The New Elvis (15 page)

“Mind if I escort you?” The guard stepped into the elevator with him, and the doors closed.

At her desk, Genevieve looked guilty. “I had to call Cecil. Tobi doesn’t work here anymore.”

Logan scowled at her, went to his office, unlocked his door, and headed to his desk. After scooping his spare sweater into his backpack, he sat down at his desk and copied his hard drive. He pocketed the thumb drives, pushed his desk chair in, grabbed his iPad and backpack, and headed out, leaving his office unlocked.

He went to Genevieve’s desk and placed his backpack near her inbox so his hands were free. After typing a message, he handed her the iPad.

Genevieve read it, a quizzical expression on her face.
Going out for a late lunch
.

Logan always ate at his desk, brown bagging it religiously.

OK
, she typed, handing the iPad back.

To keep his word, Logan had a bowl of soup in the cafeteria on the fourth floor. Then he left the office building without looking back.

Tobias was maneuvering out of his tight parking space on Sunset when he saw Logan exit the
Flash
office building and trot down the steps to the street. Tobias lowered the driver’s side window, stuck out an arm, and caught his eye. Grinning as he dodged a truck, Logan navigated through traffic and made it to the sidewalk.

Tobias lowered the window on the passenger side. “Where’s your Caddy?”

Logan shook his head. He had sold his graduation gift—a yellow ’54 Cadillac convertible just like The King’s—for a very important cause: ascertaining paternity for Ryan that he was indeed Elvis’s biological son.

“You don’t have it anymore?” Tobias was incredulous. “How are you getting around?”

Logan pointed at a bus as it passed, and Tobias’s eyes followed it.

“Jeez,” Tobias muttered. “Get in.”

Tobias unlocked the passenger side, and Logan hopped in.

“You quit, right?”

Logan nodded.

“Great. Well, join me for lunch. We’re meeting a very classy TV star. You know who Helen Hester is?”

In the end, Ryan was glad he’d had a heart-to-heart with his mom because she helped him decide to take a year off before college and offered to pay for Bea’s eighteenth birthday gift on June twenty-ninth—a trip for two to Memphis so they could tour Graceland. She didn’t ask Ryan why he wanted to tour Elvis’s home. He suspected she knew he was curious as to why he looked so much like The King and wondered if it had anything to do with his father possibly being an Elvis impersonator. He was sure if it had crossed his mind, it had crossed hers, but they didn’t go there. They stopped at the threshold of agreeing his father’s identity was a secret kept by Dr. Johns.

Both newly graduated from high school, Bea and Ryan checked into the Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis the last Friday in June, sans chaperones, with both the Edwins’s and his parents’s blessings. Ryan thought they weren’t being strict with them because Bea was so sick. At that point, Mrs. Edwin swore Ryan was the only person who could make her daughter happy.

The room they checked into on Elvis Presley Boulevard was kind of shabby, with blue and gold, diamond-patterned bedspreads on matching king-size beds. Ryan’s mom arranged the trip so, for all appearances, they slept separately, even if they shared the room. The only touch of Elvis in the two hundred square feet of their own private heaven were black and white framed photos of him over each bed, one from his early years and one taken toward the end of his career.

Bea took her meds and fell asleep before she’d even unpacked, so Ryan watched the endless stream of Elvis movies on TV, hoping she’d wake up so they could take the shuttle to Beale Street and grab some grub. The flight had worn her out. She slept on her stomach with both arms wrapped around a pillow, her head turned toward him so he could see her pale face partially covered by a tumble of golden curls. It was hard for him to decide which one to watch—Elvis in
Blue Hawaii
or his very own angel in dreamland.

By the time midnight rolled around, he was restless. He had never been to Memphis before and might never return, so he didn’t want to lose out. He rose and muted the TV, leaving it on so the room wouldn’t be completely dark when she woke up. Throughout the room, the screen emitted an otherworldly bluish-green glow.

The night was humid and the air, heavy as wet laundry, weighed on him as he made his way through the lobby. He saw the shuttle out front, so he made a last-minute dash to see if they were heading to Beale. They were, with a return bus at two in the morning. Just enough time to catch a bite, grab a meal in a container for Bea, and make it back.

When the shuttle stopped at the Hard Rock Café, the charm of its brick façade, green awnings, and white latticework rails caught his eye. On impulse, he sprang off the shuttle, made his way to the brass double-door entrance, and swung the right-hand door wide. It was crowded inside, and no one seemed to notice him at first, but by the time he had his menu, made his selections, and was staring at the rock memorabilia covering the walls, more and more heads were turning his way. He smiled at everyone who stared at him, and they quickly looked away, whispering to themselves.

The waiter who came to refill his water glass bent down beside him and spoke in a low voice Ryan could barely hear above the restaurant chatter. “You do an Elvis show, right? You’re, like, one of those tribute guys?”

“No. Just graduated high school and I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.”

“I feel like I took a trip in the Wayback Machine.”

Ryan gave him a blank stare.

Incredulous, the waiter shook his head in disbelief. “The
Rocky and Bullwinkle
cartoons? Your parents are probably old enough to remember them. Sherman and Mr. Peabody used the Wayback to time travel and change history. It was pretty rad.”

Change history
.
Yeah, I’d go back and grab a seat in the clinic where my mom met Dr. Johns and listen in. Then I’d search his files and find out who I am
.

The waiter was still chattering away. “There are music execs here tonight, man. One of them is my brother-in-law. Can you sing?”

Ryan shrugged. “Some people seem to think so.”

Condensation trickled down the side of the waiter’s water pitcher and dripped off.

“Shit, man, people only say that when they’re
really
good. You’re missing the accent, though. You gotta try to talk like him.”

“I do?”

The waiter suddenly realized he needed to be working instead of standing around.

“Your food should be up shortly,” he said, turning on his heel, heading to another table.

Ryan looked around at the inquisitive faces. He felt like a new exhibit at the J. Paul Getty Museum. This never happened in Los Angeles, where you’d run into B-list stars at the local gym. There were so many beautiful people in Southern California who looked like someone famous and barely drew a second glance that being in Memphis made him feel like a bug in a jar. Strangely enough, he didn’t mind.

Marilyn set Logan up in his own apartment off the laundry room, and now that they were greenlighted for production, his days and nights were spent with intermittent catnaps while laying out each issue. Today, however, was special. They were off to the hospital to visit Belle Gilbert, a tomboyish reporter who often teamed up on jobs with Graham Harvey, a portly Brit who looked like the mascot for Bob’s Big Boy.

When Marilyn and Logan arrived with the cake, Pia was tying bits of curled ribbon into Belle’s raven topknot, and Tobias was arranging a hot pink spread over Belle’s thin cotton blanket. A sign reading, “You’re 38 and You Look Great,” was taped over the bed, covering a painting by an unknown artist of a man herding sheep across a field. It was Belle’s birthday, and friends were invited to show up anytime between two and four, when Highland Hospital and Medical Center staffers seemed to honor an afternoon siesta. Marilyn was in designer duds, and Logan had donned his only suit, which was outdated and in need of a pressing. While Logan held out a box no larger than a cigarette lighter, Marilyn went over to the bedside table and set the cake down.

Restless, Belle untangled her gangly legs from her covers and reached out for Logan. He blushed furiously, hugged her, and handed her the box. She unwrapped it without taking her eyes off his smiling face. It was a silver charm of a pad of paper with a pencil resting atop it. She held it up for all to see.

“You have a charm bracelet?” Tobias asked.

“Sure,” Graham said. “I’ve seen her wear it.”

“It’s Monet,” Pia added, “and this will make her thirteenth charm.”

Tobias shook his head. “You guys don’t miss anything. What’s up, Logan? You couldn’t have found an appendix charm?”

Belle giggled. “Right? Who gets their appendix out when they’re thirty-eight? Oops, I mean thirty-two.” She glanced over her shoulder. “That sign is wrong. Anyway, thank you, Logan.”

Logan stared down at his only pair of dress shoes but kept a smile on his face.

Marilyn tossed a sample copy of the first issue of
DC
to Graham just as Kevin “Kevlar” Larson walked in, spotted the tabloid, ran over to Graham, and snatched it. Logan stepped back. He hadn’t gotten to know Kevlar as well as the others had, but he knew him by reputation. The reporter had earned his nickname because he’d successfully dodged gunfire in the midst of a bank heist in Palm Springs in 2007 to get an exclusive. The robbers were so impressed by his ballsiness, they told him their life stories, hoping he would make them famous. The Feebs already knew who the robbers were. The crooks had knocked off three banks in the area within four months but had managed to hide between scores better than rattlers in weeds. After Kevlar put the cap back on his pen and moved away from the robbers to put his tape recorder back into his bag, sharpshooters had the thieves in their crosshairs and dropped them cold with headshots no more than ten seconds after Kevlar had pressed the off button on his Sony.

“Hey!” Graham protested.

Pia brought him a piece of cake and a plastic fork. “Here, have this.”

Graham accepted the plate and smiled. “No one approach me. This is mine.”

“That’s only a sample issue,” Marilyn told everyone.

Earlier that day, she had taken the 101-South six short miles to Perfect Perforation Printers, an aluminum-sided, single-story building with an expansive parking lot, where she met Chester Mowbrey and followed him to an office that looked like a cabin room in Oregon, decked out with mounted hunting trophies, despite the fact Mowbrey looked like someone you’d sooner find in a seedy bar than the woods. Short and swarthy, the top buttons of his dress shirt were undone so he could display his hirsute chest. While he was quick to say he wouldn’t do her printing job, he nevertheless hoisted a stack of one hundred sample copies onto his desk and pushed the bundle toward her. “Clay Dayton’s Wife at Death’s Door,” by Kevin Larson, in Poynter Agate font, begged readers to rip open the seal and read the inside piece. She tore off the top and examined the photo of Caroline next to Kevlar’s story. It looked good.

Mowbrey gave Marilyn the name and number of a printer in San Francisco, but she persisted. “Are you sure you can’t do the work?”

Mowbrey all but pushed her into the hallway.

“It’s Cecil, isn’t it?”

Mowbrey allowed his eyes to travel the length of her body. “I can see why Neville enjoyed your company. Can you do a little laugh like Monroe, sweet and sexy?”

Marilyn’s voice was cold. “Thank you for the referral.”

The fact that Mowbrey wouldn’t run the first issue was even more bothersome in light of the fact that the Dayton scoop was an exclusive. Logan knew the story from having done the layout and could picture the scene as clearly as if he’d been there.

After country singer Clay Dayton’s wife, Caroline, had given birth to Clay Junior, Kevlar stomped around outside Santa Del Rey Hospital, crushed a smoked cigarette under the heel of his cowboy boot, and squinted in the bright sunlight as he talked on his cell phone. “I’m going back in. Maybe the grandparents will show.”

Marilyn agreed. “It’s their first, so I wouldn’t be surprised. What’s your cover for getting close enough to get a picture of the newborn?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Yeah, what good is a cover, anyway?” Marilyn knew Kev was clever enough to come up with a way to get the exclusive without her input, so she’d let him do his thing.

Logan knew this birth was important but almost insignificant when compared to Lisa Marie Presley’s visit to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica to deliver Danielle in May of ’89, when a reporter talked a parking attendant into showing him an entrance doctors used to get into the hospital. Lisa Maria was supposedly on the third floor. Heading there, the reporter found the entire wing reserved for the mother and her newborn. Rounding a corner, he found himself face-to-face with four security guards who accosted him, then tailed him out of the parking garage. Reporters had assumed all guises in an attempt to reach Lisa Maria’s room, including that of patient, doctor, nurse, and priest, but none of their efforts were successful. A freelancer working for
The National Enquirer
had been hired as a security guard working the graveyard shift, and he had the best chance of anyone to get the shot worth a million dollars in worldwide sales. His method was ingenious. Alone with the baby in the nursery, he unscrewed a fluorescent bulb so that it flickered, and then he popped off two shots. When a nurse saw the flashes and accused him of taking photos, he pointed to the flickering light and claimed it had caused the flashes she’d seen. Later, on a restroom break, he went down to the parking garage and dropped the film in the trash for his cohort, who was scheduled to pick it up. Hours later, the lab developed two photos of Elvis’s first grandchild.

Logan knew Kevlar didn’t need to go that far, but he pictured him as he entered the maternity wing. With paparazzi tailing him, new father, Clay Dayton, had left the hospital, likely to return later with his or his wife’s parents. After he departed, the glut of reporters anxious to get a statement from hospital officials dissipated.