In the setting December sun, the fluorescent Heartache sign flickered to life, then winked into retirement. Evidently most of the bulbs had not been replaced since the Heartache Motel’s Memphis inception, somewhere between 1962 and 1983, give or take a lost decade. If I squinted I could see the remnants of the vintage Triple-A insignia, probably torn out for fear of libel. It didn’t give me much hope. But we were here to help a friend. And because of the friend’s circumstances, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the seediness of our chosen meeting place.
I supposed when you wanted to find low-down, dirty crooks, you had to look for them in their habitat. Which would also be low-down and dirty. And The Heartache Motel matched that bill pretty dang well.
“A cross-country trip to Vegas sounds a lot more exciting in theory. Remind me next time not to do it by bus.” I dropped my suitcase on the sidewalk and eyed my traveling companion. How the man could survive an eight-hour bus ride and still look like he stepped out of an ad for Modern Viking Magazine is one of God’s great mysteries.
I had caught my own reflection in the bus window and almost spit Coke out of my nose. My sequined “Santa’s Ho” t-shirt had more creases and stains than da Vinci’s original sketches. My fair skin felt drier than a Saltine and somewhere between Halo, Georgia, and Memphis, Tennessee, my makeup had disappeared. I will not mention my hair, but eight hours of piped-in air had produced enough static electricity in my blonde filaments that I could possibly solve an energy crisis.
“Baby, I don’t know about this place,” said Todd McIntosh. He had shortened my given name, Cherry Tucker, to “Baby” sometime after our first date a few months past and I had given up correcting him. Todd was one of those adorable guys who made the dumb stuff they did seem cute. But as I didn’t see our relationship going anywhere except Vegas, I didn’t fret.
“The address matches the one Byron gave me, but it looks kind of run-down.”
“Bill Campbell’s thirty-one-year-old thoroughbred is run-down,” I said, pointing to the graffiti tagging decorating the side of the building and the creative use of plywood as window treatments. “This place is plain ol’ sleazy. Are you ready for this?”
“Byron’s my cousin.” Lines worried Todd’s angelic features. “I should be asking you that question. It’s one thing to take you along to Vegas, but to ask you to stop in Memphis for this sort of thing…”
“Don’t you worry, hon’.” I patted Todd’s bulky bicep, which sent a teensy thrill spiraling through me. “I’m always ready for squaring things to rights. And I think we’ve got a great plan.”
“Yeah.” Todd’s grin lit the evening sky brighter than the fluorescent motel sign. “I remember some of your great plans from back in the day.”
I had known Todd forever and more. In high school, he had wandered the edges of my social circles, a gangly lone wolf who became a poker phenom when no one was looking. I had returned from college and found he had retained his beanpole height but replaced the lankiness with a chiseled six-pack, sculpted shoulders, and rock hard boo-hiney.
Throw in the fact that he’s a drummer with dimples, when he had finally asked me out, I RSVP’d with a “Hell, yes.” Against my better judgment.
Which I should listen to more often.
We pushed through the cracked glass doors and into the wood-paneled lobby. Blue Christmas warbled through hidden speakers and tinsel glowed dully from flaccid garlands looped around the room. The Heartache’s attempt at Christmas cheer hadn’t extended into the scent department. A dumpster had a more festive aroma.
“I got us the honeymoon suite,” said Todd. “It included the Christmas Elvis show and a bottle of champagne. Isn’t that cool?”
I gave him a what-kind-of-girl-do-you-think-I-am look.
Todd shrugged, but couldn’t hide his saucy grin.
Not that I didn’t trust Todd. Although sometimes my hormones around beautiful men couldn’t be trusted. My mother had the same problem but gave in to the call of her libido. I tried to learn from my mistakes. Namely a disastrous romance with a man who escaped me by joining the Army. Seriously, what level of commitment-phobe uses an Afghanistan bunker as an escape from a relationship?
Behind the garland and tinsel-festooned window, a very masculine woman smiled at us. With a red wig teased and combed to achieve heights not seen since the 1960s, the drag queen fluttered her triple-elongated falsies and placed a large hand over the low, rounded neckline of her canary yellow chiffon dress. A charm bracelet slid from her wrist down her arm, and she dropped her hand to wiggle the bracelet back to her thick wrist.
As I had gone to art school in Savannah, the sight of a female impersonator was akin to old home week. I glanced at Todd to see if he had taken note of Ann Margaret’s muscular arms and thick neck. Todd’s happy grin had not changed. Which probably meant he was too focused on the honeymoon suite to notice Ann’s Adam’s apple.
“Welcome to the Heartache Motel,” called the Ann Margaret-wannabe in a deep voice set to tittery. “We’re famous as the only Elvis-inspired motel with staff that specializes in impersonations of the King’s entourage. I’m Man-Margaret. How can I help?”
“We’ve got a reservation,” I said, handing her our printout. “We’re in the honeymoon suite.”
“Isn’t that cute.” She slid an appraising glance over me then stopped on Todd’s dimpled grin. “Newlyweds? You’ll love our Blue Hawaii Honeymoon Suite. One dip in the Love Me Tender hot tub with a complimentary glass of the All Shook Up sparkling wine and you’ll be in wedded bliss.”
With a wink toward Todd, she put a hand next to her mouth and mimed whispering. “Or let the misses enjoy the hot tub and you can join me in the bar, honey.”
“We’re on our way to Vegas,” said Todd. “Staying two nights because my cousin lives nearby and recommended this place. Thought we’d shake the dirt from our boots and say ‘Merry Christmas’ to him before getting back on the bus.”
“Vegas? Wonderful. You’re honeymooning in the King’s second home,” Man-Margaret exclaimed.
“We’re not married, nor getting hitched. We don’t need the honeymoon suite. Any old suite will do,” I said with a fair hint of impatience towards Man-Margaret’s obsession with weddings. “Todd here is playing in a poker tournament. I’m accompanying him as a personal cheerleader and to make sure he doesn’t get lonely spending Christmas away from home.”
“You need to tell the Colonel all about your poker tournament. He’s quite the poker connoisseur. He’ll know where to find a Texas Hold Them or whatever. He tends bar for us in the Suspicious Minds.” She drew her hand in a Vanna White wave toward the bar entrance at the far side of the lobby.
With prepared lines I wished I meant, I turned to Todd and placed a hand on his arm. “Now Todd, you are going to play plenty of poker in Vegas. This stopover was meant to be a visit with your cousin. Then there’s Graceland and the art museum.” I smiled at Man-Margaret. “I’m an artist.”
“Exciting,” Man purred. “An artist and a poker player.”
“I’m also a drummer,” said Todd.
“Then make sure you have time for our Blue Christmas show. One night only. It’s at eight o’clock tonight in the Suspicious Minds Bar. One of our local girls booked the limited showing.”
“Sounds great,” beamed Todd.
She tapped on the keys of her computer. “Sorry, but looks like you used one of those discount sites, so you can’t switch rooms.” She winked and held out the metal key attached by a chain to a plastic heart. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll need a honeymoon suite by the end of your Vegas trip.”
“Maybe,” said Todd, grabbing the key. “I’m feeling pretty lucky this trip.”
“Honeymoon? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” I said. “Save up that luck and spend it on your poker tournament.”
“One thing poker’s taught me, you never know your next hand.” An unusually thoughtful gleam sparked Todd’s eyes. “I feel like I’m going to get lucky in all sorts of ways this trip.”
“I can tell you one way you’re not getting lucky and it involves the honeymoon suite.”
That took a little holly jolly out of Todd’s step, but I believed in showing all my cards when it came to sharing rooms with themed hot tubs and sparkling wine. I’d had my share of that kind of luck with my first love, Luke Harper, although our suite and champagne was a pickup and six-pack. Now, I was older and wiser in the ways of sweet-talking men.
Besides, Todd needed to hone his concentration on the task at hand and then the Vegas tournament. If he won big, we’d discuss his luck in other areas.