone.

  Charlie leaned back, yelping as his naked butt touched the cold mirror. This was getting seriously weird. Psychotic break weird. But he didn’t want the men in the white coats to take him away while he was naked. Even crazy people need some dignity.

  He opened the bathroom door, checked his bedroom for dead superstars, then hurried to his closet to grab some jeans and a T-shirt. Once he was dressed, he felt a little more in control. There must be an explanation for this. Something logical that wouldn’t mean he was completely whacked.

  “Clothes.”

  Charlie spun around. His personal ghost sat on the edge of his bed. He didn’t imagine it was very comfortable. That big red belt had to cut into him. But Elvis seemed more concerned with Charlie’s wardrobe than his own. “What about clothes?”

  “Son, you’re in a sad, sad way.”

  He looked down. The T-shirt was one of his favorites. Lenny Bruce on black. And these were his favorite jeans. “There’s nothing sad about my way. I’m fine.”

  “Do you have her? Is she yours?”

  “No.”

  “Then there are things to be done.”

  “Is this some kind of Faustian deal? I get the girl then spend eternity in hell?”

  Elvis didn’t answer for a minute. It gave Charlie time to really look at him. He sure seemed real. Much better-looking than Charlie’d ever imagined. That’s what was so nuts. He’d never been all that big a fan. So why would his Harvey be Elvis? A six-foot invisible rabbit would actually have made more sense than Elvis Presley.

  On the other hand, this was Vegas.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Huh?” Charlie cringed. He had to stop saying that.

  “I don’t think you’ll end up in hell.”

  “Wow, what a relief.”

  Elvis stood. He was tall, too. Jeez, if anyone needed wardrobe counseling… “This was from another time, son.”

  “So, you can hear my thoughts?”

  “Seems so.” He walked to Charlie’s closet and flipped through the clothes.

  “Great.”

  “It also seems I know quite a bit about your time. And, little brother, you’re not dressin’ like you should.”

  “Okay. So you hate my hair, and my clothes. Is there anything else?”

  Elvis turned. “A whole lot.”

  Charlie sighed. “Oh, boy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

  “That makes me feel so much better.”

  MOLLY DUG INTO her chicken chow mein as she listened to Estelle go over the latest in the negotiations for the talk show. There was so much to consider. Time to sleep, for example. If she taped the shows during the day, and did her thing at the Hilton at night, that would leave twenty minutes for all the other things in her life. Like eating, sleeping and, dare she even think it, dating.

  Dating. Ha. The last time she’d been out with a guy, she’d fallen asleep before he’d gotten to first base. So humiliating. He’d been a total babe, too. Tall, blond, surfer-dude tan, pale blue eyes. So pretty. And so appalled. He’d shaken her awake. She’d tried to explain it wasn’t him, but then he’d pointed out that she’d drooled on his satin pillowcase.

  And that was one of her better dates.

  “Are you listening to any of this?”

  Molly put down her chopsticks. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m all ears.”

  “Good. Now, where’s Charlie? He should be listening to this, too.”

  “I don’t know. I thought he’d be here already.”

  “You’ll catch him up. We have to decide what to do about the Hilton.”

  “So you don’t think I can do both?”

  “Molly, honey, how many shows do you do a week?”

  “Eight.”

  “Right. And you’d have to tape five chat shows a week. There’s no way you can handle both.”

  “I love doing the Hilton.”

  “And you’ll love doing TV.” Estelle dabbed her mouth with her napkin. She looked tired. She’d been working like a demon on this deal, and she had a lot of other clients. Big name comics. Of all the managers Molly could have hooked up with, Estelle was the best. She’d done everything right. Even during the whole Rand pe
riod, Estelle had been behind her. In fact, she was the one who’d hooked her up with Charlie. Bless her heart.

  “What about a compromise? I cut back on the Hilton shows? Tape three days a week, do the Hilton three nights a week.”

  Estelle touched the side of her glasses. “I don’t think they’ll go for that, honey. That real estate is prime.”

  “Don’t you have someone in the stable who’d like to do the other shows? Couldn’t that be a solution?”

  “I’ll see what I can—”

  “Estelle?”

  “Oh, my God. That is nice.”

  Molly watched Estelle’s mouth open as she stared at someone or something behind them. She turned, and it was perfectly clear what had changed her New York manager into Cletus the slack-jawed yokel. The man standing by the front entrance of the restaurant was seriously cute. But he needed to turn around. Not that the view of his ass wasn’t worthy of concentrated focus, but she needed more. A face to go with.

  “The shoulders. The butt. Must be a dancer,” Estelle said. “Therefore, must be gay.”

  “Now come on. They’re not all gay.”

  “Right. Wait, he’s turning.”

  Molly watched, not even trying to be discrete. She simply stared. And nearly choked on her bamboo shoot.

  Estelle gasped. “It can’t be.”

  Molly blinked. Held her breath.

  “It is. Oh my God that’s…”

  “Charlie.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHARLIE SPOTTED Molly’s table. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to “King of the Whole Wide World” in his head, the beat infusing him with a confidence he hadn’t felt since, well, last night.

  He’d spent a damn fortune on the new clothes. At The Forum Shops, no less. Everything from the ground up, so to speak, and nothing he would have picked out on his own. The salesmen seemed to think Charlie’s poltergeist had taste. Which begged the question how had Elvis gotten said taste? Television in the great beyond? Fashion magazines? How would they get delivered?