by P. F. Kluge
They set up a table inside the compound and a meeting started. It looked bad at first. On one side, you had a suit from Japan and some dress shirts from Saipan and Malou, who was supposed to keep the Filipinos in line, I guessed. Across from them was mainly Lucy Number Three and a couple guys I didn’t know but they looked like every other contract worker I’d ever seen, standing around and waiting for instructions.
The Japanese guy, Mr. Kaneshiro of the Nineteenth Hole Corporation, wanted his project back on track, “and not held hostage by unhappy bar girls.” The consul apologized for hotheads, the commonwealth guy granted that it was wonderful, how Filipinos were able to better their own lives while contributing to the progress of America’s newest commonwealth. And Malou pooh-poohed these “unsubstantiated complaints.” Sure, she allowed there might be problems here and there but they were hard to avoid when you brought so many people—all levels of skill, education, sophistication—to a strange place. I loved the way she said “sophistication.” Like she owned the word. I couldn’t blame Biggest Elvis for falling for her. “Anomalies are inevitable,” she said. Then she glanced at Lucy Number Three as if to say, your move, lady, knowing it wouldn’t amount to much. Whores complaining about customers. …
Then it was Lucy Number Three’s turn and, right away, I could see I’d had her wrong. Maybe not in Olongapo: she was what she was. But she was different here. She had her stuff together, in order, names and dates to go with complaints, one after the other, and people standing by who were willing to back her up, story after story. I was watching the Japanese, Kaneshiro. He’d started out ticked off at Lucy Number Three. But then he started giving Malou these long hard looks.
“All talk,” Malou said. “They say this and that. No evidence.”
Lucy got up. Still a barmaid in a T-shirt that any red-blooded American boy would pay a hefty sum to peek underneath. But more. Plenty more than that.
She brought out a big brown envelope and dumped out a pile of papers, mostly file cards, right in front of the Japanese. “From Shipshape. Evidence. Recruiting record. Loan agreement. Altered contracts. Double billing. …” Malou froze. She’d been a careful recordkeeper for Baby Ronquillo, going back to Graceland. But she should have kept these payments off the books. Kaneshiro reached over and picked a card at random. Whitney’s card. It showed rake-offs, salary reductions and all. It showed Whitney coming to complain. And nothing happening.
“Evidence,” Lucy Number Three said. “Some people do bad things.” Now she looked at Malou, one tough woman to another, the sort of look that no man should get between. Stare-down time, I figured. Then Lucy Number Three gives Malou this smile. “And what you see,” she said, “is the result.”
Well, that was about enough. I decided to get involved. I ambled over to the table. The Graceland girls nodded at me. Malou too, for that matter, I always liked Malou and I never gave her cause not to return the feeling.
“Baby Elvis, what are you doing here?” she asked, but nicely. “This is a business meeting.”
“Hi, Mr. Kaneshiro,” I said. “It took a minute but now I recognize your name.”
“You are …” The Japanese was having a bad enough day already. Dealing with someone nicknamed Baby Elvis didn’t make it any better.
“Chester Lane. Me and my brother Albert …” Say no more. He caught on instantly, jumped to his feet. But the others were in the dark.
“I said to myself, I said, geez, Nineteenth Hole Corporation, damn if that doesn’t sound familiar. I was saying that to my wife. She’s the one who keeps track of the estate. So I say, don’t we own a piece of that? Me and Albert? Thanks to Uncle Pete? and Christina says, well yes. Actually, more than half. Nice to meet you sir, anyway.”
Kaneshiro was up and shaking hands and expressing regrets and inviting me to lunch at the hotel.
“I think we should settle this,” I say. “Settle our problems and see that the other problems get settled too.” He nodded at me. Yes sir. Amen. Right on. “For old times’ sake,” I said, “and just to show we aren’t just in this for ourselves …,” I looked at Lucy Number Three, “start with the barmaids.”
Whitney Matoc
I’m reading Misery by Mr. Stephen King when Biggest Elvis wakes up. He makes groaning noise and feels for his bandages. Then he moves his tongue to where two-three teeth are not present anymore. They are absent.
“Good afternoon, Biggest Elvis,” I say.
“What happened?”
“Is something. Everybody is going to make fight and then you are starting to sing and then everybody is throwing cans and bottles at you and you keep singing.”
“I know that part, Whitney. After that, I mean.”
“Baby Elvis and Dude Elvis come in truck. People go away. Plenty blood for one night, courtesy of you. Now they make meeting today. Settle up. Tonight, Baby Elvis say, tonight you leave.”
“I leave?”
“On boat. Dude and Baby Elvis go too. And they are saying, anybody else who is wanting to go.”
“Do you want to go?”
I cannot answer.
“Do you want to go with me?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “Okay.”
“As … what? I’m older than you.”
“Yes,” I say. And I want to tell him all the times I go with guys I never move. Never. Worst lay in Olongapo, worst here. Always. But I don’t say this. “You are beat up, not just only old. And I am beat up too.”
“So what’ll it be, Whitney?”
“We’ll see,” I say. “Work it out. Like you say at Graceland. Every night you say it, at closing time. ‘Evening still is young.’”
Albert “Dude” Lane
We’d put out the word that anybody who wanted to leave the island could go with us to Guam. We were leaving at dusk, because the weather was fine and the moon was full and, well, that’s just the way we wanted to go. Sail away, sail away. Like that. Chester and I brought Biggest Elvis down from the hospital. He looked like one of those animals that gets hit by a train in a cartoon, winding up all bruises, bandages, stitches, and crutches. We put him in the captain’s chair that Chester never sits in, he’s moving around too much to relax. Biggest Elvis wouldn’t be moving too much for a while. Christina piled pillows all around him. If Biggest Elvis were a fruit, you’d say, way past ripe. Whitney came along too and, after a while, the original material girl, Elvira, came walking down the dock, like she was walking down a ramp at a fashion show. Biggest Elvis catches me looking at Elvira.
“It was real dumb, what you did last night,” I say. “Tacky. Sort of thing you want to say, can we put this to music? Only you were already singing. Till they took your teeth out.”
“You take your chances.”
“Lot of heart,” I said. Not so loud and not so clear, because I was looking down when I said it. Not enunciating, not projecting. Like they say.
“What?”
“You heard me. What you did last night. A lot of heart. Low on brains. …”
The way he looked at me, the way he studied me, you’d think he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“I have a question for you, though,” I said. “I saw you last night, getting hit by beer cans and rocks and singing, and I said to myself, that’s the ending I’ve been needing for my Elvis screenplay. That thing I half-wrote. That’s it. But what I need to know is, how to play it. If that’s the ending, is it happy or is it sad? I mean—not to dance around the point, old-timer—how did it feel, getting buried under a pile of rocks and beer cans?”
“The empties are nothing. Bat them away like butterflies. It’s the full ones. Those hurt. And the rocks, of course.”
“You know what I’m asking, coach.”
“Yeah.” He pointed at his head, where they’d shaved away a bunch of hair to sew up his scalp. “That one Budweiser came from inside the fence, I’m pretty sure. The Filipino side.”
“Music lovers,” I said. He laughed again, though it pained him. I’ll give him that
. He could laugh at it all, Elvis, Biggest Elvis, the whole bit. But he still believed too, or part of him did, so that—knowing better—he’d put his ass on the line in the middle of nowhere in a fight that couldn’t be won. That’s the trick. To do better than you know. Or to do good, when you know better. Something like that. In the screenplay, I’ll get it right. But he still was ducking me. “How did it feel? How do I write it and play it? If I take it a couple beats further and no one comes to the rescue …”
“Well,” he said. “It hurt. That’s for sure. Not being able to see what was coming. Where it would hit. I won’t kid you. It hurt me. And I was scared.”
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“No,” he said. “No, it isn’t. Though you could leave it like that.”
“I want the rest. …”
“Listen, Dude.” He stopped, swallowed hard. He’d told me to listen but now that I was waiting, he turned mute.
“So?” I pressed.
“All right.”
“It felt all right?”
“All right, I’ll tell you,” Biggest Elvis said. He tried to smile. “It was godlike.”
I figured we’d have a whole boatload of refugees, a regular exodus, a boatload of slaves, sailing into the sunset. Well, I’ve got news. It doesn’t work that way. Our Filipinas, mostly they were staying. Some, maybe, hopped a plane as soon as they got their back pay and refunds and tickets out. But a lot, including a lot who were inside the compound, decided to stay. Some of them came down to the boat to explain. Including some we knew.
“I come so far already,” Lucy Number Three said. “I will be getting respect around here.”
“We are going to make business here,” Priscilla said. I didn’t press for details. Sometimes, it’s better not to know. Maybe they were opening a bookstore.
“Thanking you for the nice boat ride,” Lucy Number Three said. “But no going back for me.”
“You know what they say about us,” Priscilla said. Actually, I knew a lot of things they said. Including some about Priscilla. But it was her choice. “We never stop trying.”
Now, get this. We’re ready to leave and lots of people come down to see us off, damn near every overseas contract worker on the island and some local folk besides. I had a little to do with that. I posed for pictures. I signed autographs. I mugged some Elvis poses, promised to be back to visit the island in better times, at fiesta, when I’d see what the place was really like, or when they opened the golf course. They weren’t bad people, they insisted, and I believed them. Hell yes. We’d do a celebrity golf tournament when the time comes. They wanted Sonny Bono and Frank Gifford and Heather Locklear. I just told them to make a list and send it along.
The Filipinos were there for Biggest Elvis. The story of his last concert was already turning into legend, embellished by people who weren’t even there. Christina led him to the railing, so that they could wave to him and he could return the wave, though weakly, like an aging pope. There were rumors all over the island, he’d died during the night. Next thing, they’d be saying he died and got buried at sea, between here and Guam. Or that he died and returned to Olongapo. Things like that. Biggest Elvis didn’t say anything to them. We didn’t know it yet, but it turned out his jaw had to be wired on Guam. It was all he could do to stand there and give them his blessing, the way he always used to close the show. Then he got a little shaky and Christina led him down below, so he could sleep. Too bad he couldn’t stay up a little longer. Right after he went down the steps, the red pickup truck pulled up and Malou got out.
Now, I’d think—most people would—that the Filipino workers would move away from her, like she was poison. That was how I’d direct the scene. Hard, righteous stares. Ostracism kind of thing. The woman without a country. And the boat would sail off, loaded with people we rescued, and we’d see her standing on the shore alone. Bullshit. The Filipinos talked to her, smiled, bantered, like sure she was the villain last night, but that particular play was over and this was the cast party.
“Good afternoon,” she said to me.
“Hi, Malou.”
“Elvira and Whitney. … Anybody else from the Philippines on board?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re sure?” She looked up and down the deck. I sensed she was waiting to be asked aboard. No way. Then she handed me some envelope she said had passports and back money for Elvira and Whitney. They had come up behind me, so I handed the envelopes right over. They didn’t say thank you.
“Biggest Elvis goes with you?” Malou asked. I nodded. “He’s already on board.” Another nod. “Do you think I could—”
“Not a good idea,” Whitney said. “He was hurt bad. Now, Biggest Elvis sleeps.”
“Oh …” She kind of bit her tongue and skipped a beat, it seemed to me. She wanted a meeting, I guess, and now it registered that it wasn’t in the cards and their last meeting was something that had happened a while ago, only they didn’t know it at the time. That can give you pause, losing out like that.
“Whitney,” she said. “Tell Biggest Elvis Malou said good-bye … and thank you … and … sorry.” Now she honest-to-God looked like crying and that right away pissed her off. “I feel like a baby, here. …”
“Anything else?” Whitney asked.
“Tell him … no hard feelings.”
Jimmy Fiddler
“Can I come out now?” I asked Elvira.
“Not yet,” she said. “Truck is still on the dock.” I was down below, listening to Biggest Elvis breathe and groan and fart.
“You noticed how she wanted to come aboard,” Elvira said.
“I’ll bet she did.”
“She nearly cries, when Whitney says Biggest Elvis sleeps. See, Daga, she missed you already. She is crying for you.”
“She misses and cries about those file cards and contracts I stole for you.”
“You wait until we’re out of the harbor,” Elvira said, closing the door, so that I’m back in darkness, Biggest Elvis lying in state. After a while, the engines started. We were moving.
“I heard what you said,” Biggest Elvis said. I about jumped out of my skin. His speech was kind of garbled, I had to lean forward to catch it. “You don’t have to tell me … but why did you do it?”
“Damn straight, I don’t have to tell you shit,” I said. Now that I’d cleared that right up, I talked some more. “I didn’t like what was happening on that place. Olongapo was rough, but there were rules. This island was different. Sure, it was whores. But I can still tell the difference between fair and unfair. I was in Darling’s the night that Dolly freaked and I always kind of liked Dolly. The way she kidded me. And I saw those Graceland girls getting stripped and fucked over. I mean, well … shit …”
“You and Malou?”
“I really wanted her. Could I use the word … crush?… would you laugh at me? First time I saw her, which was like the first time you saw her, same place, all composed and … together … sitting next to the jukebox … I wanted to know her. It’s funny. All those acres of snatch around and you want the one you can’t have. And then, you had her. But not for long, buddy. Not for long. …”
“What were you here? To her?”
“Employee. Just like with Baby Ronquillo. There was a time I had a shot at Baby years ago. And missed. I helped her out a time or two in the early going. You see where that got me. So far … only so far.”
“And Malou was the same.”
“Ditto. It didn’t happen. You think you’re in charge, with these girls. Then you learn otherwise.”
I heard Biggest Elvis give out a deep sigh. I waited awhile, maybe he was back sleeping. That was okay. I didn’t have to say it aloud. He didn’t know Malou like I did. He hadn’t seen the way that woman worked. She wasn’t Baby Ronquillo all over again. Baby always came home to the PI. Part of her belonged to Olongapo, no matter what. Not Malou. That woman was outward bound. Before the Graceland girls organized their strike. I would have guessed she’d
be taking the whole operation over in a year, edging Baby out. Already, she’d learned Japanese. She’d have run rings around Baby, in time. She’d kept her records a little too careful and she’d put them where I could borrow them, but that was a temporary setback.
There was something else I could have said, if I wanted to give a compliment to the local hero. Being with Biggest Elvis was as close as Malou got to being human. Near miss. He was just unlucky. She’d had one American before. And she’d have more. He was just out of order. He was her second American. If he’d been the first or third: different story. That’s all. Even now, if he’d said, okay darling, meet you a year from now on the Golden Gate Bridge, that might have worked. She’d have made it. She’d make it yet. Biggest Elvis was the one I wasn’t so sure about.
The door opened, the air rushed in, Elvira motioned me up, like letting a puppy out of a cellar. She liked bossing me around. I keep getting into situations, with women like that. I’m Alan Alda in a Freddy Krueger body.
Ward Wiggins
An hour or so out of Apra Harbor, Whitney and Christina came down to wake me.
“Come on, Biggest Elvis,” Whitney whispered. I liked the sound of Whitney whispering.
“I don’t know if I can make it up the—”
“We’ll help you,” Christina said. So they walked me over to the steps. Then Christina took my hand and pulled me upward, while Whitney stayed behind, giggling, pushing me up, hands on my ass. “I give boost,” she said.