“Know what?”
But the man was deep in the task of fitting the stovepipe hat back upon his head. When he had it just so, he said again as he had said before, “There is no hell. There is, however, a Memphis . . .”
* * *
She made for the gazebo, the band there. She took a bottle from the horn player and a swig from the bottle and then licked her cracked lips. She looked out upon the crowd of dancers on the dried-mud yard they called a dance floor, and began to sing. She sang murder ballads and gospel novelties about Jesus in an air-o-plane. She sang “Sweet to Mama” and “I Got a Gal.” She dedicated songs to God and the devil and the chief of the Chickasaws, to the Reverend Green and the ghost of Furry Lewis, and to her good man there in the crowd.
He watched from the wings, thinking, And I married her. Me, who had never done a wild thing in my life. She closed her eyes as she sang, threw her head back, and shouted whispers. That’s how it seemed to him, when she sang. And he was mesmerized, as ever. Maybe that’s all it had ever been, he thought. Maybe she was right—it was not love, never had been. Maybe he collected her, the living ghost—or, more like, he thought, had been collected by her. Company for her better devils.
After, she asked the horn player, Tippo Jones, “I miss anything, Tip?”
“Never known you to miss a thing, Mamie.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, all that.”
So he told it, how Cheatham broke out of the pen and came back to Memphis, like they all knew he would. But he knew they knew, and so he was careful as a desperate man could be. There were bulletins out, his face on the radio. He was said to be armed—“Wasn’t but a shiv,” Tippo Jones said—and dangerous. He was that—took that shiv to a former crony, for the sole crime of telling him what he knew and it not being what Cheatham wanted to hear:
“Heard she took to livin’ out in West Tennessee. Heard she died out there, on account of this flood they got going.”
“Where in West Tennessee?”
“Out near Lower Grace, how I heard it. Lived with her husband. Good man, they say. They say he married the hell out of her, you know, but way I heard it, there was some left.”
“Ain’t that sweet.”
“Just tellin’ you what I know, Cheat. They say she married this man—all but a stranger to her. They say he heard her sing and that was it. Couldn’t help himself. He was from Up North. Kentucky, I think it was. White boy too. White boy name of—”
Tippo Jones said the crony told Cheatham the name, that last bit of everything he knew, and then Cheatham stuck him with that shiv anyway. So he was a killer now, if he wasn’t one before. And they caught him, like he had to know they would. Because he was more desperate than careful, and he was getting to be more crazed than desperate.
They caught him on the railroad bridge, or anyway, had him all but caught. He climbed over the railing and was making more noise than a train would’ve, they said. Ravings of a madman, saying a woman named Flood had been the ruin of him, and he’d ruin her if he had to go to the bottom of Big Muddy to find her.
Tippo Jones said Cheatham shouted a few more words on his way down, but nobody could make them out. Nobody tried, he said; ravings of a madman and all.
Then he laughed; it was a deep and mellow tone, like you would expect from a horn player. That laugh was like silk had taught bourbon to sing. Then he was gone, off to play an after-hours gig at the big house for the new mayor.
And Mamie Flood, she went to find her good man, ready to tell him if he was ready to know, to ask. He was. She could tell by the way he stood waiting for her.
But he held her first, and they began to dance. It was their anniversary, after all. Well, more or less. Hard to know, for the days had become one. So they danced. Some music would have been nice—and then it came, just fell from the sky.
The rain was song. It played mad piano rags on the tin roof of the gazebo, funeral marches on the dance-floor muck. They danced, no matter the rain. They danced, and she sang it to him. It’s the one way she could tell him, the one way he could hear it.
HEARTBREAK AT GRACELAND
by KAYE GEORGE
Whitehaven
Jed waited until I got out of the car, but not long enough. My scarf got stuck in the door, and I turned around to yank on it. He didn’t notice, started up, and down I went. When I began hollering, he slammed on the brakes and flew out to help me.
“What the hell did you do, Izzy?” He stared at me, sprawled in the street, my shoulder resting on the curb.
“I tried to get my damn scarf out of the door.”
He helped me up with one hand. He’s a big guy.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.” I massaged my right shoulder. Man, was it sore. “I hurt my shoulder and I think my scarf is ruined.”
He turned around and released it from the car door. “Yeah, it’s pretty much shredded.”
And greasy where it had been caught.
“I better get goin’,” I said, gritting my teeth with pain. Li’l Darlin’ Diner opened in about twenty minutes.
“Give me your keys.” He took my elbow and unlocked the restaurant’s front door.
Sometimes I liked it when he treated me like a helpless Southern belle. After all, that can be worked. But mostly I didn’t, since I wasn’t one. He insisted on staying, until he saw I was going to be able to work. Jed’s a one-in-a-million guy. I got lucky the day I found him.
Larry, the cook, and Agnes, the owner, showed up, so Jed decided he could leave.
“Gotta run.” He gave me a peck and took off. He worked at Graceland, down the street, his dream job, even if it was only opening the front doors for the tour groups. He was born loving the King. He didn’t look much like Elvis, even with the pompadour and the sideburns, but he could sing a lot like him. Played guitar pretty good too. He even used to want to act, he said. After letting groups into Elvis’s mansion all day, he would come back here, eat a bite, and take me home.
When I first got to Memphis, I’d taken the Graceland tour and met him in the Jungle Room. We were both staring at the stone waterfall on the wall. He was taking the tour as part of his training. I wanted to see the place Elvis had built for himself, and where he had died so dramatically.
I was bummed that the tour didn’t include the bathroom where he died, because that would have been the highlight for me. Gruesome, I guess, but I’m always interested in how people die, especially celebrities. They die more interesting deaths than normal people, seems to me.
Jed asked if I’d have dinner with him after that tour. I kinda shrugged him off. I mean, I was new in town and didn’t give a shit about a guy I’d just met. But he leaned close and started singing, soft, “Don’t be cruel . . .” He made me laugh, and that counted for a lot right then. I didn’t know anyone in Memphis, and I needed a laugh. So I went out with him.
Anyway, in spite of the fiery pains shooting through my shoulder, my day was beginning. Larry flipped the sign to Open and people started coming in.
The day rolled on like any other, except for that damn nagging pain in my shoulder, until dinnertime. Diner was in our name, but we were a small neighborhood bar and grill, really. We got a few tourists and lots of regulars. I liked my job, even though I went home with sore feet.
That night, a couple came through the door and caught my attention. From their conversation, I knew they were going on the tour of the mansion. From the looks of their clothes and her jewelry, they’d probably gotten the Platinum Tour. I could be wrong though. Sometimes people with a ton of dough don’t like to let go of it.
They weren’t old enough to be “original” Elvis fans. That’s what Jed calls people who were alive when the King was hot shit. Okay, she wasn’t old enough. He might have been. I knew I looked younger than I was by the way the male customers always stared at me. I was smart enough that I didn’t look back—not if they were with a gal. I always gave the little ladies a big howdy with a smile
and just flicked a glance at the guys.
If you give the guy too much attention, as any female member of the waitstaff profession can tell you, the woman will make sure you get a bad tip. If you butter her up, though, you stand a better chance.
This gal wasn’t a looker. Her nose was too long and hooked. She put in a lot of effort with the makeup and hair, but hadn’t gotten herself a nose job. Thinkin’ on that, I decided they weren’t that flush.
The guy was drop-dead. I mean drop-dead. I didn’t dare give him more than two seconds for a look over. That was enough to start my heart pumpin’ overtime.
As I took their drink orders, she fluttered her overloaded eyelashes and simpered, “I just can’t decide, Eustace. You pick for me.”
I made a mental bet he’d pick a chard.
“Look, Jory, this is the same little white wine you had last week. You liked it. Remember, baby?” Bingo.
“Oh, I surely do. I’ll have that.” Her long red fingernail stabbed the cheapest chardonnay on the menu.
Eustace picked a single malt for himself.
Sure, you good-lookin’ bastard, I thought. Spend the money on yourself.
While I waited at the bar for the drinks, it occurred to me that I knew who they were. He was Eustace Rage, the famous playwright, and she was Jory Rage, formerly Jory Cay, the star in his first play. The Rabid Night had gone on to Broadway, then was a popular movie. It was supposed to be full of literary symbolism. I saw it with a theater student I dated a few years ago, in another town, another life. It was a huge money-maker, he said.
Right after I brought their drinks, a young family came in. I sat them across the room from the couple so if the baby started hollerin’, they wouldn’t pick up and leave. Our place wasn’t big enough to get too far from a squaller.
I was working my regular shift, ten to five, breakfast through early dinner. I liked that shift the best. My day got over early, but I was there for some of the dinner crowd. God knows I could use the bigger dinner tips.
Jed and I scraped by, but I wished he had the dough to get me the baubles that Jory woman wore. This was unlikely since he worked at Graceland during the day and played in an Elvis cover band at night. Not a lot of money there.
The young family ordered their meal at the same time as the drinks. I brought some crackers and a cup of ice for the baby, a cute, chubby kid, about a year old.
“Thanks so much,” gushed the baby’s mom. “Henry can get restless in restaurants.”
Business had been slow for an hour or so, but it started picking up and soon I was rushing around from kitchen to dining room with plates stacked up my good arm. I usually used both of them, but with the throbbing today, I was afraid I’d spasm and drop everything if I used my bum right arm. Eustace, that good-lookin’ sugar daddy, waved me over at the least convenient time. I had five plates on the pass-through ready to serve. I didn’t want them to get cold.
“Miss, could we move to that corner table? I’m thinking of getting up a card game.”
The big round six-top in the corner was empty, so I gave him the go-ahead. “No problem.”
The place encouraged poker games. The card players usually drank enough to pay for keeping the tables out of circulation for a few hours.
As soon as Eustace started shuffling, a young guy joined the couple. He’d been sitting with a gal I knew named Kandy. She worked at the Peabody. Kandy seemed to run through a lot of guys. She got up to join him, and I caught her on the way over.
“Who’s the latest?” I asked, curious. She was a good kid, a regular at our place, and I hoped she’d find somebody one day.
“His name is Wes.” She held her hand next to her mouth, all confidential like. “He’s from Texas. Isn’t he cute?” Her nose scrunched up with her giggle.
“Not too bad.” I hurried on to collect the tab on the table nearest the door. They looked like they were about to ditch without paying.
Kandy went over to stand behind Wes’s chair. I kept an eye on them, trying to see if the guy was a loser or not. He carried a spit cup, set it on the table next to his cards. I hate the things, but Agnes had a dad who chewed, so she never said anything about them.
Eustace did a slight double take when Kandy showed up, then turned away like she wasn’t even there. I’ll bet you money he knew her. Probably slept around on his wife. Eustace and Jory wore matching rings, so it looked like they were still married.
When Wes introduced himself and Kandy, Eustace gave them each a polite nod. Jory batted her incredible lashes at Wes, although he was way too young for her.
Baby Henry’s dad craned his neck to see what was going on across the room. When he saw the cards, he perked up and sauntered over. “Mind if I sit in?” he asked.
Eustace nodded him to a seat, and the game started.
I kept an eye on Henry’s mother. Their meal was over, and the couple had been splitting a dessert. The baby was starting to get fussy. After five or ten minutes, she picked up Henry and jiggled him on her way to the poker game.
“Aaron.” She spoke loudly. I could hear her from the kitchen door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Bea, don’t talk that way in front of Henry,” he answered. His voice was nasal, prissy.
“You promised me you were done with gambling. You haven’t played in six months. Come on back to the hotel.”
“You go ahead, angel. I’ll be there real soon. Just a couple of hands.”
Bea took Henry back to their table and chowed down the rest of the Bigga Hunka Chocolate Cake, stuffing it in with such angry jabs of her fork I was afraid she’d cut her lip.
* * *
When Jed showed up to take me home, I glanced at the card game. The three guys were intent on the cards. Aaron (whose wife and son had left ten minutes ago) had that hunched, tense look of an addict. Kandy had taken a seat next to Wes and seemed bored. I predicted this one wouldn’t last any longer than the others. Jory wasn’t playing, but fluttered around the table from guy to guy, stopping to give Aaron a brief shoulder rub.
I thought he probably needed one, the way he was holding his shoulders almost up to his ears.
When I looked more closely, I saw that Jory was giving signals to Eustace. Cheating, I’d bet anything.
“Looks like a serious game,” Jed said, helping me on with my jacket. A tortoiseshell guitar pick pinged onto the floor. He shed those things like feathers.
I whispered back, walking to the front door with him, “I almost want to stay and see what happens. I think it might be exciting.”
“Wanna have a drink at the bar?”
I kinda did, but I was dead tired from being on my feet for eight hours. “Let’s go to bed.”
He grinned that lopsided Elvis sneer he had. I liked it. “You got it.”
He held the door for me, and we walked out into the cool of the evening. As summer swung into Memphis over the next few weeks, that cool would evaporate into hot, steamy nights. Those were about a month away, so I enjoyed our drive home with the windows down while I could.
Jed gave me the usual foot rub, plus a nice shoulder massage that night, among other things, and I felt a tiny bit better.
* * *
I was off the next day, but Jed had to work. I often snuck in on a tour, because Jed would let me in free. Today I was going on a tour, but I had an extra-special plan this time. After I slept in, shopped a little—picking up some Icy Hot for my shoulder—and puttered around the apartment, I set out for Graceland. I’d try to get on the last tour of the day, so we could leave for home after that. Seeing him all in command like that, opening those big, grand double doors, turned me on.
I went to the ticket window, and Sally handed me the ticket Jed had left for me. I got my headset, although I never listened to it—I knew the tour by heart—and sauntered out to the shuttle bus, following the group that was next. Two older women were at the back of the group. They were having a contest to see who could name the most Elvis songs. I’d neve
r heard of “Smorgasbord.”
It was after I got on the bus that I noticed from my seat in the back that the tour group, about twenty people, included the whole table of card players from the night before! Including the couple with Henry. Henry’s dad, Aaron, looked like he’d kept on drinking long after I left. His wife, Bea, sat beside him, staring straight ahead, probably disgusted with him. I know I sure would be.
Kandy was still with Wes. In daylight, I realized he was older than I’d thought. Too old for her, in my opinion. Damned if he didn’t have a plastic spit cup with him.
A group of six or seven dark-haired people sat right behind them. They all had cameras around their necks, and they were chattering like grackles. I wondered if they were all related.
There were Eustace and Jory. Last night I thought he was too old for her, but I wasn’t sure now. Her makeup didn’t hide the cracks and valleys as well in sunlight.
The air sparked with tension. I wondered if Aaron and Wes had found out about Jory and Eustace cheating at poker. Well, they were all alive, at least. But why in the hell were they all on the same tour?
Kandy and Wes were sitting across from Eustace and Jory, with the guys on the aisle. They’d been talking back and forth, getting louder.
Wes leaned out toward Eustace but looked past him. “You,” he said, pointing at Jory, “you’re the bitch that fed him”—he jabbed a finger at her husband—“the cards. That’s why we both lost. You two are filthy rotten cheats.”
Eustace stood up, getting ready to answer Wes, just as the bus stopped at the entrance to Graceland to let the gates open. The bus jerked and knocked Eustace back into his seat.
“You keep your mouth shut,” he said. It would have come out better if he’d been standing since Eustace was taller than Wes. “We did no such thing.”
Aaron, a couple of rows back, paid attention to the whole thing, frowning and squinting. Maybe Wes and Aaron were after Eustace to even up the score after he’d cheated on them.
The bus stopped, and the driver called for us all to exit. Eustace and Jory stayed away from the other two couples.
Memphis Noir Page 3