She pulled into the open parking area outside the Towers and cut the engine. As she was getting out of her car “California” began to play again. “This better not be Jordan trying to weasel out,” she grumbled as she once more pulled out her phone. The Caller ID said Unknown. Still grumbling, she punched the Talk button and lifted the phone to her ear. “Yes?” she said.
“Harley, it’s me. Jordan. Listen, something has come up—”
“I don’t care if it’s your breakfast that’s come up,” she interrupted. “I’m headed to the elevators now. Which floor? Or do I just start asking if anyone knows you?”
“Never mind. I have a minute I can spare. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“If you don’t show up in the next three minutes, I’m going to start knocking on office doors.”
“I’ll be there.”
He hung up, and Harley pushed through the glass doors into the lobby. Irritation replaced any kind of restraint she might have felt. He was playing games, and she didn’t like it one damn bit. After five minutes of impatient waiting, she started toward the bank of elevators.
Fortunately for Jordan, he stepped off one elevator as the bell rang for the next one. She saw him and stood with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Sorry it took longer than I thought,” he apologized, and she gave a tight nod of her head.
“Luckily for you I only got this far. I already had the first two accounting firms staked out.”
He took her by the elbow and steered her toward the front glass windows. Their steps echoed on the slick tile floors. Very few people were around, but he seemed to want to keep their conversation from being overheard.
“Look,” he began, “I know there are some discrepancies in what I said and what Filly told you, but I can explain.”
“That would be wise. Start with the truth.”
“I haven’t lied to you. Well, maybe I stretched the truth a bit, but that was only to keep you from quitting.”
“If you want my help, you can’t do that,” Harley said irritably. “I have to know what I’m dealing with and who’s in the game. I was shot at—shot at—and have no idea why. And I don’t think your wife is behind it. In fact, I don’t think you or her are telling me the truth. The police seem to think you’re in a messy divorce and have some financial problems.”
“The police?” Jordan’s complexion turned pale, and his eyes got big. “Who got the police involved in this?”
“The people who shot at me, that’s who! What, did you think they’d just brush it off as nothing? The MPD gets a little irate when people go around shooting at others, you know. They tend to get very inquisitive when involved.”
Harley deliberately left out the part where she went to the police before she was shot at by whoever was after Jordan. It would only muddy the waters. No point in letting him know more than he needed to know about her methods.
“Damn! I didn’t want the police involved at all in this. Not until I found out for sure who’s trying to kill me.” Jordan ran a hand across his close-cropped hair and made a frustrated half circle before he turned back to look at her. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth. Which is something I recommend you do as well.”
“You told them about me?”
“As I said, they already knew about you. I had to tell them something after getting bullet holes in my car and alarming half the neighborhood. So I told them I’m helping you in a marital dispute. What did you expect?”
“I expected you to find out who’s trying to kill me, not get the MPD involved.”
“Well, suck it up, sunshine, because that didn’t happen for you. Answer me with the truth—are you married to more than one woman?”
“What? Are you crazy? Why would you ask me something like that!”
“How many times have you been married? Is there another ex-wife that might be stalking you? Why does this wife think you’re going on a second honeymoon to the Bahamas, and you think she’s trying to kill you? Pretty big discrepancy there. And how do you manage the cell phone trick of switching them and still calling me from the same number? Is your roommate a thug? Just what the hell is going on? I can’t help you if you aren’t straight with me, and right now I don’t feel like helping you at all. I’m this far from quitting.” She held up one hand with her thumb and index finger barely apart. “You better have some answers that make sense, too.”
Jordan blew out a puff of air. “I’ve only been married once, and I’m still married to Filly. But I do, uh, have a friend that I see occasionally.”
“Of the female persuasion?”
“Of course! Damn, girl, I told you I’m not gay. Why do you keep asking?”
“You don’t want to hear my answer to that, and it has nothing to do with gender. So why think Filly is trying to kill you? Because she knows about the other woman?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think she knows anything about her.”
“Think again, sport. She suspects something. Tell me about this girlfriend. Does she expect you to leave your wife? Is she the reason you filed for divorce? And we need to talk about your financial problems if I’m expected to help. Who do you owe money to that might be after you for repayment?”
Jordan glanced over his shoulder then took a step closer to Harley. “Look, I can’t talk about that right now. Not here. Can we meet later?”
“Can’t talk about what? The girlfriend or the loan sharks?”
He shook his head. “Neither one right now. Can you wait to talk?”
“I’ll wait until eight o’clock tonight. If I don’t hear from you and we don’t get together for our discussion of what’s going on, I’m totally done. Got that?”
“Yes, you’ve made it pretty clear. I’ll call you around six if that’s okay.”
“Good. I should be done with my tour group by then, too.”
Jordan paused and looked at her. “Where are you taking them? Beale Street? Or Graceland?”
“Both. Graceland first. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious as to how you manage your job and investigating at the same time.”
“Obviously not as well as I should, or I wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation with you. Six. Don’t be late, or I will change my mind and forget the whole thing altogether.”
“You’re a hard woman.”
“You have no idea. Six.”
“Yes, yes, I heard you.”
“I’m just sayin’ . . .”
Harley mentally replayed their brief conversation on her way to the Memphis Tour Tyme offices. She hadn’t really learned a blamed thing. Jordan denied but didn’t confirm. Except for the girlfriend. That wasn’t exactly a revelation, but it did throw more suspicion around. The way she figured it, he was hiding more than just the girlfriend. He might be in over his head with some loan sharks. He hadn’t denied that accusation. That made her think she was on to something. He obviously kept bad company, to judge by his roomie. He worked in an accounting firm. Had he been “borrowing” from the firm? A client? There could be any number of things he’d gotten mixed up in. None of them good.
Tootsie looked up when she walked in the office. He pursed his lips at her. “Well, there you are.”
“Yep. Here I am. Did you miss me?”
“Just like a boil on my butt. What’s this I hear about you causing trouble?”
“Me? Cause trouble? Why would you think that?”
Tootsie propped one elbow on his desk top and stuck his chin into his palm. He’d painted his long fingernails a bright blue that matched his silk shirt. “I talked to the devastatingly handsome Lieutenant Baroni.”
“Oh. Bobby talks too much. Don’t believe everything he says.”
“He’s a cop, Harley. Why would he lie?”
“They lie all the time. It’s part of their job. Let’s call it an exaggeration, then.”
“You don’t even know what he said.”
Harley waved her arms in the air, disl
odging her purse/backpack, and it fell to the cheap tile floor with a loud thunk. “I don’t have to know! Bobby just tries to control my life, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“My, my, aren’t we defensive today. So, you weren’t shot at by thugs in a black Mercedes?”
“Well . . . yes. But it wasn’t my fault.”
Tootsie sighed and shook his head. “I know. I’m sorry I ever introduced you to Jordan or let him talk me into this mad scheme. It’s not working out well. It was supposed to be a simple check on if his wife is trying to kill him. Now you’re being shot at. So you’re right. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
“See? I told you it wasn’t my fault. But I’m not going to say it’s yours, either. I took the job, and Jordan has lied to both of us.”
“I never thought he’d do something like this. He seemed so . . . so normal until all this happened.”
“Define normal.”
“Ah. I forgot who I was talking to for a moment. You’ve never been normal. You grew up in communes, and your mother is a psychic. You’re the antithesis of normal.”
“Thank you. And your life . . .?”
Tootsie laughed. “Touché.”
“Touché to you, too. So what have I got, where do I pick them up, and when do I get rid of them?”
While reaching for a print-out, Tootsie said, “It’s heartwarming the way you’re so dedicated to your job.”
“Isn’t it? I have an appointment at six, so I need to be done by then.”
“Uh oh. With Jordan?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Why the uh oh? Is this one of those groups that has to be dragged off Beale Street at two in the morning? Tell me it isn’t so. I hate driving drunks, and I’m out of Mace.”
“Life is full of unpleasant moments. Stop at Big Lots. I think they sell Mace.”
Harley snatched the print-out from him, read it, and groaned. “No, no, no! It’s a group of out-of-town business gropies.”
“You mean groupies?”
“No, I mean gropies, as in when they get drunk they start to grope the tour bus driver. Then I have to Mace them. They never react well to that, and The Ogre gets irritated when paying passengers complain. It’s generally unpleasant.”
“Use your magical powers of persuasion. I’ll handle Mr. Penney.”
“My magical powers of persuasion are on the fritz, or I’d already be done with the entire Jordan Cleveland thing. Damn. Sure you don’t want to switch? I’ll do the office work, and you take the tour. Then there’ll be no need to handle The Ogre. Or groping.”
“I’m sure. You and computers are not user friendly. And don’t be too sure there would be no groping. I clean up pretty well, you know.”
“You could wear your Liza Minnelli gown. Maybe even a tiara. Think of the fun you’d have teasing drunk businessmen.”
“Not only would I be way over-dressed, drunk businessmen and fun don’t belong in the same sentence. Good-bye, Harley. Drive carefully.”
Glumly, she picked up her backpack and headed for the office door. As she reached for the knob, the door swung open, and she stepped back. Lester Penney entered and looked surprised to see her.
“Oh. Miss Davidson. Uh . . . how are you?”
“Fine, just fine. On my way to pick up a group at the Hilton off Poplar.”
“Graceland?”
She nodded. “The entire Memphis Experience. Barbecue, music, and Elvis.”
“I understand you’re responsible for booking a large group from England for this coming week.”
That was a loaded comment. Should she take credit—or the blame? What the hell, she decided. Might as well be truthful and let the chips fall where they may.
“I did. The day the tornado knocked down power lines. I worried that the fax didn’t get to them in time.”
Mr. Penney nodded. “It got there, and they’ve booked for a tour. Good job.”
Harley nearly fell over. She couldn’t remember him ever saying anything to her that remotely resembled praise. Usually, he fretted that her exploits affected business, not that she’d actually done something good. It was a little scary.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, and when he walked down the hall toward his corner office, she glanced over at Tootsie. He pursed his lips and waggled his fingers at her. She rolled her eyes and left.
By the time she got through making sure the van was clean and full of fuel, it was time to pick up her group. She headed down Poplar toward the Hilton. The noon sun lit it up like a torch, reflecting off windows that covered the cylindrical building. It was off Poplar on Ridgelake Road, overlooking trees and office buildings on the southeast, and northwest of the interstate that curled toward downtown and the Mississippi River. A straight shot down Poplar took them to all the tourist attractions like Beale Street, Mud Island Park and Museum, the Pinch District with its unique old bars and atmosphere, and The Peabody, billed as “The South’s Grand Hotel.” The attraction of The Peabody was its five-star restaurant, elegant lobby bar, rooftop Sunset Serenades, and the live ducks in the lobby fountain.
The moment Harley saw the businessmen, she knew they wouldn’t be interested in The Peabody ducks or the Mud Island Park. It was obvious they’d already had a few drinks. One of the men, a balding six-footer in a loud shirt and Weejuns with no socks, seemed especially lively. He was the one she’d have to watch closest, she figured. If he got too rowdy, she’d first try to joke him out of it, and if that didn’t work, she’d shock him with a few sharp words. Or a Taser. That would work. She wished she had one.
“First stop, Graceland,” she said after she’d counted heads and checked off names, and the eight men were in the van and seated. “All of you seat-belted?”
“What,” said the six-footer she’d picked out as already having too much alcohol, “are you a traffic cop?”
“Worse,” replied Harley. “I’m the tour driver. This van doesn’t move until you’re all seat-belted.” She gave the guy a big smile and leaned back in the driver’s seat.
One of the other men said, “Aw, come on, Harve, and stop giving her a hard time. Put on the seat belt.”
Harve complied after a long enough pause to show her his reluctance, but Harley didn’t care. As long as he understood the rules. It was her job to make sure passengers were safe and had a good time. She started the van and pulled out from under the covered entrance. The itinerary the group had requested showed a stop at Graceland first, then downtown at the Rendezvous for world-famous Memphis barbecue, and ending up on Beale Street. It was going to be a long, long day.
“Can’t come to Memphis without seeing Graceland,” she heard one of the men say. “I promised my wife I’d bring her something from one of the gift shops.”
Harley rolled her eyes. Great. A tour of the tourist shops as well. Definitely going to be a long day. Somewhere in there she had to fit in Jordan at six, but she wasn’t sure how she was going to manage. He’d have to meet her downtown.
As she hit the interstate headed for Whitehaven and Graceland, Harley began her familiar spiel about Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, and Carl Perkins. It was a script Tootsie had written to inform tourists of all the places the famous singers had visited on their journeys to fame and fortune. When she reached the intersection of Brooks Road and I-40, she pointed to a two-story building on the southwest side.
“Hernando’s Hideaway was once a fixture in the music scene, a roadhouse where late-night revelers gathered after hours to drink and dance and listen to music. At one time or another many famous recording artists showed up to play music and mingle with the crowd. Jerry Lee Lewis was a regular visitor, and it was one of his favorite haunts. There was a private room upstairs away from the crowds for them to retreat.”
“It looks deserted now,” remarked one of the group as he craned his neck to look at the two-story white brick building set behind an RV and car lot. “Is it out of business?”
“It closed in 2006. The Hideaway hosted a lot of great bands a
nd singers for over fifty years. Elvis did a song titled “Hernando’s Hideaway” on one of his albums. Not long after he died, the Whitehaven area changed forever.” She didn’t add that souvenir and tourist shops sprang up practically overnight, dotting the landscape around the formerly quiet Graceland neighborhood of nice homes and driving up commercial value while the increase of tourists decreased the residential value.
“Looks kinda shabby around here,” Harve spoke up. “Is it safe?”
“This area is in flux, and the Memphis police do a great job of patrolling,” Harley replied, although she silently agreed with him that the area did look shabby. The demographics had changed over the years. Businesses had abandoned Highway 51, now called Elvis Presley Boulevard, leaving behind bare, weeded lots and rubble, and a new kind of business replaced them. Fast food places, a couple banks, and car lots lined parts of the six-lane street. The closer they got to Graceland, the more souvenir and tourist shops did business. Sometimes tents were erected, and impersonators sang Elvis tunes. It had a carnival atmosphere during Elvis Week.
It got a lot more crowded with cars and people as they approached the area where the Lisa Marie was parked in a lot across the street from the house. Elvis’s former plane called Hound Dog II perched in its own spot nearby. Just south were places to eat and the shops for souvenirs. Harley parked in the lot behind the airplanes, using the area for tour buses and vans.
After unfastening her seat belt, she turned to the businessmen. “The full tour takes about an hour and a half, depending on how long you linger. There’s no set time for it as the van taking you across the street from the ticket area runs every fifteen minutes, more during the height of the tourist season. I’ll be here waiting for you when you’re through. I have a pager to notify me that you’re ready to leave.”
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