Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (14 page)

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Authors: Peggy Webb

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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Elvis’ Opinion # 11 on Clever Plans, Escape Route, and the Church of Lovie
I
still can’t figure out what’s going on. The only person in this village who speaks English has left our hut, and the little pregnant women are doing “What Every Woman Lives For.” They’re over there by Lovie’s throne conducting a beauty ritual.
When they filed in here, I didn’t know what was in those tiny pots they were holding. Makeup, what else? They’ve smeared it all over Lovie. She now looks so much like a jungle tigress that you could have fooled me—that is, if I were a silly shih tzu, or a ridiculous Lhasa apso who thinks he’s the Dalai Lama.
This must be phase two of whatever ritual the natives have in mind. They’re either readying her for the stewpot or getting ready to worship at the church of Lovie.
I’d worship there, myself. Fat, sugar, and alcohol—the food and drink of choice—and
live large,
the only commandment.
Still, if this is a stewpot prelude, I’d better shake my slightly crooked hind leg and launch into phase one of my own plan.
If “We’re Gonna Move” out of here, I’ve got to shag my long lipped godly self out of here and stake out an escape route through the jungle. The mothers-to-be are so busy decking Lovie out in a feathered headdress and a costume that reveals more flesh than even Lovie is comfortable showing, they’ll never know I’ve gone.
I don’t want Lovie worrying, though. I do a swivel-hipped dance so she’ll “Turn Around and Look at Me,” but she’s so deep in her cups from all that Mayan brew they’ve been giving her, she wouldn’t notice if I were standing in the corner doing a bad imitation of Johnny Cash singing “Folsom Prison Blues.”
If we don’t get out of here, I’ll be singing “Mayan Prison Blues.” I hurry outside and do a verse of “Swing Down Sweet Chariot,” hoping old Abe will get the picture and swing on down from the trees for the first leg of Mission Rescue.
Wouldn’t you know, when there’s real work to be done, that monkey’s off eating bananas. Which reminds me of the good old days back in Graceland, and more recently at my home in Mooreville, when I could have a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich no matter what time of night I took a hankering.
It’ll be dark soon. I can’t stand here all day waiting for a goofy monkey to do a dog’s work. Abe doesn’t know what he’s missing. If he’d help me, I had planned to have some necklaces made kind of like I did in the glory days when I wore pants with only two legs. Only these wouldn’t say TCB (Taking Care of Business); they’d say ECDL (Elvis and Company, Detectives at Large.)
Monkeyless, I set out toward the jungle with my nose to the ground. Listen, this is a famous nose. It doesn’t take me long to pick up the scent. Which means I can find our way back to the shack where Lovie was first held hostage. Once I’m there, it won’t take me long to pick up the scent of our kidnapper.
If anybody’s “Ready Teddy” to blow this joint, it’s me. I’m fed up with being a long lipped god.
Besides, there’s no telling what that uppity Lhasa apso has been up to in my absence. It would be just like him to try to take complete command at Hair.Net. Listen, that’s my domain. No sawed-off dog with a bushy tail is going to usurp the King.
If I let him get away with that, the next thing you know, he’ll be trying to steal my guitar-shaped pillow and take over my favorite pissing post in the beauty shop’s yard. Then it’ll be my personal stash of Pup-Peroni and the ham bones I’ve got seasoning in strategic burial grounds—in case I get a sneak snack attack while Callie’s touching up Fayrene’s roots and trying to talk Mama into forgoing a gambling jaunt to Las Vegas.
It’s time to snatch back my sneer, break out my swivel, and go back to being the King.
Chapter 14
Ghostly Encounters, Tiger by the Tail, and Beauty to the Rescue
W
hile I’m still worrying about being stripped and filleted by Archie Morgan’s knives, his cell phone rings. Mama and Fayrene are no longer on the guest cottage monitor, and all the others are blank, so I don’t have any trouble hearing Morgan’s end of the conversation. And let me tell you, I’m all ears.
The first thing I hear is my kidnapper’s screech of outrage.
“She what? How could you let her do that?”
They can’t be talking about me. I haven’t done anything. Are they talking about Mama? She inspires outrage with a frequency that would give me high blood pressure if I didn’t have a front porch swing and a good dog to cuddle. I know that sounds simplistic, but let me tell you, sometimes a loyal dog can be better than a husband, a best friend, and a therapist all rolled into one.
“You should have handcuffed her,” Morgan rages on. “You’ve got to find her before Rocky does.”
Lovie! It has to be. I cry with relief, though if she were here, she’d say,
Buck up and stop that. You’ve got things to do.
I’m not surprised she escaped. Listen, if she’d had her baseball bat, my cousin would have beat the tar out of anybody who messed with her.
In the next room, old man Morgan says, “If she was smart enough to get away, she might be smart enough to survive the jungle. Get that witch. If he gets to her first, we can kiss our plans goodbye.”
If Lovie can escape, so can I. The only question is, how?
“All right, calm down.” I wish Morgan would say a name, so I’d know who he’s talking to. “As long as we’ve got the other one, we’re still in control.”
Not for long, mister. With Lovie and Elvis on the loose, your goose is cooked.
“I’ll handle the ghosts myself. The two of you go after the redheaded witch.”
Old man Morgan slams around in the next room, muttering words in Lovie’s vocabulary (but not mine, thank goodness). When he finally comes into the room I’m in, he’s carrying a white sheet and a plate of food that smells like something I’m not about to eat.
“So Lovie outsmarted you and your partners.”
“Not for long. And I’ve still got you, girlie.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Morgan looks at me like I’ve sprouted ears, and his face undergoes more transformations than Mama’s hair. He’s either so mad about my audacious question that he’s going to slice my throat on the spot, or he’s going to laugh his head off. To my surprise, he does neither.
“I’ve been searching for the lost tomb of the Nine Lords for years. Why do you think I took this dead-end job?”
I’ve read that kidnappers and their victims sometimes develop a close relationship. Heaven help me. Still, I leap to take advantage of my new role as Morgan’s confidante.
“So you kidnapped Lovie and ran Rocky’s men off with ghosts to distract him from the dig so you could go in, finish the work he’d started, and then claim credit for his discovery?”
“I’m not about to let Rocky Malone walk away with the glory. By the time I finish with him, he’ll wish he’d never set foot on Tulum.”
“All this surveillance equipment. You’ve done this before.”
Instantly his face transforms from Morgan the Sociable to Morgan the Terrible.
“You think you’re so smart. Wait till I finish with you.”
He sounds so mean I almost wet my pants. Listen, I may display occasional flashes of valor, but deep down, I’m a girly girl who prefers pink polish to the red badge of courage.
“You won’t get away with murder.”
“Who said anything about murder? Maybe I’ve got something worse in mind.”
Holy cow! I wish I’d read some books on criminal psychology. When you’re faced with possible torture by snakes and other methods too diabolical to think about, is it better to act brave or to be weak and complacent?
Too late now. I’ve already stepped off the sidewalk and into deep doodoo, as Lovie would say. Only she’d use more earthy language.
When Morgan heads my way, I see my chance to drop him and get the keys to my handcuffs. Listen, that fool who led me to the bathroom was so busy congratulating himself that I couldn’t summon help from a soundproof shack, he forgot that long, limber legs can be lethal weapons.
When Morgan sets my plate of odious prison food on the floor, I put all the power of my five feet and nine inches of pure outrage into my kick. Right to his groin.
With a howl, he clutches himself, then dances around screaming in a high-pitched voice.
Meantime, I see my plan to drop him to the floor and then get his keys as not only half-baked, but also suicidal. How did I think I was going to get them, anyway? Both hands are cuffed to the bedpost. And I’d rather face snakes with a Jimmy Choo stiletto than retrieve anything from old man Morgan’s pockets with my mouth.
He recovers enough to call me names that are not even in Lovie’s vocabulary.
“You’ve just deprived yourself of supper, girlie.” He snatches up the plate.
“What can I say? ‘When I get excited about something, I give it all I’ve got.’” Lauren Bacall in
Dark Passage.
If Lovie were here, she’d have guessed that. When she’s not trying to put love handles on me with her home cooking, she’s bringing movie classics to my house so we can ogle the Lone Ranger in his mask and learn to speak the language of film noir from Humphrey Bogart
.
Old man Morgan hobbles out of the room and returns with enough hardware to shackle everyone in Fort Knox. He’s also bearing a piece of bread. Either it’s his midnight, posthaunting snack or it’s my dinner.
He proceeds to cuff my ankles together, then frees my left hand and slaps the bread in it. After making sure my right wrist is still securely shackled to the bed, he hobbles out without another word. Still carrying his sheet.
Under other circumstances, I wouldn’t eat a bite his slimy hands have touched, but it so happens I’m starving to death. Thankful to have at least one hand free, I nibble a few bites, then brush back the hair that has tumbled out of my hasty hairstyle and into my face.
Holy cow! Hairpins. My French twist is full of them. My meager supper forgotten, I reach up and pluck the key to my escape.
Old man Morgan had better beware of a hairstylist wielding a hairpin. If I can’t get it to open my handcuffs, I’ll use it to poke his eyes out.
I’m not a lefty, and it’s awkward trying to pick the lock that secures my right hand to the bedpost. Plus, I wish I could have a redo and learn everything Slick Fingers Johnson taught Lovie. Listen, when I get back home, I’m going to learn so much about self-defense, folks in Mooreville will have to call me Rambo-etta.
Sound crackles through the speakers, and when I glance up at the monitors, I see Archie Morgan haunting the sleeping quarters of Rocky’s crew. Somebody ought to tell him that saying “Wooo, wooo” won’t scare anybody.
Within minutes, the remnants of Rocky’s crew streak out of bed and across the compound, proving me dead wrong. With Archie Morgan chasing them in a sheet, everyone in the crew races past the ruins of ancient temples, then they leap over the wall and into the jungle where I can no longer see them. If their earlier flight pattern is any indication, they won’t stop running till daylight.
Poor Rocky. Now he’s left with nobody on his crew except Seth and Archie.
Where is Lovie’s almost-lover, anyhow? And Uncle Charlie and Jack?
I redouble my efforts to pick the lock. Somebody needs to tell them that Archie Morgan is a traitor and a kidnapper. Also, somebody needs to tell them that Lovie has escaped and is alive.
Well, I hope she still is. I shudder to think about my cousin and Elvis trying to find their way out of a snake-infested jungle. With cannibals, too, for all I know.
Listen, murder and kidnapping are serious business. We’re not in the middle of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
here. Harrison Ford a.k.a. Indiana Jones is not going to jump out of the bushes any minute and subdue the bad guys with his famous whip and his lethal smile.
There’s Jack, of course. But where is he? Without Indiana Jones, I redouble my efforts with the hairpin.
On the monitor I see old man Morgan picking his way among the temples. Before you know it, he’ll be back and my clandestine activities will come to a halt.
Wait a minute. What’s this I see? I squint to pick up the night-shrouded images on the monitor. It looks like some kind of native ritual taking place on the steps of the temple of She of the Jade-Green Skirts. One of the natives is wearing a feathered headdress that reminds me of the one Lovie wore undercover as Las Vegas’ most outrageous showgirl. A towering affair that looks as if it will topple at any minute. The other has on a birdlike mask of some sort that features a lethal-looking beak.
I wouldn’t want to meet either one of them in the dark. And I certainly wouldn’t want to be part of what they’re preparing to do at the temple. Human sacrifice, it looks like.
The one with the headdress bends down to light candles and her face can be seen. A painted-on tiger face, jet black hair, a movie star cigarette holder in her mouth.
Holy cow! It’s Mama, channeling her inner animal, no doubt. Obviously the long-beaked bird is Fayrene, her major cohort in crime and all things designed to give me early gray hairs.
My suspicions are confirmed when she starts chanting her grocery list.
“Man-goes, pa-pa-ya, kum-quat.”
“Fayrene, are those fruits?”
“Yeah, Ruby Nell, but they’re erotic fruits.”
Exotic, I think, but who knows? Anything that works.
Apparently Mama is satisfied, because while Fayrene chants, she sprinkles some kind of liquid all over the temple steps. Chicken blood? I don’t even want to know.
Suddenly I spot somebody else in the monitor. Old man Morgan, still in his sheet, headed toward the temple and on a collision course with Mama and Fayrene.
“Watch out, Mama,” I scream, for all the good it will do.
Still, who knows the powers of the bond between mother and daughter? I think they could be stronger than the pull of the moon. As if to prove my theory, Mama looks up and spots old man Morgan.
“Scream, Mama,” I yell at the monitor. “Call Uncle Charlie.”
“Fayrene!” Mama yells. “The spell’s working!”
As usual, she ignores my advice. Might I also add, she’s elated? Mama loves nothing better than being right in the thick of things, and, lately, murder has provided her with plenty of opportunities.
Streaking down the steps with the spryness of a teenager, she yells at the now rapidly fleeing ghost, “Come back here, you devil.”
I have to say, I’m proud of her.
“You go, Mama.”
Listen, if being decked out like a tiger can make Mama act twenty years younger, I might introduce finding-your-inneranimal makeup to my clients at Hair.Net.
Fayrene is not far behind Mama. “Stop, you sperm of Satin.”
I think she means spawn of Satan, but I could be wrong. With a ritual like the one they’re performing, anything goes.
Morgan is easily outdistancing them. I shut my eyes and wish every bit of the bad karma he’s dispensed comes back to him. I know that’s not nice, but he’s not a nice man.
When he trips on his sheet, I let out a very unladylike rebel yell.
Mama and Fayrene catch up to him and pounce. “Unmask the imposter,” Mama yells.
“Haints begone!” Fayrene screams.
They begin a fierce tug-of-war over the sheet, two against one, while old man Morgan struggles to regain his footing.
I’m betting on Mama and Fayrene.
I give a few more rebel yells and some of my best high school cheers. I make bargains with God and St. Jude and St. Joseph Aspirin. Listen, if it would help end this horrible ordeal, I’d promise to give up cute shoes and sex with my ex.
If I weren’t half-starved and in shackles and facing a fate worse than death, I’d be enjoying the best show in town.
My hairpin forgotten, I hold my breath as the three of them struggle in the dark.
“Yell for Jack,” I scream at the monitor. “Call Uncle Charlie.”
Obviously they don’t hear me. Nobody can.
Old man Morgan screams, “Let go, you hags from hell!”
“Who are you calling a hag, you coward?” Mama hauls off and socks him in the face.
Morgan staggers backward, but regains his footing so fast I’m wondering if he’s kin to my feisty little cat, Happy.
“Now, Mama! Go after him.”
She’s raring back to land him another blow when Morgan lowers his head and plows into Fayrene. The blow knocks her sideways into Mama, and they topple in a heap of feathers, war paint, and chicken blood.

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