by Weston Ochse
He especially remembered how the Ferris wheel looked lit up at night on the pier, the lights reflected in the Pacific Ocean like a French impressionist painting. One could almost forget they were destitute with such a backdrop to their misery.
When Bobby and Blockbuster reached the end of the park, they slid back down to PCH. From there on, it was smooth sailing to Malibu.
After Bobby had dropped the bomb about Shrewsbury, he’d barely managed to tell Lucy about his lead on his heirloom. At first Lucy seemed not to remember what he was talking about, but that was understandable. In the face of Split’s murder and all of the other deaths, an award for a fifty-year-old album won by the dead King of Rock and Roll didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. But it eventually clicked and Lucy showed sincere enthusiasm about Bobby’s progress, if only because it took him away from the reality of his current problems. And because of their past association, he assigned Blockbuster to drive Bobby.
Still, Blockbuster had been silent the entire way, something he’d never been before. Every other time he’d driven Bobby anywhere, the lean Hispanic had kept up a constant chatter of movie trivia. Bobby figured the silence had more to do with the death of Split than anything else.
Bobby glanced sidelong at the lean Hispanic as he sat behind the wheel of the old Chevy.
“Sorry about Split, man.”
The Hispanic mumbled something unintelligible and kept his gaze on the road.
Bobby felt like he should say something else. “He was a great guy. I really appreciated the way you guys took care of me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” The words came out like a whisper.
“All right, I can respect that.” Bobby stared through the windshield.
A Lexus pulled out in front of Blockbuster. He slammed on his brakes and jerked the wheel to the right. He didn’t even spout off a curse.
“I just wanted to say that I miss him, too,” Bobby added, looking out the window at the hills.
They’d gone perhaps another mile and were waiting for the light to change at the San Vincente intersection when a question that Bobby had had for days resurfaced. When he’d first asked it, the gold-toothed young man had warned Blockbuster not to say, but now that Split was dead, Bobby hoped that the commandment to keep it a secret could be waived.
“Why did they call him Split, anyway?”
Blockbuster turned and glared at Bobby a moment, then his face softened as he cracked a wistful smile. “He made me promise not to tell you. He was afraid you’d laugh at him.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because everyone laughed at him. He got the nickname when we were kids, and we were ruthless.”
“All kids are ruthless.”
“Split swore all of us to secrecy. And because he’d saved our asses so many times, we went along.” Blockbuster nodded as the light changed. “He was a madman in a fight. He’d jump in even if one of us was outnumbered ten to one. He didn’t care. He just wanted to be one of us.”
“So what does Split mean?”
Blockbuster chuckled. “He used to eat Banana Splits every day. He was the fattest kid in elementary school.”
Split? Fat? The man had been rail thin.
“What the hell happened?”
“He was always sick back in those days. They finally figured out he was allergic to milk. What’s that called?”
“Lactose intolerant.”
“Yeah, that’s it. So when they found that out he stopped eating ice cream and he dropped the weight over one summer.”
“I wouldn’t have laughed at him for that.”
“Maybe not,” Blockbuster said, glancing over at Bobby. “But that Elvis is your daddy impressed him.”
“It shouldn’t have.” He let the words hang in the air, then added, “Elvis might not be my daddy, anyway.”
They passed the Sunset and Topanga Canyon turnoffs, the road winding away into wooded hills. On the other side of the road, the flat expanse of beach that had been evident in Santa Monica had changed to rocky bluff. The Pacific Coast Highway rose in elevation, reminding Bobby of Rancho Palos Verdes. The terrain was similar, but the homes were larger here and set farther apart. Watching the estates pass made the word sprawling come to mind. He’d mistaken one home for a minimall because it was so large.
They passed Malibu City Center, Pepperdine University and Point Dume. Soon they turned right on Morningview Drive, took another right on Merritt Driver, and a left on Harvester. An older neighborhood, the homes here were just as sprawling but lacked the luster of newer construction. Less than a minute later, Blockbuster pulled the Chevy into a circular driveway in front of a low-slung, one-story white brick home.
“Now I guess you’ll find out,” Blockbuster said.
“Huh?”
“If Elvis really was your Daddy.”
The nervousness he’d felt at Shrewsbury’s home returned. This could be it. By the time Bobby left, he could have an actual family tree. What would he do then? Would it really change his life?
Bobby had thought about this last bit a thousand times, but the actual quest had taken over what he was questing for. Part of him realized that he wouldn’t be any different with the knowledge, but still he didn’t care. He had to know. And there was nothing to be done but to finish what he’d started.
They strode up a cracked cobbled walk to a red door. Weeds spiked through the spaces between the bricks beneath their feet. The paint on the door was weathered and faded. A dog’s water bowl sat next to a potted bougainvillea to the left. A knocker in the shape of a lion’s head bore signs of pitting and rust.
Bobby grasped it and hammered three times. As he waited, he realized what he looked like. He stank. He needed a shower. He was exhausted. His clothes had been slept in. Luckily, because of the sequins, his jacket hid many of the wrinkles.
He hurriedly reached into the dog bowl and scooped water in his hands. He used it to smooth his hair. He wiped some more on his face, and used the inside lining of his jacket to wipe his skin. He caught Blockbuster’s knit brow and smile out of the corner of his eye.
“I look like a bum, don’t I?”
“Not exactly.”
He heard the sound of someone disengaging several deadbolts.
“What does that mean?”
“With that jacket, you look like a homeless Elvis impersonator.” Blockbuster chuckled. “Not exactly a bum.”
Very funny, thought Bobby as the door cracked open.
An elderly black woman peered through the opening allowed by the security chain. “May I help you, sir?”
“Uh, I’d like to speak with Mr. Welker.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Welker passed away this spring.”
Bobby and Blockbuster exchanged looks.
“Are you Mrs. Welker?” Bobby asked.
“I’m sorry. We can’t help you.” The woman shut the door and re-engaged the locks.
Blockbuster gave Bobby a What do we do now? look.
Bobby bit his lip and shook his head. “She said we,” he murmured. He knocked on the door again. The locks once again disengaged. He stuck his hands in his pants pockets. When she opened the door again, his face was awash with embarrassment.
“If you don’t leave, we’re going to call the police,” said the woman through tight lips.
“I totally understand.” He nodded and smiled. “If I were you, I would have called them already. Like my friend here says, I look like a homeless Elvis impersonator.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change, but she also didn’t shut the door either.
“I’ve been on the road for weeks now,” he continued. “I’m on an Elvis Presley scavenger hunt. I started in Memphis and have managed to come all the way across country to this place. I heard that Heartbreak Hotel is here. If I can see it and get a picture of me with it, then it’s worth a hundred points and I’ll have a great chance to win.” He shook his head. “I know this is about the strangest thing you’ve ever heard
, but I promise you that it’s true.”
She looked at him for a long minute. Then she frowned. “You better go.” She shut the door.
Bobby sighed and turned to Blockbuster. They both began to walk back to the car.
“Damn it. I thought for sure she’d let me in.”
“I would have let you in.”
Bobby cursed under his breath.
They’d gotten perhaps a dozen feet down the walk when the door opened and he heard the voice of another woman. “You’re on an Elvis Presley scavenger hunt?”
Bobby grinned wide. He spun toward the house. An older white woman stood in the doorway, one hand on the jam, the other on the knob. Her hair was in a high perm. Her skin was deeply tanned. Her body was trim like that of a much younger woman, but he guessed she was near sixty. She wore a sky blue silk blouse and white slacks.
“Yes! Are you Missus Welker?”
“I am.”
“My name is Bobby Dupree. Sorry to surprise you like this, but I didn’t have your number so I couldn’t call ahead.”
“You’re really here about Heartbreak Hotel?”
“Absolutely.”
“How did you know my husband had the album?”
The question was as good as an answer to him. It was here! “I tracked it to a man named Shrewsbury.”
“That horrid man?” She wrinkled her nose and glanced at Blockbuster. “However did you get connected with him?”
“Just following the trail. I don’t even know him.”
“Come closer so I can see you.”
He took two steps forward.
Finally she said, “Your friend has to stay out here, but you can come on in.”
“Thank you,” he said, stepping through the doorway.
She shut the door behind him. He listened to her fasten three separate deadbolts while he looked around. The foyer opened into a large great room. Three marble steps led down to a parquet floor covered with several area rugs. Floor-to-ceiling windows comprised the far wall, revealing a backyard pool with a waterfall. A grand piano rested in one corner with several chairs around it. In the other corner was a sitting area with a pair of Queen Anne settees separated by a Chinese mother-of-pearl-engraved table.
“All right.”
He turned to where she stood. On the table near the door was a small black-and-white television monitor that showed Blockbuster leaning against the passenger’s side of the Chevy. From a speaker somewhere nearby he could hear Blockbuster humming music he recognized from one of the Kill Bill movies.
Mrs. Welker glanced at the monitor, then back to Bobby. She smiled patiently. “Perhaps you’d like to clean up.” She pointed to a door halfway down the hall. “You can go in there. I think you’ll find the water a little cleaner than what you found in the dog bowl.”
Embarrassment washed over him. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” He couldn’t get into the bathroom fast enough.
Five minutes later, after taking a hobo’s bath in a marble sink with gold-plated fixtures, he returned to the entry hall. His damp hair was combed back. His face was pink from scrubbing. He felt like a little boy.
She held a Yorkshire Terrier in her arms. She petted the animal as she appraised him. “Much better.” She sat in one of the chairs by the piano and gestured for him to join her.
No sooner had he sat down when the maid descended the stairs into the great room with a tray of sliced lemons, two glasses, a bowl of ice and a tall, thin glass pitcher of water. She placed the tray on a side table and left without a word.
The woman of the house made no move toward the glasses, so Bobby prepared one for each of them. When he was done, he passed the glass to her. She drank delicately, then returned it to him. He replaced it on the tray and took his own glass and drank nervously.
“Tell me about Bobby Dupree.”
“Ma’am?”
“I don’t get many visitors, especially dressed as you.”
“I just found out that your husband had the record last night. I guess in my hurry to get here, I didn’t pay attention to what I was wearing. Frankly, I’m pretty embarrassed.”
She waved a hand. “You talk like a Southern Boy. Where are you from?”
“Memphis.”
“How appropriate.” She petted her dog for a while and stared out the window to the pool. She put up a great front, but he could see the tiredness carefully concealed beneath expertly applied makeup. “What do you do?”
“Other than searching for Heartbreak Hotel? Nothing. I’ve kind of put everything on hold until I find it.”
“Now that you’ve found it, what will you do?”
He chuckled. “I guess I never really thought that far in advance. I think part of me never thought I’d find it.”
“What about your parents?”
“I don’t have any.”
She looked at him sharply.
“I was raised in an orphanage,” he said.
“Then you never knew your parents?”
“Sister Agnes raised me. Although she was a nun, I’ve always thought of her as kind of my mother.”
“You said was.”
“She died of cancer.”
“Ah. Cancer. That’s very sad.” She looked at the piano a moment. When she spoke again there was a catch in her voice. “And your father?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.” He sipped some water. There was a heartbreaking gloom about the woman, as if any moment she’d burst into tears. He tried to lighten the mood. “Do you play piano?”
“My son did. He died in the war.” The last came as a sigh.
“I’m real sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. We all have our personal dramas, some of us more than others. We just have to be sure they don’t define us.”
He looked into her wide blue eyes. They reminded him of Sister Agnes’s. In fact, this woman reminded him of the sister...a sadness barely held in check by the hope that tomorrow would bring a better day. Bobby wanted to touch the woman, to give her his hand or his shoulder. “Sometimes that’s all we have.”
“Every day it’s a struggle.”
“What was your son like?”
“He was a lot like you. In fact you look like him.”
“Is that why you let me in?”
“Not really. It’s not often a disheveled Elvis impersonator ends up on my doorstep. I just wanted to hear your story.”
“I’m not an Elvis im—you’re making fun of me.”
“Maybe a little. Forgive this old woman her fun.”
She stood and put the dog on the floor. It immediately began sniffing Bobby’s feet. She moved to the piano and sat on the bench. She lifted up the key cover like it was made of crystal. “He was musical like his father. Are you musical, Bobby?”
“We didn’t have any instruments in the orphanage. Sometimes when I hear certain music, though, I wish I could play.”
She nodded. “My husband said that there were three types of people in the world: those who hear music and relate to the words, those who hear music and feel the need to dance, and those who hear music and want to play it.”
“I can’t sing, and I’ve never been able to dance, so I suppose I fit into the last category.” He smiled wryly. “I guess I have to admit that playing the guitar has always been a dream for me.”
“Not the piano?” She touched a key on the far right and a bright, clear note hung in the air.
“No.” He held up his hands. “And no offense. I just like the way you can move with a guitar. I don’t know if I could play an instrument if it meant sitting down the entire time.”
“You’d like to move your hips like Elvis.” For the first time she smiled outside of herself and her cheeks were beautiful. “I saw him many times, you know. My husband played piano for The Monsoons back in the fifties and early sixties. He was such a boy, that Elvis. Such a little boy right up until the end.”
She gazed at Bobby with her head cocked slightly to the side. “You h
ave the same look as him. Elvis was so many things. You can say what you want about him. One thing you could always say was that he was very respectful, especially when it came to his mother. And you, Bobby Dupree, have that same look, like you want to please me but aren’t sure how to do it.”
Her candid assessment of his temperament was right on and it scared him. This was no well-kept wallflower. Mrs. Welker was an exceptional woman. So much like Sister Agnes. One of the sister’s strengths had been that people easily underestimated her. They saw only a diminutive woman in a nun’s habit. But they saw what they wanted to see, never realizing that behind the facade of a wife of Christ stood a tall, proud woman who’d taken under her wing a hundred boys, living and dying with each one as they experienced the ebb and flow of adoption.
“I’ve never had very good personal skills,” Bobby said.
“So how is it that a good-looking boy such as yourself was never adopted?” When she saw his face redden, she quickly added, “I’m prying. That’s probably too personal.”
“No, that’s okay,” he said, licking his lips as he contemplated how to phrase it. “You said it earlier. We all have our personal dramas. I just have more than my share. I was never adopted because I have a medical condition.”
“Oh.” She let her hand slide along the keys until she came to the very last key on the left. She depressed it and the deep, full-bodied tone surrounded them. When it died, she stood. “I suppose it’s time for you to see what you came for.” The Yorkie danced around her feet, but she ignored it. She held out her hand to show the way. “This way, Bobby Dupree.”
He followed her down the hall and into a long study. A desk stood against a wall covered with pictures of a younger version of herself, a man who could only be her husband, and various celebrities. She’d been a knockout, the kind of woman songs were written about.
On the opposite wall were different music industry awards. And there, as the centerpiece to the collection, was what he’d been searching for. He approached it with deliberate reverence. He slowed his breathing. He stepped softly. He kept his hands clasped in front of him, to keep them from reaching out and touching the platinum disc. He’d never thought it could look so beautiful. Inside an immense frame were two platinum-coated forty-fives with the words RCA etched beside a picture of a Victrola and a dog. In the space to the right of these was a picture of Elvis in a red shirt and black pants, holding his guitar like a lover.