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Authors: Peggy Webb

Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble (20 page)

BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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Chapter 21
High Stakes, Hijinks, and Hardened Criminals
N
o sooner have I set foot on the beach in front of the hotel than Fayrene spots me and streaks my way.
“Yoohoo! Callie!” Lest I fail to see her, she waves her arms and keeps calling as she comes.
In cabbage green pedal pushers with matching blouse and a green Panama hat the size of a bale of hay, she’s impossible to miss. As a matter of fact, half the people on the beach turn to wave at her and call out
Yoohoo!
This is nothing new to me. When you’re kin to Mama and friends with Fayrene, daily public displays come with the package.
A breeze has sprung up. If the wind gets under her hat, Fayrene’s liable to sail all the way to Arkansas. I catch her arm as she whizzes by and then lead her to a couple of beach chairs protected from the breeze and nosey beachcombers by a tamale stand.
“When did you last see Mama?”
She consults her watch. “Exactly one hour and fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s hardly enough time to say someone took her. Did you see any suspicious-looking characters around? Alvin or Lulu Farkle? Rosita?”
“No, but I know. It’s my ESPN.”
Holy cow! If my last nerve snaps, I won’t be responsible for what I do. At least, though, I can relax about Mama a bit.
“That’s hardly a basis to claim kidnapping.”
“She said she’d meet me here fifteen minutes ago. Ruby Nell is always punctuated.”
Oh, great.
Fifteen minutes is even less time to cry
foul play.
“What was Mama doing? How’d you two get separated?”
“After she caught up with me, I was changing clothes when that maid came in, that Carmita you said for us to find out about. Well, she and Ruby Nell got to talking . . .”
“Wait a minute. I don’t think Carmita speaks English and I know Mama doesn’t speak Spanish.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea. Ruby Nell’s been practicing Spanish ever since Charlie invited her to the undertakers’ convention, and that Carmita was talking English up a storm.”
“So, what happened?”
“The first thing I know, Ruby Nell said she was heading to
the back room
with Carmita and she’d meet me at the beach bar in an hour.” Fayrene taps her watch as a witness. “On the dot.”
“The back room? Do you have any idea where that is?”
“I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. Bobby Huckabee told me I was in danger from a dark-eyed señorita, so I stayed behind to man the port.”
The only good thing I can say about all this is that Bobby has upgraded his prediction. After telling Fayrene to call Uncle Charlie with the latest development, then wait for me in her room, I head back to the hotel to discover the whereabouts of “the back room.”
Thanks to corpses that won’t stay put and dead Elvis impersonators and dancers who dive off rooftops, I’m no stranger to sleuthing. If you want to locate a slightly shady back room, you ask a slightly shady character.
Though a few of the undertakers fit the bill, I don’t think HI,
I’M BILL FROM CALIFORNIA
can help me. Ditto ,
HI I’M LEON FROM TEXAS
.
I’m skulking around the lobby, trying to locate sleazy characters when I notice the cab driver who picked us up at the ferry, parked outside the entrance. Lurking is a better word. There’s something about the way he’s slouched behind the wheel studying the tourists that makes me want to offer him a toothbrush and soap and enroll him in a Dale Carnegie course.
Trying to appear casual, I saunter his way. If I had one of Mama’s cigarettes, I could create the perfect character—a whole lot bored, a little bit wild, and looking for trouble.
“Hi,” I lean in the window. “I’m looking for a little action around here.”
“Move on, lady. All I do is drive a cab.”
Something about his eyes tells another story.
I peel a ten out of my pocket and pass it to him. “I’ve heard the back room is where I want to be.”
“How bad do you want to be there?”
I hand him another ten and he spits out the window. I come up with another ten, my last.
He wads the bills into his pocket, and nods toward the hotel. “Basement. Down the stairs, past the laundry, and turn right. Can’t miss it.”
I’d ask him what’s going on in the back room, but that would be pushing my luck. Ostensibly, I already know. And, in any case, I’ll soon find out.
I start to walk off, then remember who I’m supposed to be and add a swing to my sashay. Lovie would approve. She believes in flaunting your natural assets.
Losing myself in the lobby crowd, I angle toward the stairs and push open the door. The stairwell is poorly lit and creepy. I pat my holster just to reassure myself that I’ve still got a deadly weapon up my skirt.
I try for stealth, but in the concrete and metal enclosure, the echo of my footsteps could wake the dead.
Suddenly I freeze. It sounds like I am not alone.
Listen, the way these last few days have turned out, I wouldn’t be surprised to stumble over a corpse on the stairs or have something half-dead waiting around the corner.
I ease out my gun and hold it in front of me with both hands, just like Jack taught me in my other life as wife to the sexiest man on the planet.
I’m not even going to go there.
Unfortunately, my posturing won’t make up for the fact that I can’t hit the side of a barn, let alone a tin can off Mama’s pasture fence. Creeping down the final few stairs, I step into a narrow hallway and ease toward the sound.
Did the cab driver say right or left? I’m so nervous I can’t remember. Using my cousin’s favorite decision-making process, I whisper,
Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.
I turn right and discover the monster lurking around the corner—an industrial-size dryer whose load has shifted and is knocking the machine around.
Light spills from a half-open doorway down the hall. Heading that way, I hear another sound—Mama’s laughter. A good sign. I ease my gun down to my side and step into the room.
There’s Mama, cards in one hand, cigarette holder in the other, and half my after-Thanksgiving shoe budget on the table.
She looks up. “It’s just my daughter. Bet or pass.”
I’m as close as I’ve ever been to saying one of Lovie’s words when I notice that one of the back room gamblers is Carmita.
“Callie, let me introduce you to my friends. This handsome fellow is Raoul from the kitchen, next to him is Pete from Texas, and I believe you know Carmita.”
I hide my gun behind my back and tell everybody hello. Then, “Mama, we need to talk.”
“Just a minute.” She spreads her cards on the table, says, “Full house,” then rakes in my money.
Thank goodness. At the rate she’s going, I ought to let her play another hand or two. Maybe I’ll get my loan back. A first.
She grabs her loot, says, “Toodle-ooo. See ya’ll later,” and we get out of there before somebody sees that I’ve got a gun and Mama was there to snoop.
There’s no telling what back room regulars do if they discover you’ve entered their game under false pretenses. At least, I hope Mama’s were false.
As soon as we’ve gained the stairs, I ask her.
“You did go down there to find out about Carmita?”
“Ha.”
“Mama, that’s not a word. And since when have you ever said
ya’ll.
”
“It’s part of my Southern belle disguise. I didn’t want them to catch on that I’m a seasoned private eye who could take them all down.”
I don’t point out that Mama’s not a private eye and that the only thing she takes down with any regularity is my bank account. We have to move fast. Any minute now we could be chased by back room losers or Lulu Farkle still mad about her Marilyn Monroe makeup and her failed chain of Farkle Funeral Homes.
We race to the top of the stairs, and I’m proud to say that Mama doesn’t miss a beat. Listen, I’ve got some good genes. Between my daily exercise regimes and Mama’s DNA, I could become an entry in the
Guinness Book of World Records
—the woman whose eggs got fertilized after everybody in Mooreville had dropped her from the prayer list.
We push through to the lobby and collapse into a couple of wing chairs overlooking the beach.
“What did you find out, Mama?”
“You’ll never guess Juanita and Rosita’s father.”
“Holy cow, Mama. I don’t want to play guessing games.”
“Archie Morgan.”
“That explains why Juanita would deck herself out in sheets and help her daddy chase off Rocky’s crew.”
“Not Juanita. Rosita. She forced her sister into helping her with the sheets.”
“Was Rosita the one who helped kidnap me?”
“We didn’t get that far. Raoul and Pete came in and I couldn’t very well talk about kidnapping in front of them.”
“If Rosita’s involved, she’s probably keeping it from her mother.”
“Flitter, Carolina. You can’t keep anything from a mother.”
That would strike terror to my heart if I didn’t already know that what Mama says is true. Listen, when Jack left, she knew before I even called her, even before Mooreville’s grapevine got a whiff. Don’t ask me how.
I’m in the middle of telling Mama that Fayrene’s waiting in their room when Uncle Charlie rings my cell phone.
“Jack’s found Lovie and Elvis.” I burst into tears. Extreme happiness always does that to me. “Meet me on the beach. The Company’s sending a helicopter.”
“I can go, too?”
“Jack needs you. Hurry. I’ll explain later.”
I might pass out from anxiety. I give Mama only the good news, but I also give her a job to do. Mama hates being left out.
“Call Darlene and Bobby. Let them know Jack found Lovie and Elvis.”
“Darlene and Bobby, my hind foot. We’re calling everybody in Mooreville.”
The first thing I see when I step outside is the chopper that dominates the beach, its blades beating the air. Uncle Charlie spots me, ducks down, and races to my side.
“Come, dear heart. We don’t have a minute to lose.”
“Jack?”
“We’re airlifting him to the hospital.”
“Alive?”
“Yes. He sounded strong on the phone.”
I hurry into the chopper, then collapse against Uncle Charlie as it lifts off, destination unknown. At least to me.
We’re out over the Caribbean before I notice that I’m traveling with twin Incredible Hulks—men so large they look as if they could bench press Texas before breakfast and then jog to Canada and back before supper. Two men I wouldn’t want to meet in the dark—or anywhere else—without Uncle Charlie or Jack Jones.
Well, there you have it. Jack Jones, who at this very moment may be lying somewhere in the jungle bleeding and torn limb from limb and no-telling-what-all, is always on my mind.
Listen, with that kind of mindset, I’m in the wrong business. I ought to give up beauty and become a country-andwestern singer.
“Uncle Charlie?” I nod my head in the direction of the twin Abominable Snowmen.
“Company men.”
No use to ask more. He won’t tell, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know.
All I can say is that since I’m going into hostile territory with nothing but the weapon under my skirt, I’m glad these two are my backup.
Elvis’ Opinion # 15 on Diplomacy, Jaguar Traps, and Explorer Dog
W
hile I’m licking my human daddy’s face, Lovie races toward us in full goddess regalia.
“Jack. Thank god you came.” She glances around, obviously searching for the man she expected to storm out of the jungle, barrels blazing, to rescue her. “Where’s Rocky?”
“On a wild goose chase with Seth.”
Lovie says a word that would cauterize wounds. “When I get my hands on them, they’re both dead.”
“Who kidnapped you, Lovie?”
Two natives grab her before she can finger the criminal. I try to tell him with a hasty version of “Devil in Disguise,” but all bedlam has broken loose.
The natives are screeching, and Lovie’s spitting and clawing. If you think the makeup brought out the tigress in Lovie, think again. She’s been a jungle cat since she turned fourteen (the year her mama died and a heartbroken Charlie left his daughter to her own resources).
Just because these villagers are not a bunch of warriors who practice ancient murderous rituals, that doesn’t mean they plan to sit back and twiddle their thumbs while they lose their long lipped god as well as their Earth and Moon goddess.
If Jack had left things to me, Explorer Dog would have had Lovie out of here tonight. As it stands, all his well-honed skills were no match for a jaguar trap.
He’s trying to get up and quell the natives, but he’s lost too much blood. Besides, he’s all tied up.
I try to warn Lovie to cool it, by howling a few bars of “Stay Away, Joe,” but she’s in full Lovie mode. Nothing can stop her now. Except yours truly.
Flattening my ears and sucking in my portly stomach, I light into the wad of humanity. I know I could bare my teeth, nip a few heels, take a chunk of flesh here and there, but I’m basically peaceable by nature. I’m a diplomatic dog. I much prefer building a “Bridge Over Troubled Water” to fisticuffs.
Finally I restore some order. Listen, these natives might not pay homage to the King, but they’re very fond of their long lipped god.
“It’s high time somebody came to my rescue. Even if it’s not the man I was going to let discover my Holy Grail.” Lovie straightens her feathers and marches over to grab my human daddy’s hand. “Take me out of here, Jack. I’ve got scores to settle.”
“I’m a bit tied up right now.”
The natives have bound him, hand and foot. Plus, they’ve followed Lovie, and now they’re surrounding us.
Never show your fear. I shake my ample hips at them, curl my lip and howl,
well’a, well’a, well’a.
All of a sudden the natives take up the chant.
“‘Little Darlin’ in the Yucatan jungle?” Jack says. His color is fading fast, but thankfully, not his sense of humor.
“Blame Elvis,” Lovie tells him.
“What’s going on, Lovie?”
She briefs Jack about our status as gods and speculates that the natives are getting ready to turn him into their next living idol.
As the dog who has seen it all, I can vouch for that. Especially if these natives get a gander at Jack all cleaned up. He’s a fine figure of a man. Reminds me of myself when I was wearing black leather in my comeback concert and had women fainting at my feet.
Considering my skills as a dog of diplomacy, not to mention talent, I’m not worried about Jack’s becoming a god. I can do some fancy howling and set these natives straight on that score. If anybody is all man, it’s Jack Jones. It won’t take me long to convince the locals he’s not woo-woo god material.
My most pressing concern, though, is the state of Jack’s injury. If that leg doesn’t get some attention fast, my human dad is liable to end up losing a limb.
And let me tell you, I don’t want to be on or near the premises when somebody tells him.
I prance my ample self over to the only native in the village who speaks English—the little old woman who was in the hut with the pregnant girls demanding Lovie’s skill as a diviner of unborn-baby gender. I’m going to grab ahold of her bony ankles and not let go till she gets the idea that it’s time to quit trying to turn Americans into gods and let’s us get back to our pickled pigs’ lips, back yard barbecues, and Rock ’n’ Roll.
I’m fixing to haul off and chomp her leg when suddenly my mismatched ears pick up the sound of my master. Speaking fluent Mayan.
Leaning on one elbow, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Jack has the natives mesmerized. I hope he’s explaining that Lovie’s and my god days are over. I think he’s explaining that we’re leaving now, and there’s not a doggoned thing the villagers can do about it.
It’s my fondest hope that he’s also asking the cook to go straight to the kitchen and fetch me a little smackeral of something good for the trip.
I have to say, I’m proud of my human daddy. He’s got the whole village in the palm of his hand.
All of a sudden, I hear the sweetest sound this side of Mooreville.
Chopper blades. Thanks to Jack’s quick thinking, I’m sure. He’d have called for backup the minute he sensed trouble.
Lifting my handsome head, I put my eyes to the sky and see my human mom in the helicopter, waving down at me, her face streaked with tears and split with a smile that’s the stuff of Jack Jones’ dreams.
BOOK: Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
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