Elvissey (16 page)

"Don't!" I shouted, heedless of whether he shot me.

"I'm not wearin' hard shoes," E said. He laughed until I
wished to hurt him more than he'd hurt my husband; John
glared at me, willing that I still, evidencing that he'd not
been overly harmed. E hadn't kicked hard enough to dent
John's underlay; if bruised without, he remained whole
within. "Hell, you act like he's your boyfriend or somethin',
you-

"He's my husband," I said. "Don't hurt him again."

"You're married?" E asked, staring at us. "That beats all.
Okay, then, help 'im get up."

"Don't touch him."

"Won't if I can help it," E said, laughing, rubbing his
fingers along his gun's grip, caressing the stock as if his
touch brought mutual joy. "Looks kinda pitiful there like
that, don't he?"

As I righted my husband I recalled that our world's Elvis
was one of twins; his brother was born dead, as he would
have been a century later. Speculation rifed as to what the
nature of Elvis's mirroring brother might have been; the
Jesseans, truly, pronounced the dead baby to be their messiah, and were thus excommunicated by all other sects of the C of E. I fancied that the E with whom we were dealing in
this world might in ours be the twin who'd not lived, a
survivor who'd taken on or been given the name of his
brother.

"Let's go," said E, raising a battered valise from beneath
the kitchen table, lifting it over his mother's husk. "You go
first. Don't try nothin'. Where're y'parked?"

"We're fronted."

As we left the kitchen E shifted his bag beneath his arm
and pulled a sheet off the living room's worn sofa. He
paused sidelong at the front doorway as we porched ourselves, eyeing the street updown. "That Hudson's yours?"

"None other."

"Nobody's around," he said. "Go on. I'm right behind
you, don't do nothin' stupid." We crossed the grassless lawn,
followed close by E. "Unlock it if it's locked and lay him
down in the back seat." While I opened the car's back door
I watched E overlook its polychromed metal. "Damn. Y'all
get this thing off a nigger?"

"That word's unwarranted," I said. "Bestill its use around
me. Why the question?"

"The colors-"

"They're summery and pleasant." He stared at me as if
witholding a smile while I guided John into the back, assisting him as I placed him on his side, careful not to disengage
his leg's mechanics.

"Where the hell y'all from, lady?" E asked, tossing his
valise into the front seat.

"North," I said. "New York."

"Oh, yeah?" E billowed the sheet over John, cloaking him.
"All laid out," he said. "All he needs now's coins on his eyes.
Might get 'em yet."

"He'll overheat like that," I said. "Remove it."

"Not while we're in town. People'll think he's bein' kidnapped."

"He's not?" I asked. "A covered body won't arouse suspicions?"

"You know how to drive?"

"You don't?" During our training I'd been taught; as a
New Yorker I'd never learned.

"Yeah, but not one-hand," E said, waving his gun, motioning for me to move. "Get in. Let's hit it."

E clambered into shotgun position as I wheeled myself,
planting his foot on my purse; his white shoes were so
scuffed as a Bolshoi dancer's. His valise sprang open as he
floored it, scattering colorful shirts and magazines. As he
seated himself he struck his head on the doorframe; I readied to pluck up his gun if he dropped it, but he didn't.

"Dammit," he said, massaging his forehead; he must have
noticed my smile. "Dammit, go on. Drive."

"Where?"

"Where I tell you."

"My husband," I said. "John. Tap your foot if you're AO."
Looking in the rearview I saw only his sheeted midsection. I
pressed the ignition, revving the soundtrack as the batteries
silently charged; heard beneath its roar his shoes rapping
against the side of the car. I kicked off my shoe; rested my
foot on the accelerator and shifted to drive after assuring
clearance.

"Watch for kids, pullin' out," E said. The car was a smooth
runner, but I didn't want to drive those interstates. "Hang a
left at the light." He positioned his arm against his knee,
tenting his gun with our newssheet. The signal changed
from orange to blue as we approached, and I steered the car
left, toward the town center. "What kinda Hudson is this?"
he asked, studying the dash's gauges and dials. "Looks like
a fighter jet in here."

"You're familiared with jets?" I asked. "Were you blue
yondered?"

"Can't you talk straight, lady?" he asked; I wondered how many anachronisms were slipping into my speech. "I seen
pictures a jets, who hasn't?"

For a short distance the neighborhood upscaled. Midsize
houses stood newroofed and clear-windowed, polished cars
shone in the sun, residents clipped green grass before breaking for one of several daily meals. "What's the destination?"
I asked, switching on the AC so that John wouldn't broil.

"Mississippi," he said. "I'll be tellin' you how to get
there."

"Why Mississippi?"

"Cause it's not Tennessee," E said. "Quit askin' so many
damn questions, lady, I don't want to shoot you."

"You shot your mother," I said.

"That's nobody's business but mine and hers," he said, his
voice uninflected. "Left again, at this stop sign."

I steered the car onto Third Street, entering the commercial zone's outskirts. Three blocks distant, the interstate's
overhead provided a long, cool tunnel; when we emerged we
were in downtown's thriving midst, its streets lined with office buildings no higher than a Westchester cineplex. Mem-
phiseans-caucasoids all-thronged the wide awninged
sidewalks as their cars and buses gridlocked the avenues.
Most stores' signs were illuminated as if it were night, flashing multihued neon displays. Its small size notwithstanding,
Memphis's center semblanced an urbanity I'd known only
from films, here seen technicolored and holo-sharp. My
dress was no less unstylish here than it had been in New
York; most men wore wrinkled seersucker, stained between
the shoulderblades. Standing outside the ornate entrance of
a larger structure called the Peabody Hotel was a metal
placard in bird's outline, announcing that all should Come
See the Ducks.

"What ducks?" I asked.

"They come walkin' cross the lobby there ever' day to go
swim in a fountain inside," said E. "Hotel makes a big to-do 'bout it. President, movie stars come to town, mayor takes
'em down to see the ducks. It's sorry, but true."

"Why do they have ducks in a hotel?"

"Think I run the place, lady? I don't know." Even he
seemed surprised by his anger; he settled, staring windowways, allowing his eyes to unfocus while he reveried. "When
I was a kid there was a boy lived next door to us in Tupelo.
His parents, they were Christians, they gave him some baby
ducks for Easter." To the right, blocking any riverviews,
stood a number of sprawling stone buildings whose forbidding designs inferred that they housed government functionaries. "He took 'em out in the back yard, buried 'em up
to their necks and then run over 'em with the mower."

"That's senseless," I said. "Did he murder, later on?"

"I said, you want to kill 'em, just kill 'em," E said. "No
need to make a big thing out of it. Crazy mixed-up kid."

I eyed the placement of the Alekhine button on the dash,
in the event immediate transferral essentialed; glimpsed the
magazines strewn among his clothing as they spilled from
his bag. Limned upon one of the covers was a man wearing
a winged helmet and staring into what appeared to be a TV
screen programming a shot of an aerodynamically improbable rocket.

"Science fiction?" I asked, nodding downward. E lay his
shoe upon the magazine as if to hide it. "You read it?"

"It's not what you think," he said, grunting his reply. "It's
not all made-up." Beyond a number of older houses on our
left was a larger stone building with columns. A sign impaled
in its surrounding greensward announced, in badly drawn
letters, Tonight's Lecture: How Red Is The Little Red Schoolhouse?

"That's a school?" I asked.

"Library," E said, chewing at his lips. He facaded calm,
whatever roiled within him, and it seemed unlikely that he
would kill me within the next few minutes. Still, whether he
replayed within his mind the reasons for having shot his mother, pondered how to dispose of our bodies, or simply
thought of what he'd had for breakfast as he sat there was
unguessable to me.

"You got gas in this car?" E asked.

"We're fueled."

"How much money you got on you?"

"Much as you need," I said.

"Nobody's got that much money, lady," he said, laughing.
"Where is it?"

"It's pursed," I said. "Down there."

E retrieved my clutch from where I'd left it and dumped
out the contents. Unbilling my wallet, he shoved my money
into his pants. Finding John's copy of Knifelife, he picked it
up, and perused its pages as we drove on, a book in one
hand, a gun in the other. "What kinda book is this?" he said.
"They're talkin' about how t'kill people in here."

"That's intended," I said. "You need lessons?"

"Damn. `More solid than stabbing a pillow so long as
ribs-' " E dropped the book, as if by touching it he'd heard
a victim's screams. "That's sick. That is."

"It's my husband's book. A trainer's text."

"Like a schoolbook?" I nodded. "He's not a gangster or
anything, is he?"

"A businessman," I said. A sign in a window passed announced the arrival of new model television sets, some with
built-in bars. "You shouldn't literal all the text, I'm told."

"Good thing. Some of it reads like science fiction but the
rest-"

"There's nothing in it of moons or Martians," I said.

"I mean the attitude," said E. "I can handle stuff with
Martians in it. I been readin' Amazing Stories, all of 'em,
since I was a kid." His attentions shot elsewhere; uprighting
himself, he smoothed the newssheet over his gun, and
glanced back at John. "Shit. See that police car over there?
Don't do nothin', just keep drivin' or I'll shoot." The police's
black-and-white passed us, heading downtown; the cop within stared ahead, as if debating whether to respond to a
call. He held the look common to all enforcement junkies,
a wash of ennui so absolute that only the greatest levels of
violence, experienced either actively or passively, could stir
them. John considered police the worst sort of amateurs. As
the car distanced, E sighed; he'd held his breath as we
brushed.

"He must be going to see your mother," I said.

"Maybe," E said, closing his eyes. "Don't wanta talk about
it."

`John?" I heard two taps in reply, and spoke to E. "Your
gun's unneeded. Please stuff it."

"Won't fit in my pocket," he said, and I thought he japed
me; when he said nothing more, I discerned that he believed
his reason valid. "Almost outta town. That's good."

"What do people do in Memphis?"

"Get out of it, first chance they get," said E. `Just stay on
this road."

On the road's right side was a prime familiarity. "This is
recognizable," I said. "I've seen pictures." Visible behind a
high fence and grove of trees was a stone house standing
atop a hill. "Graceland," I said, sounding the word, seeing
the shrine as it stood in pre-Presley days. The roof sagged,
many windows were broken; the columns needed paint. Its
setting was nearly rural, entirely unlike the house's grounds
in our world, reconstructed and prettified and circled round
by tetzeltowns, where all manner of indulgences were peddled to the coin-ringing faithful.

"That old barn," E said, glancing over. "It's not as old as
I am and it's already fallin' down."

The road Graceland faced, the route by which we departed Memphis, had been renamed Elvis Presley Boulevard
while its namesake still lived. I debated whether this moment
suitabled to point this out, and aware E of why we'd come for
him; decided that, as circumstanced, he was probably in no
more mood to hear than I was to tell. The road narrowed as we left town; its two lanes straightarrowed into deeper south.
Clumps of brown pine and bare-leafed deciduous were interspersed between gas stations, diners and shacks, and I
espied the interstate and its accompanying atmosphere
coming close. Its wall curved toward our road, rising above
the fields some two hundred meters off to the left, paralleling our route.

"When can we untie John?"

"That's his name?" E asked. "Drive and don't worry. It's
air-cooled in here, he's comfortable enough. He's really
your husband?"

"Why would I lie?"

"I didn't say you did. He looks ten years older'n you."

"Two."

"I said he looked it," said E. "Can't say I buy that, ma'am.
Pretty woman like you wouldn't marry some old dog like
him."

"Don't macho me," I said. "Did your mother do something to you?"

"Lady, it's nobody's business but mine-"

"I'm involved in your business."

"You got yourself involved, walkin' in without knockin',"
E said. "Nobody ever teach you manners?"

"Manners? You murder and you talk etiquette to me-?"

I noticed he'd slackened his grip on his gun-seemed, in
truth, almost to have forgotten he held it. Lunging for it
while driving seemed to me an unsound response, and so I
didn't attempt seizure. As I sized him sidelong, my glance
repeatedly returned to his eyes; I was almost certain that
he'd mascaraed his lashes, as had our world's Elvis. Without
doubt I suspected that he used his mother's makeup.

"I don't wanta talk about that," he said. "Damn
women-

"Women? You're alive, she's not."

"Alive in body," he said. "Hell, lady. When you get acted on, what're y'gonna do? Devil owns this world, you know
that. Man can't do nothin' 'cept take it as it comes."

"You're talking as if you're scripted," I said, estimating it
best that I continue to assuage and misdirect, talking him
into deeper distraction. One approach I could have taken
was one John couldn't opt for; but I imagined no condition
which would cause me to attempt seduction. Recalling so
well as I could my younger days, when Judy and I conned as
willed those we wished to bend, I earplayed my way through,
drawing upon technik I'd forgotten I had. "You're disassociating blame. No devil killed your mother."