Hot Shot (36 page)

Several moments passed before the woman seemed to recognize who he was, but even recognition didn't alter the misery on her face.

"Is there anything I can do?" he inquired. Despite his solicitous words, he felt no particular sympathy for her—she was cheap and common—and yet the strength of her misery gave him a peculiar sense of relief. No matter how difficult the past year had been for him, he hadn't once been reduced to this sort of excessive display of emotion.

"It's over," she said, a black trail of mascara running down her cheeks. "There's nothing anyone can do."

Once again he had the sense that the pavement was tilting beneath him. He concentrated on keeping his balance and on trying to decipher her words. What was over? Did she know something about SysVal? Was that why Gamble had been so angry?

"Have you ever lost someone?" she went on in a broken voice. "Someone important to you."

For a moment, he was afraid something had happened to Susannah, and fear rushed through him. Then he remembered Gamble's anger and realized it was something else.

This woman had probably had a squabble with one of her aging boyfriends. All of this hullabaloo undoubtedly had its roots in a middle-aged lovers' quarrel.

"Part of me wants to die, too." She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a dark smear on her first two knuckles.

"Nonsense," he replied sharply, wincing as a dull stab of pain went through his shoulder.

He wanted to rub it, but he forced himself to keep his arm still. "It's ridiculous to make a fuss over trivialities. I suggest you go home and fix yourself a drink."

"I can't go home now. There's something I have to do. Someplace I have to go." She turned away from him and walked toward the front of the car.

He looked down at his watch and saw that if he didn't leave soon, he would be late for his meeting. And then the numbers began to waver in front of his eyes. He swayed and braced himself on the trunk of her car. His own car suddenly seemed to be miles away.

She bent to get into the Toyota. Pain gripped his chest. He leaned against the car trunk, using it for support. The pain didn't ease. For the first time it occurred to him that he might actually faint. The idea horrified him. What if Susannah found him helplessly crumpled in the parking lot? He had to sit down. He had to rest for a moment, but his car was so far away, and he didn't have the strength to get there. He took several awkward steps forward, moving along the side of the car to the open door.

She looked up at him curiously. His mind raced, but his brain was dull with pain and he couldn't think what to say. He had to sit down. He couldn't stand any longer. "You—you need to go home," he stammered. "You're not—not in any condition to drive."

She reached for a pair of oversized sunglasses. "I can't go home. I have something I have to do."

He had begun to sweat profusely. In a breathless, choppy voice that didn't seem to belong to him, he said. "Not—not alone. You shouldn't go alone." His hand convulsed over the roof of the car. He couldn't faint. He couldn't let Susannah see him like this. "I'll—I'll go with you. Make certain you're safe."

"Whatever," she said dully. "It doesn't really matter."

He barely made it around the front of the car, but she was so caught up in her own misery that she didn't notice. As he slumped down into the passenger seat, he gasped for breath.

The car began to move. He no longer cared about his meeting or the rental car he had abandoned in the parking lot. All he cared about was the fact that he hadn't crumpled like an aged fetus onto the asphalt where his daughter could see him.

They had begun to move out into the traffic on El Camino, and the pain was easing. He noticed that her fingernails were too long and covered with a garish purple-red polish.

She pushed a tissue underneath her sunglasses to dab at her eyes. He thought about asking her what was wrong, but he didn't really care. He was too tired. His legs felt rubbery, his head hurt. He would just stay with her for a while, until he felt more like himself, and then he would call his driver to come and get him. Once again he shut his eyes. If he rested for just a few minutes, he would feel more like his old self.

When he awakened, the sun was sinking. He blinked with alarm and tried to get his bearings. They were moving fast. A road sign for Interstate 5 whipped by on his right. He saw a herd of cattle grazing and the ridges of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the distance. They must be somewhere in the San Joaquin Valley.

The radio was playing softly, a pop tune. He looked down at his watch and was startled to see that it was nearly seven o'clock. "Where are we? Where are you going?"

She jumped as if she had forgotten he was there. Her sunglasses were off, and the lap of her skirt held a collection of damp, wadded tissues. She tilted her head toward the radio.

"I—I can't talk now. When the song is over."

The voice on the radio was familiar—a male pop singer. He dimly recognized the song, something about a child being born in a ghetto.

There were so many things he needed to do. He should tell her to get off at the next exit so he could call his driver. How would he explain this? Everyone would be alarmed because he hadn't shown up for his meeting. He had a full work schedule planned for tomorrow. He tried to arrange his thoughts in proper order, but he couldn't manage it. All he could see was the Smith & Wesson revolver lying in its mahogany case. His eyes drifted shut again, and he was consumed with a sense of his own helplessness. The song came to an end.

Her voice quivered. "They've been playing all-Elvis for hours. I—I still can't believe that he's dead. He was so young. Only forty-two."

His eyes shot open. "What are you talking about?"

"Elvis," she whispered softly. "Didn't you hear? Elvis Presley died today. August 16, 1977."

Was that what this was about? He wanted to roar his anger at her, but his brain felt foggy and his head seemed to have been wrapped in hot, wet wool. She stared straight ahead at the road. A tear dropped off her chin and made an amoebalike stain on the front of her purple stretch top. No wonder Gamble had been angry with her in the parking lot. It was beyond Joel's comprehension that someone could be so distraught over the death of a celebrity when there were so many real problems in the world.

"I have to go to Graceland—in Memphis. I have to pay my respects." Her voice caught on a sob.

He couldn't believe he had heard her right. "You're driving to Tennessee?"

"I have to." She blew her nose, dropped the tissue into her lap, and picked up another.

And then she said something that sent a chill slithering up his spine. "The King is dead. I can't believe it. I just can't believe that the King is dead."

He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. No!
He
was the King! He had years ahead of him. Decades. He had so many things left to do and endless time in which to do them. The interior of the car was cool, but he couldn't seem to stop sweating, and he made a dash at his forehead with the sleeve of his suit coat.

Her mouth trembled. "I never imagined it. I thought he would live forever." She turned to look fully at Joel. Her face was stripped bare of makeup, her lipstick eaten off. "I'm only forty-three. That's not old. Only a year older than Elvis. It's just—How can I ever be young again if Elvis Presley is dead? How can any of us ever be young again?"

Joel no longer even remembered what it was like to feel young. He closed his eyes again, not to sleep, just to escape.

South of Bakersfield she exited to get gas. He went into the phone booth and called his secretary. He made up an excuse for his absence and began to tell her to get hold of his driver, but he ended up telling her to inform Paige he wouldn't be coming home tonight.

It was irrational. He was feeling better and he couldn't justify what he was doing. Even so, he couldn't seem to change his course. He decided to go just a little farther with Angela—only a few more hours. Then he would have her drop him at one of the hotels on the interstate, where he would spend the night. In the morning he would call his driver so he would be back in time for his meetings.

When he returned to the Toyota, Angela was sitting in the passenger seat holding two cans of soda pop and assorted packages of junk food. He got behind the wheel. She popped the top off one of the soda cans and handed it to him. He was thirsty, so he took a sip. It was overly sweet and awful. He couldn't remember the last time he had tasted soda pop. The second sip wasn't quite so bad.

His suit coat was mussed and damp. He took it off and turned to lay it carefully over the backseat. Then he started the engine and pulled back out onto the road. "I'm not going much farther."

"I don't even know why you're here."

The thought sprang into his head that he was there because he didn't want to die, but that made no sense. He wasn't old, only fifty-nine. And he was an important man.

He tried to distract the direction of his thoughts with a question. "Why are you doing this? Why is this so important?"

"Elvis is Sammy's father."

Joel snorted.

"You don't believe me, do you? Nobody believes me." He could see her marshaling her forces, but then she turned to stare out the window. Several long moments passed, and her shoulders slumped in defeat as if she had just given up something precious. "I wish he'd been Sammy's father. I wish I'd been able to meet him. They tell such lies about him.

That he wasn't faithful to Priscilla while they were married, that he used drugs and acted strange. I never believed any of it. Elvis loved the little people. He cared about people like me. Going to Graceland to pay my respects is the least I can do for him."

She leaned back against the seat and eventually shut her eyes.

The rhythm of the interstate and the soft Presley ballads playing on the Bakersfield radio station began to lull him. It was growing dark, and he turned on the headlights. It had been years since he had driven any distance himself. Angela fell asleep next to him with her mouth slightly open. He yawned, feeling relaxed for the first time in ages. Driving was good for him. He would do more of it from now on. That was all that was wrong with him. He just needed to relax more.

The radio was fading, so that the words to "Kentucky Rain" were interlaced with static, but he didn't change the station. He noticed the St. Christopher medal affixed to the dashboard and a bottle of nail polish lying overturned on the floor. A litter bag advertising State Farm Insurance swayed from the cigarette lighter. He didn't feel sleepy, merely relaxed.

Next to him, Angela's breathing came in soft, sibilant puffs. Her skirt had ridden up above her knees. He noticed that her legs in their dark stockings were good, but nothing about her stirred him sexually. He had never liked cheap women, not even when he was young. By the time he reached Barstow, she had tucked her legs under her.

He had to stop again for gas around midnight. She woke up and took over the driving. He immediately fell asleep in the passenger seat.

They crossed Arizona during the night, shifting drivers whenever they stopped for gas.

The next morning they had breakfast at a truck stop near Albuquerque. Angela went to the rest room to wash her face, and when she came out, she had reapplied her makeup.

Her figure in its purple stretch top attracted the attention of some of the truckers, and they watched her over the top of their coffee cups. Joel was embarrassed to be seen with her.

He took comfort from the fact that no one knew who he was.

When he went to the men's room to wash up, he saw a stranger in the mirror. His face looked bloated, his skin chalky and unhealthy, and his jaw was covered with stubble.

Usually he shaved twice a day, so he wasn't reminded of the fact that his beard was mostly gray, but he didn't have a razor, so he splashed water on his face and looked down at the faucets instead of into the mirror.

He wasn't conscious of the moment when he made the decision to go all the way to Memphis with her. He simply couldn't make himself do anything else. The driving was good for him, he told himself. He needed a vacation.

As they approached the eastern border of New Mexico, Angela began to cry again. When he couldn't bear it any longer, he snapped at her. "Will you stop it, for God's sake. You didn't even know the man."

"I'll cry if I want to. I didn't invite you to come with me. You can get out any time." She reached for the radio and spun up the volume. Since morning she had been listening to news reports coming from Memphis.

"… the twenty thousand mourners who were lined up along Elvis Presley Boulevard this morning have now swelled to fifty thousand, all of them hoping for a chance to view the body of the King of Rock and Roll as he lies in state in the drawing room at Graceland.

Vernon Presley, the father of the singer, has ordered that doors to the estate be opened to allow as many of his fans as possible to file through and pay their respects. Thousands of floral tributes have arrived from all over the world since yesterday after-noon, many of them bearing the simple inscription, 'To the King.' All of the mourners share disbelief that the King is dead…"

Joel snapped off the radio dial. He didn't want to hear about kings dying. He didn't want to think about…

Angela turned the radio back on. He gave her an icy glare—the glare that had intimidated heads of state and corporate presidents. She ignored it.

Outside of Amarillo they blew a tire. The service station was dry and dusty and the heat rose in waves from the cracked asphalt. They sat at a rickety picnic table in the sparse shade of a dying ailanthus tree while they waited for a new tire to be put on.

"Elvis gave so much to me," Angela said. "When I was upset or sad, when my husband Frank treated me like dirt, Elvis was always there. His songs made me feel at peace with myself. This might sound sacrilegious, but I don't mean it to be. Sometimes when I'd kneel in church to pray, I'd look up at the statue of Jesus. And then it would seem like it was Elvis hanging there. He sacrificed so much for us."