Elvis Has Not Left the Building, Page 2

  It was hotel stationery from the Embassy Suites here in Los Angeles. Just two words were written across the middle of it in small, neat cursive: Happy Birthday.

  I stared at the letter for some time, my mind running through a possible list of stalking candidates, and came up with nothing. Finally, I opened the plastic case and put the watch on—and kinda liked it. It would go well with my already sizable collection of Elvis memorabilia. I’m a nerd like that.

  My cover was blown, that much was for sure. By whom I did not know, and how long before Access Hollywood came knocking at my door, I didn’t know, either.

  Numb and sick to my stomach, I pushed away from the table and went over and sat at my desk in the far corner of the living room. I found a plain manila case folder and wrote “Stalker” on the tab. There, now it was official. I had me a stalker. I slipped the note inside, along with the padded envelope, and filed the whole thing away in my dilapidated filing cabinet that I had gotten for free from a retired doctor.

  In my bathroom, from the medicine cabinet, I found my little bottle of pick-me-up pills. Vicodin. My preferred drug of the day. I tapped out three fat pills, poured myself a cup of sink water and knocked them back one at a time like a whooping crane downing sardines.

  In the kitchen, from a cupboard above the sink, I found my not-so-hidden bottle of Jack Daniels. I unscrewed the cap and drank it straight, and I kept on drinking until I finally felt better.

  Chapter Four

  We were at a Starbucks in Silver Lake, which is a hilly district east of Hollywood. Yes, there was even a lake here. Granted, it was a reservoir surrounded by an eight-foot high chain-linked fence topped with barbed wire, but, hey, that’s L.A. for you.

  I was eating a $1.60 old-fashioned chocolate donut that tasted remarkably like a .60 cent old-fashioned chocolate donut. Across from me, drinking a mocha something-or-other, was an old friend. A very trusted old friend. Clarke McGuire was a defense attorney here in L.A. Five years ago, Clarke hired me to help clear one of his clients of murder. The case started simple, but ended bad. Very bad. Someone had ended up dead, and Clarke and I had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly we had a body to dump. And so we did, together, in the desert, in a grave we dug together. Call it a bonding experience. Now we shared a secret that we would take to our own graves, and since we were sharing secrets, I had let him in on a big one of my own.

  Now Clarke McGuire, defense attorney, with his perfectly bald head and too big hands, was one of only three people on Earth who knew that Elvis Presley was living in obscurity in L.A. and working secretly as a private investigator.

  Unless you counted the stalker.

  Without looking up from his newspaper, Clarke said, “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  “Is that why you splurged for the donut?” I asked.

  “That, and because you’re broke again.”

  “Well, you’re a day late,” I said. “My birthday was yesterday.”

  “I’m a day late, and you’re a dollar short.”

  “Oh, brother,” I said.

  Clarke chuckled to himself, turned the page, snapped the paper taut.

  Starbucks was filled nearly to capacity. We sat alone in a corner, near the front entrance, at the only rectangular table the place offered, a table which was designated for the handicapped. I knew this because a little yellow wheelchair was routed into the wooden surface. I wasn’t handicapped, and neither was Clarke. By all rights, this was an illegal coffee affair.

  “We’re sitting at the handicap table,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “Neither of us is handicapped,” I said, “unless we count your baldness.”

  “Baldness isn’t a handicap.”

  “Should be.”

  He shook his head. His bald head, that is. “I tried calling you yesterday,” he said. “Your phone was off. Wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

  “I hate my birthday.”

  “I know.”

  I was quiet. Clarke was reading the L.A. Times, or at least pretending to. More often than not, I caught him watching me. Clarke was a good friend, my only friend, but he was also infatuated with me. Sometimes I wished I had never divulged my secret to him. Surprise, it turned out he was quite the Elvis fan. Lucky me.

  “She was on TV yesterday,” I said. “Oprah.”

  Clarke nodded; he knew who she was. “How’d she look?”

  “Beautiful,” I said. “And sad. Always sad.”

  I was tracing the engraving of the wheelchair with my finger, listening to the chatter of orders at the nearby counter, everyone speaking a secret Starbucks language, meaningless to the uninitiated. I was suddenly wishing my drink had something stronger in it than just a shot or two of espresso.

  “I’d do anything to see her again, Clarke.”

  “I know.”

  “Just one minute. One hug.”

  “Dead men don’t give hugs.”

  “Thank you, Davy Jones.”

  He chuckled and turned back to his paper. We were silent some more. Starbucks was alive and well and running on caffeine. A few minutes later, without looking up, Clarke said, “I have a job for you if you’re interested. Missing person case.”

  Working was good for me. It kept me sane. Kept my thoughts in check, my mind in check. It was damn easy for my life to spiral out of control if I let it. Working hard and helping others kept me grounded, alive. It also put food on my table.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “Missing female. Twenty-two, an actress. Missing now for three days.”

  “Haven’t heard about it.”

  “And you won’t. The mother wants to keep this quiet, if possible. Her daughter has a movie coming out this fall, and the mother doesn’t want the bad publicity.”

  “Nice to see her priorities are in order.”

  Clarke shrugged. “Not my business,” he said. “Ideally the girl is found safe and sound and the public is none the wiser.”

  “Except the public might have leads to her whereabouts.”

  “What can I say,” he said. “I’m just their attorney.”

  “Fine,” I said, “What does the LAPD have so far?”

  “So far nothing, which is why the mother is hiring every available PI she can find.”

  “Even old ones?” I asked.

  “Even old ones,” said Clarke. “I told her that you’re the best in the business at finding the missing, that, in fact, it’s your specialty.”

  I finished the last of the donut. “Sometimes they’re found dead, Clarke,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I left that part out.”

  Chapter Five

  She was an Elvis Presley fan and she was dying.

  I knew this because the L.A. Times did a write up on her in the Community section of the paper. I had been flipping through the paper after Clarke left Starbucks. It’s hard to miss a color photo of a little girl with an Elvis wig and sideburns and dressed in rhinestones and wearing my aviator glasses. Well, hard to miss for me, at least. I stopped turning the pages and read the article. She was in the final stages of leukemia, and her prognosis was not good. Although not stated directly, the impression I got from the article was that she should have been dead months ago. Miraculously, she hung on, and on the days when she was feeling better, she would entertain the other kids with her Elvis impersonation. Apparently, she was pretty good. Most striking was that she was a foster child, having spent her life predominately in the California foster program, having never found a home. She was only seven and my heart broke for her.

  Which was why, an hour or two later, I found myself in the Good Samaritan Hospital in Los Angeles, making my way down an empty, carpeted corridor with flowers in hand. Flowers and a special gift. I was in the pediatrics oncology wing, where they treated children with cancer.

  I approached the nurse’s desk, manned by two nurses. One of them looked up at me and smiled.

  “How can I help you?”
<
br />   “I’m here to see Beth Ann Morgan.”

  She smiled warmly. “Ah, our little Elvis. She’s been getting a lot of attention with that article. Lots of flowers and cards.” She pointed to a nearby room. The door was open and from within I could see an abundance of flowers and bobbing helium balloons. “But no one has come to see her personally.”

  I nodded, unsure of what to say, and so I spoke from my heart. “I was touched by her story.”

  The nurse studied me, nodding. “We all are. She’s very special to us.” She studied me some more. “Obviously you are not family.”

  Left unsaid was that I was obviously not family since Beth Ann Morgan had no family. I shook my head. “No, ma’am, but I would really like to see her.”

  She continued looking at me. “She’s very sick. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I would still like to see her.”

  Now we had gotten the attention of the other nurse, and both of them were looking at me. The second nurse said, “Well, see if she wants any visitors. It couldn’t hurt.”

  The first nurse nodded and stood. “Okay, but one of us will be with you at all times.”

  “I understand.”

  “Who should I say you are?”

  “Just tell her I’m a fellow Elvis fan.”

  She grinned. “Aren’t we all.”

  She disappeared into the nearby room, and a moment later she came back. “Okay, Beth Ann will see you.”

  Chapter Six

  The figure on the bed was tiny, wasting away.

  Beth Ann was still wearing her Elvis wig and sideburns, although the left sideburn currently sat askew on her face. She was wearing a rhinestone jacket. It was something cheap, probably from a Halloween shop. Her plastic Elvis aviator glasses were sitting on the swing-out table next to her. As I stepped into the room, I found her sitting up in bed, although I sensed she had recently been asleep. Still, she smiled brightly at me, and there was no indication in her smile—or in her sweet face—that she was very near death.

  The nurse sat in a chair behind me and allowed me to approach the little girl, and I did so, stopping at the foot of her bed. Her feet projected up through the thin fabric of the hospital comforter about halfway down the bed. She was a tiny little girl; no doubt getting tinier each day, wasting away.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Beth Ann.”

  “That’s a pretty name. My name’s Aaron.”

  Her eyes widened briefly. Lord, she looked ridiculous in her Elvis wig and sideburns. Ridiculous and damned cute. I wanted to hug her. I also realized that she was, no doubt, bald beneath her wig.

  “Elvis’s middle name was Aaron,” she said.

  “Oh, really?” I said. “You know a lot about Elvis, huh?”

  “I know everything about Elvis! I love him!”

  “Do you know when he was born?” I asked.

  “January eighth, nineteen thirty-five.”

  “And when he died?”

  “August sixteenth, nineteen seventy-seven.”

  “Wow, you do know a lot about Elvis.”

  “I told you.”

  “Yup, you sure did. I believe you now.”

  “I’m an expert.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “So why do you like Elvis so much?”

  Her face lit up. “He’s so cute.”

  “Cute?” I said. “You’re too young to think he’s cute.”

  “No. He’s cute no matter how old you are.”

  It was hard for me to argue with that logic. “What else do you like about Elvis?”

  “He was the best singer ever. But I don’t just like him. I love him.”

  “Excuse me. I stand corrected.”

  “But I also love him because he is my friend.”

  “Your friend?” I said.

  “I mean, I know he’s not my real friend, but sometimes when I look at his pictures or watch his movies, or listen to his music, I think he is talking to me, or singing to me, or looking at me, and he makes me so happy because I don’t feel so alone.”

  I almost lost it right there. Tears sprung to eyes, but somehow I kept it together. I said, “I’m sorry you feel so alone, sweetheart.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  I looked over at the nurse sitting behind us. The woman, obviously exhausted, had her eyes closed and seemed to be dozing, but I doubted it. She was sneaking in a break, true, but I suspected she was also listening to every word, as well.

  “So what’s your last name, Aaron?” the little girl asked, sitting up some more.

  “King,” I said.

  “Serious?”

  “Serious,” I said.

  “But Elvis was known as the King.”

  “Perhaps it’s just a lucky coincidence,” I said.

  She studied me, pursing her lips slightly. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Seventy-four.”

  She started counting rapidly on her fingers, and when she was finished, she looked completely confused. “Elvis would have been seventy-four, too.”

  “Wow, now that is a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “What does coincidence mean? You keep saying it.”

  “It means that life can be very interesting sometimes.”

  She shrugged, but seemed to like my answer, and smiled brightly. Her smile broke my heart because, really, she had nothing to smile about. Nothing but Elvis.

  “I brought you some flowers,” I said.

  “I like flowers!”

  I noted that she only liked flowers, but she loved Elvis. I held out the flat box. “I also got you this.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll have to open it and see.” The moment the words came out of my mouth I realized my mistake. She didn’t have the strength to open the box, much less hold onto it. “But maybe I can open it for you,” I added.

  “Sure!”

  And so I did, setting the box down on the foot of her hospital bed and untying the red ribbon. As I pulled the lid off the box, Beth Ann sat forward in bed, trying to peer into the box. I next lifted out one of my original rhinestone jackets I had worn back in the early seventies. Beth Ann’s jaw dropped, and it kept on dropping.

  “It’s Elvis’s jacket,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is it real?”

  “Very real.”

  “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!”

  “Would you like to try it on?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Well, it’s yours now. You can do whatever you want with it.”

  “I want to wear it!”

  “I’m sorry, she can’t,” said the nurse behind us. “She’s hooked up to an IV.”

  But with a little pleading on my part, and a lot of begging on Beth Anne’s part, the nurse gave in, and a few minutes later, after some careful maneuvering, the jacket was on the little girl and the IV was back in place. Except the jacket looked more like a glittering robe on her, but I don’t think she cared much. She snuggled deeply in it, and ran her little hands over it for quite a while, all while making tiny, imperceptible little noises.

  “That was awfully nice of you,” said the nurse.

  “It’s the least I could do.”

  She patted me on the shoulder and slipped around me and sat back in her chair. She closed her eyes and said, “Trust me, you could have done far less.”

  I smiled, but she didn’t see me smile. I looked back to Beth Ann, who was still caressing the sleeves.

  “Elvis really wore this?” she asked, her little noises finally forming into words.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You swear?”

  “I swear. It was, in fact, his favorite.”

  “But how do you know—?”

  Beth Ann never finished her sentence. In fact, her words seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere in her throat
. She looked up at me so sharply that her Elvis wig flopped over to one side. She ignored the wig and studied me carefully, and, for the second time in a matter of minutes, her mouth dropped open. This time it stayed open. It took the innocence of a child to see through me.

  “Elvis?” she said.

  I looked back at the nurse, but the nurse appeared to be asleep. I turned to Beth Ann and raised my finger to my lips. “Our secret, okay?”

  She nodded, or tried to. Her eyes had somehow grown another inch or two in diameter. I don’t think she had blinked in a long, long time.

  “Would you like for me to sing to you?” I asked.

  She nodded again, and now tears filled her eyes and spilled out. I picked up a nearby plastic chair, brought it over to the side of her bed, and sat next to her. I gently took her tiny hand in mine and cleared my throat. And then I sang to her quietly, my voice low and meant only for her. As I sang, my old voice broke often, especially when I looked into this little girl’s eyes, this forgotten girl with no family or home, no parents or brothers or sisters. A sweet little angel who spent her own time cheering up other sick kids by dressing up as Elvis and singing to them. I squeezed her hand gently as I sang songs I hadn’t sung in thirty years. Sometimes Beth Ann sang with me, and hers was the sweetest voice I had ever heard in my life. But then she would grow weak and stop and just watch me with her impossibly huge eyes and hold my hands and cry softly.

  And when the nurse finally touched my shoulder and told me that Beth Ann needed to rest, I leaned down and kissed the little girl on her forehead.

  “Will you be back?” she asked.

  “Every day,” I said.

  Except she didn’t have another day. The next morning when I returned bearing more gifts—a pair of my original aviator glasses and a signed album cover—the same nurse who had sat with us looked up from the pediatric desk, shook her head sadly, and told me Beth Ann had passed in the night.

  I heard later she had been buried in my jacket, and that most of the hospital staff had been there at her funeral.

  Rest in peace, little darlin’.