Sailor & Lula (52 page)

“Not much of a view,” Lula said, looking out the window of their third-floor room. Across the street was a dilapidated row of mostly abandoned brown brick buildings.

“Didn't come to Memphis for the view, peanut,” said Sailor. “Just us and Elvis's home place is all we need.”

He came up behind Lula, hugged her with his large arms folded across her breasts, and kissed her gently on the nape of her neck.

“Harder, Sail, honey. Bite me there on the neck how I like it.”

Sailor gnawed harder on the lower part of Lula's neck and the tops of her shoulders, which made her moan. She bent backward into him, then forward, dipping her head as she lifted her skirt and lowered her panties.

“Stick it in, Sailor,” she said. “Find a hole and drill me.”

After they'd made love and showered, Sailor and Lula went downstairs to find a restaurant. Sailor was about to ask the desk clerk if he knew of a good place when Lula grabbed his arm and pointed to a man standing just inside the front entrance.

“Do you recognize him?” Lula asked. “Ain't that Sparky? You remember, he and his friend Buddy was stranded with us in Big Tuna, Texas.”

“It sure is, Lula. Holy shit. You know, some years back I thought I saw him on the late-night cable TV sellin' hair restorer. Wasn't certain, though.”

They walked up behind the man, who was facing the street, and Sailor tapped him on the right shoulder.

“Hey, pardner, you ever been stuck in the Big Tuna?”

Sparky, who was wearing a straw half-Stetson similar to the one he'd worn in Texas almost thirty years before, turned around and grinned broadly when he recognized the couple.

“Well, look at this! It sure is good to know some of us poor white trash has somehow survived the ravages of time.”

Sparky and Sailor shook hands and Lula gave him a big hug.

“Sailor Ripley, I presume,” said Sparky. “I thought we'd seen the last of you, along with Bobby Peru and Perdita Durango. Got yourself in with a tough twosome down there. Good to see you made it out.”

“Barely did, but here I am. Here we are. Me'n Lula been together again almost eighteen years now.”

“Lula, you're just as sweet-lookin' a young thing as ever. Still got that real black hair and big gray eyes with violet lakes in 'em I ain't never forgot.”

Lula laughed. “I ain't young no more, and the eyes are real, okay. But I kinda have to cheat now and then on the hair, which is threatenin' to go the way of my eyes.”

“Me'n Buddy used to handle hair products back when we had the House of Santería in Waggaman, Louisiana. I could still get you some good dye, you want it.”

“I thought that was you and Buddy one time doin' a commercial on the TV!” said Sailor.

Sparky smiled. “We did that for a while, till the FDA come after us. Before that we owned a bar in Dallas. Never did make it back to California.”

“Where's Buddy?” Lula asked.

“Waitin' for him now. Better standin' inside the Me'n the Devil Motel here than catchin' a stray slug in the street. Memphis is a unpredictable town.”

“What are you-all doin' in Memphis?” Sailor asked.

“Got us a new business, prosperin', too.”

Sparky took a card out of his Madras sports coat pocket and handed it to Sailor.

“ ‘S&B Organ Retrieval Service,' ” Sailor read out loud. “ ‘Only the best parts.' ”

“We got a 800 number, you'll notice.”

“Organ retrieval?” said Lula. “What in hell's that?”

“Vital body pieces,” Sparky said. “Heart, kidneys, eyes, even livers, though real useful ones is difficult to come by, given the Southern disposition toward Rebel Yell and Wild Turkey.”

“Sparky, you jokin'?” Lula asked.

“Nope. We got us some steady customers in the private sector. Keep that card, Sailor. Might come in handy. What about you folks? What's been happenin' all these years? And why're you in Memphis?”

“Sailor's vice-president of the Gator Gone Corporation now, produces alligator and crocodile repellent. It's a worldwide operation, even in India.”

“Sell a bunch over there, that's the truth,” said Sailor.

“We have a house in Metairie,” Lula said, “by New Orleans. Our son, Pace, is livin' in Nepal, leadin' expeditions in the Himalaya mountains.”

“Man,” said Sparky, “life fools me right and left.”

“We come up to visit Graceland,” said Sailor. “Never been here before.”

“Tomorrow's Sailor's birthday, his fiftieth. We're celebratin'.”

“Guess you know about what the King's widow and daughter're doin' with mostly all the proceeds from the estate now, don't ya?”

“No,” Sailor said, “what's that?”

“All goes to the Church of Myrmidon, that mind-control cult headquartered in San Diego. The widow and the kid're whole hog in the grip of that fake prophet calls himself Myrmidon, claims to have visited Venus and Mars and wrote all them books about out-of-body experiences. Man lives on a three-hundred-foot yacht, cruises the Greek Islands and the French Riviera. Saw in the newspaper where he was at the Cannes Film Festival last week promotin' a movie about his life. Can't set foot on U.S. soil or the Feds'll feed him into the shredder.”

“Heard of the Church of Myrmidon,” said Sailor, “but I didn't know they was suckin' the blood out the King's afterlife.”

“Yeah, the Colonel bled him while he was alive, and now this Phelp Bonfuca, calls himself Myrmidon, drains his heirs.”

“You say Phelps Bonfuca?”

“Uh huh. Myrmidon's real handle.”

“I was in the joint with him,” said Sailor. “At Huntsville. I did a dime standin' up for that stunt with Bobby Peru, and for four of 'em Phelps Bonfuca was in the same cell block. He was in on some bunco beef. Pyramid scam, I think. Milkin' suckers.”

“Still at it,” said Sparky. “Only on a big-time basis.”

Sailor shook his head. “This don't make me feel so good now about goin' to Graceland, knowin' the money's endin' up in Phelps's pockets.”

“It don't matter, Sail, sweetheart,” said Lula. “Could be worse. The fam'ly might be donatin' the proceeds to the Cath'lic Church, or the Mormons or somethin'. One cult's same as another.”

“Kinda disappoints me, is all.”

“Don't matter what people do with their money,” said Sparky, “long as they spend it, keep it comin' around where the other guy can reach in, he gets the chance, and grab him a fistful. Say, you folks hungry? Here's Buddy now.”

Sailor and Lula looked through the glass door and saw a brown Ply-mouth Voyager pull up in front. The words S&B ORGAN RETRIEVAL SERVICE—ONLY THE BEST PARTS were stenciled in white on the side.

“We was just about to find us a restaurant when we seen you,” said Lula.

“Come on, then,” said Sparky. “We'll get some ribs. I know a place they take 'em off the body for you!”

Venus Tishomingo was six feet even and weighed a solid one-hundred-seventy-five pounds. Her hands were each the size of an infielder's glove, and she wore a 12-D shoe. Her hair was chestnut brown and very thick, and hung down loose past her waist. She wore at least one ring on every finger other than her thumbs. They were cheap, colorful rings she'd bought in pawn shops in Memphis. Her eyes were clear, almost colorless stones set deep in her skull. Most people had a difficult time staring into them for very long before becoming uncomfortable and having to look away. At first glance, Venus's eyes resembled pristine pebbles in a gentle, smooth-flowing stream, but then they came alive and darted toward whomever's eyes met hers. She sat in her one-bedroom cottage in a gooseneck rocking chair, wearing only a well-faded pair of Wrangler blue jeans, reading the
Oxford Eagle
, waiting for Consuelo to arrive or call. An item datelined Jackson caught her eye.

“Pearl Buford, of Mockingbird, accused of trying to sell two of her grandchildren in an adoption scam, has pleaded innocent to charges in federal court here. Buford, 34, who told authorities she used to baby-sit professionally, also pleaded innocent to six counts of mail fraud involving solicitation of offers for the children. She is currently unemployed. Her daughter, Fannie Dawn Taylor, 16, a dropout after finishing 8th grade at Mockingbird Junior High, pleaded innocent to one count of mail fraud.”

Venus had it in mind to adopt a child that she and Consuelo could raise together. Maybe more than one. It was too bad, Venus thought, that Pearl Buford hadn't contacted her about taking on Fannie Dawn's kids.

Venus massaged her left breast with her right hand, tickling the nipple with the second and third fingers until it stood out taut and long as it would go. She had large breasts that were extremely sensitive to touch, and Consuelo knew perfectly how to suck on and fondle them. Venus dropped the newspaper and slid her left hand down inside the front of her jeans and rubbed her clit. She closed her eyes and thought about a photograph of a cat woman she'd seen in a book in the Ole Miss library that afternoon. It wasn't really a cat woman but two negatives printed simultaneously, one
atop the other, of a cat and a woman, so that the face was half-human, half-feline, with long white whiskers, weird red bolts for eyes and perfect black Kewpie doll lips. Venus came quickly, bucking sharply twice before relaxing and slumping down in the chair. She removed her left hand and let it drape over the arm of the rocker. Her right hand rested in her lap. Venus was almost asleep when Consuelo knocked on the door.

Venus jumped up and opened it. Consuelo threw herself forward onto her naked chest.

“I'm starved, Venie,” Consuelo said. “I need your lovin'.”

“Got it comin', baby,” said Venus, stroking Consuelo's wheat-light hair with a large brown hand.

Venus heard a car engine idling, looked over Consuelo's left shoulder out the door and saw the black Duster in front of the house.

“Who's that?” she asked.

“Wesley Nisbet, the one I told you about. He's a pest, but he give me a lift here. Followed the ride I caught outta Jackson, picked me up again in Batesville.”

“He truly dangerous?”

“Maybe, like most.”

“He figurin' you're gonna invite him in?”

Consuelo swung her right leg backward and the door slammed shut. “Just another mule kickin' in his stall,” she said.

When Wesley saw the door close, he shifted the Duster into first and eased his pantherlike machine away. He drove into town, parked on the northwest side of the square in front of a restaurant-bar named The Mansion, got out of the car and went inside.

“J. W. Dant, double,” Wesley said to the bartender, as he hopped up on a stool. “One cube, splash water.”

A toad-faced man with a greasy strand of gray-yellow hair falling over his forehead sat on the stool to Wesley's left. The man was wearing a wrinkled burgundy blazer with large silver buttons over a wrinkled, dirty white shirt and a wide, green, food-stained tie. He wobbled as he extended his right hand toward Wesley.

“Five Horse Johnson,” the man said. “You?”

“That a clever way of tellin' me you got a short dick or's it your name?”

The man laughed once, very loudly, and wiped his right hand on his coat.

“Nickname I got as a boy. Had me a baby five HP outboard on a dinghy, used to go fishin' in Sardis Lake. Can't hardly remember my so-called Christian one, though the G-D gov'ment reminds me once a year. Hit me up for the G-D tax on my soul, they do. Strip a couple pounds a year. Forty-five G-damn years old. Amazed there's any flesh left to cover the nerves. You ain't from Oxford.”

“No, ain't.”

“Then you prob'ly don't know the local def'nition of the term ‘relative humidity.' ”

Wesley picked up his drink, which the bartender had just set in front of him, and took a sip.

“What's it?”

“Relative humidity is the trickle of sweat runs down the crack of your sister-in-law's back while you're fuckin' her in the ass.”

Five Horse Johnson grinned liplessly, exposing six slimy orange teeth, then fell sideways off his stool to the floor. Wesley finished his whisky and put two dollars on the bar.

“This do it?” he asked the bartender, who nodded.

Wesley unseated himself and stepped over Five Horse Johnson, who was either dead or asleep or in some indeterminate state between the two.

“Professional man, I'll guess.”

“Lawyer,” said the bartender.

“I known others,” Wesley said, and walked out.

Sailor and Lula spent most of their first afternoon in Memphis having lunch with Sparky and Buddy in the Hound Dog Cafe on Elvis Presley Boulevard across the street from Graceland, a place that specialized in Elvis's favorite sandwich, peanut butter and banana on white. The four of them passed on “The White Trash Blue Plate,” as Buddy called it, and ate hamburgers as they listened to old Sun 45s by the Killer, the King, Roy Orbison, Charlie Rich and Carl Perkins on the jukebox, and filled each other in on their respective activities over the past quarter of a century and more. After lunch, Sailor and Lula exchanged addresses and telephone numbers with Sparky and Buddy, who went back to work at Organ Retrieval, and then browsed the Elvis souvenir shops.

Sailor was reluctant to tour Graceland now that he knew about the connection to Phelps Bonfuca, alias Myrmidon, and he told Lula he wanted to think it over some more. He was tempted to go through Elvis's private jet, the
Lisa Marie,
which was on display in the Graceland parking lot, but he resisted the urge, since that cost money, too. He did buy a few postcards and two Elvis tee shirts—both decorated with photos from
Jailhouse Rock,
his favorite Elvis movie—at a shop called The Wooden Indian, because he figured Elvis's heirs didn't own it.