Part 5 (1/2)

The King saw it too, and in the next second he moved like he had lightning in his pants. He whipped that door open and bellowed, ”I'm Elvis Presley! They're gonna kill me!” and by that time I had an arm around his neck tryin'

to keep him from gettin' out. He got stuck in the door, and Miralee was screamin', ”Don't let him out! Don't let him out!” I jabbed the gun's barrel into his back, but he kept on thras.h.i.+n'.

Fella got out of the station wagon. I saw who it was. That fella who went to Chicago to dig up Al Capone's vault. He reached out for Elvis, and Elvis strained to grip his hand. That was when the light changed, and Miralee stomped her foot down on the pedal. The Chevy laid rubber, Elvis still tryin' to squeeze through the open door, and that TV fella gave a shout and jumped back into the station wagon's pa.s.senger side. His driver gave it the gas too, and started after us. Miralee shouted, ”Get that door shut, Dwayne!” The King's blue sneakers were shreddin' on the pavement. I don't believe he wanted to jump, with the engine revvin' up toward fifty. He pulled himself back into the car with a big whuff of breath, and I reached over his belly and slammed the door shut. The station wagon with that TV fella in it was right on our tail, comin' up fast so they could read the license plate. Well, there was just one thing to do about that, wasn't there? I cranked the window on my side down, leaned out into the wind and rain, and shot at the station wagon's tires. My cap flew off my head, my pompadour whippin' around like a scalded poodle. My third bullet knocked out one of the wagon's headlights, and then the driver didn't feel so nosy; he hit the brakes, and the wagon skidded off the road into a tangle of kudzu vines.

We were out beyond the town limits by now. I cranked the window up and sat there shakin', realizin' I could've killed either one of those two fellas. Only one I wanted to kill was the King, and to tell the truth I was feelin' a bit queasy about the whole business. Miralee was still flyin' us along that rain-slick highway, but I said, ”Don't want a trooper pullin' us over, babe,” and she cut the speed some.

I felt Elvis starin' at me again. He said, in his raspy, old man's voice, ”I've got money. I'll give you all of it.”

”Don't say that,” I told him. I just couldn't stand it if the King started to beg. ”You sit there and be quiet, all right?” Miralee's head had c.o.c.ked. ”Money? How much money?”

”We're supposed to kill him, not rob him!” I complained, but she shot me a hard glance in the rearview mirror and I b.u.t.toned my lip.

”How much money?” she asked Elvis.

”A lot. A whole lot, darlin'.” I winced when he used that word. ”My place is six, seven miles from here. I'll show you. You don't really want to kill me, do you?”

Miralee didn't say nothin'. I didn't either. My throat was so dry I probably couldn't have said anythin'. I mean, it's one thing to plan on killin' somebody and another to do it. I guess it was the sound of the shots that got to me, or the way the gun smelled. Maybe it was the fact that the King was sittin' beside me, livin' and breathin'. No, no! I had to quit thinkin' like that! If I didn't kill him, our business was washed up! I had to go through with this, if I liked it or not!

Miralee said, ”Show us where you live.” Her voice was silky; it was the way she asked me to go down in the bas.e.m.e.nt and clean out the spiders.

We got to the King's place about fifteen minutes later. It was one of them tin burritos rural gents of, ahem, modest means seem to prefer. Graceland West was certainly a step down for the King. Only two things separated it from the run-of-the-mill poor-boy estate: the satellite dish off to one side and the dumpster located where most folks might put their trash cans. The dumpster looked full to overflowin', too.

I stopped the car on the graveled area in front of the King's home. Miralee got out of the Chevy first and ran up to the trailer door. She ducked inside, then stuck her head out and waved us in.

”Don't try anything now, King,” I told him, and jabbed the .38 into his blubber. ”Just get out nice an' easy, and walk into your home.”

Once in the trailer, you could see that the King's taste in interior decoratin' fit in with his current fas.h.i.+on statement. Dirty clothes, empty chicken buckets, and food wrappers were strewn all about the livin' room. There was an old record player pushed against one wall, right under a velvet picture of the King in his Las Vegas days. On top of the TV was a gla.s.s statue of the King. All in all, the place looked about as invitin' as a Beirut swap meet.

”I suppose you want to know why I left it all,” the King wheezed out as he settled into a La-Z-Boy.

”No, we don't,” I said. ”The only thing we want from you is the money you got hid out here. Where is it?”

”Oh, it's buried outside. Let me rest up a minute and we'll go get it. But anyway,” the King continued, ”it was in the spring of '77. One of my boys had been on vacation in England. When he got back, he brought me a little present. He said it was the biggest thing goin' over there. Thought I might get a real kick outta listenin' to what trash the kids were into.

”Well, I played that record, son. And it changed me. See, no matter what else I'd been over the years, I'd always had the Power within me. The music was the Power. Hearin' that song was like p.i.s.sin' my pants. I could just feel my life drainin' away. When it was over, I was empty. There was no music left in me. I just knew I couldn't go on like before.”

The King paused for a minute. I looked over to Miralee, to see what she made of all this. She was starin' at the King, but not in that nasty way she has. No, she seemed to be really payin' attention to this c.r.a.p.

”I talked to the Colonel about it,” the King started up again. ”And we decided that I should get away for awhile, out of the public eye, 'til I was feelin' right. That's why I went underground, so to speak. Just bidin' my time, waitin'

for the Power to come back to me.”

”What changed then, King?” Miralee asked. Boy, she really seemed to be into it now.

”About six months ago, I read somethin' in the Midnite Tattler about a Harmonica Conversion. This Conversion was supposed to be some kinda mystical moment when all the spheres would line up. The Tattler said it was a real special time when anything might happen, even the Second Coming of the King. So I started to pave the way back for me.”

”I read about that, too,” Miralee jumped in. ”But it said you needed a special charm to help focus the astral energies.”

Elvis turned to face Miralee. ”Yeah, darlin', that's right. See that little statue on the TV? There's my talisman. Got it from the Home Shopping Club for $49.95. I've been concentratin' at it for weeks now, tryin' to make it work. Nothin's happened yet, but I can feel that the time is almost at hand.”

”Say, son.” The King looked at me now. ”I'll bet you'd sure like to know what it was exactly that caused me to drop outta sight. Why don't you reach into that drawer next to you and I'll show you.” I opened the drawer slowly, expectin' a snake to jump out. The only thing in it was an old 45 in a greasy paper sleeve. The t.i.tle on the single was blurred out and I could only make out part of the band's name: -ex Pis-”Real impressive, King,” I said, tossin' him the record. ”Now, why don't we head outside and get that money before it rots in the ground.”

”Just give me another minute or so,” the King said. ”I really want the two of you to hear this.” The King waddled over to the record player and put the single on. Out of the speakers blasted a noise like a car crusher sinkin' its teeth into an old pickup. The singer, if that's what you'd call a guy who sounds like he'd just got a b.u.t.t full of buckshot, was screechin' somethin' about the Anti-Christ, Anarchy, or whatever. Just listenin' to a few seconds of it was enough to make my fillin's ache.

”Christ almighty, King!” I yelled. ”Those pig farts are what made you give up your music?” Killin' him would be an act of mercy. He must already be tone dead.

The King didn't hear a word I said. He seemed to be in some kind of trance, starin' at the crystal Elvis. The statue had started to flicker with a weird milky light. The light got stronger and stronger as the song rasped on. By the time the song got to the last chorus, it was bright enough to cast five o'clock shadows in the room.

”This is it!” the King said. ”It's the Harmonica Conversion! I can feel it! My music's comin' back to me!” The King lumbered toward the TV; Miralee got up off the couch to stop him. The King may have been plumped up like a Christmas goose, but he still had some speed left in him. He put one of those karate moves you used to see him do on stage to Miralee, and she ended up face down back on the couch. The King picked up the crystal Elvis and cradled it as if it was his day-old Lisa Marie. It was funny too, but in the light of the statue the fat seemed to melt off his face and, just for an instant, you could see the real King underneath.

That d.a.m.n song finally ended. As the last note bleated away, the King turned around and faced me. He had a really odd look in his eyes, sorta like a starvin' teenager eyein' a jumbo bag of Doritos.

”Come on over here, son. I've got somethin' to show you.”

I glanced over at Miralee. She was still out cold on the couch. Things were gettin' a little too weird. It was time to wrap it up.

”Okay, King,” I said, though my voice wasn't any too strong. ”Why don'cha just put down that figurine and we'll go outside and dig up that stash of yours.” Once the money was out of the ground, I figured the King's grave would be half dug. A quick headshot, ten minutes of shovel work, and Miralee and I would be out of here. The King took a step toward me. ”Well, son, I have to admit that I told you a little lie there. There ain't no stash. I get my money from the Colonel a little bit at a time, and this month's check hasn't come yet. But here, why don't you take this beautiful statue instead? It oughta be worth somethin'. Here.”

He held out the statue. The d.a.m.n thing was still glowin'. Lookin' at it made me feel a little dizzy. It was gettin'

hard to keep my mind on things. I took a step back and pointed the .38 at the King.

”Turn that d.a.m.n thing off before I shoot it outta your hand!” I screamed at the King. The King just grinned and moved in. It struck me that things weren't workin' out the way Miralee and I planned. The King seemed to be followin' his own agenda now.

”Stop right there or I'll drop you where you stand!”

”But I thought that's what you came lookin' for me for.” The King was gettin' too close. A few more steps and he might try that karate c.r.a.p on me.

BANG! The pistol seemed to fire on its own. The King grabbed his left leg and fell to the carpet. When his 300+ pounds. .h.i.t, the whole d.a.m.n trailer shook. The phonograph started up and the -ex Pis-began caterwaulin' all over again.

Sweet Jesus, I couldn't believe it! I had actually shot the King. Dwayne Pressley, the a.s.sa.s.sin of Rock 'n' Roll. That's how I'd be remembered. I didn't want to finish him off now. To h.e.l.l with that stupid plan of Miralee's. I dropped the .38 and walked over to him. He just lay there, curled up like a baby, huggin' his leg and that gla.s.s Elvis.

”Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry, King,” I bawled to him. ”I really didn't mean to shoot you. I ain't never shot at anything but squirrels before. Just lie still 'til I can get you a doctor.”

The King rolled over to face me. ”It's too late for that now, son. I'm a goner.” Now that statement seemed to be a bit odd, comin' from a man who had only been grazed in the leg. I figured the pain must have addled his wits. I saw an old sock on the floor and pressed it against the wound.

”Don't you worry now, King. You're gonna be alright.”

”You're right. I'm gonna be just fine.”

With that, he swung that crystal statue at my head. Only instead of hittin' my skull, it felt like it pa.s.sed straight through my brain. I felt a cold s.h.i.+ver go all the way from my eyeb.a.l.l.s down to my tail bone. Things got all white and I couldn't see anything except for a black dot a long ways away. The dot came closer and closer, 'til I finally got sucked all the way in.

I don't know how long I was out. When I woke up, I felt tired and fuzzy. My left leg hurt like the d.i.c.kens, and I couldn't move my arms or legs. I guess I must have been sittin' up, though I couldn't really make sense of things. The King was standin' in front of me, but he looked different. He seemed to be a lot skinnier than before, and better dressed. In fact, he was wearin' my clothes. And my Miralee was standin' next to him. They were whisperin'

somethin' I couldn't quite hear.

”Are you awake yet, Dwayne?” Miralee asked.

”Barely,” I croaked back at her. Funny, but my voice sounded different. ”Say, what happened to the King? How'd he get my duds on?”