Priscilla and I pushed through the glass doors of the Heartache into a flurry of Saturday morning checkouts. With shades resting low on his nose and still wearing his dumpy Santa jumpsuit minus the cape, Santa Elvis sat by the Christmas tree, smoking the stub of a cigarette.
“I guess he’s attached to his character,” I said to Priscilla.
She arched a brow and rolled her lip. “I suspect Elvis is dressed for the walk of shame, although I don’t know if Suspicious Minds covers his brand of beer goggles.”
Outside a horn blared. Santa Elvis flipped his cigarette into the tree stand and stretched from his seat.
“Maybe I should get his autograph for Todd,” I said, trying to cool the excitement in my voice. “He did enjoy last night’s show.”
“Lord, put an Elvis wig on a man and the little girls lose their minds. Honey, he is a terrible Elvis.”
My face reddened. “It’s not like that. The autograph is for Todd.”
“You think I haven’t heard that one before?”
Hitching up his giant, glittery belt, Santa Elvis shoved through the cracked glass door. Before Priscilla could antagonize me with Elvis groupie comments, I slammed out the front door.
“Elvis,” I called. “Can I get an autograph?”
He stopped, squinted through his glasses, and mumbled something about paper.
“Unfortunately, my paper has been absconded. I do have a Sharpie.” I dug in my bag and fished out a Dixie Cake wrapper. “You think you can write on this? It’s only got a little chocolate stuck on.”
He took my Sharpie, jotted on the paper, and slapped it into my palm. Shooting me with his finger, he winked.
“Thanks, Santa Elvis.” I knew he had to be the lamest Elvis in creation, but I had enough of Grandma Jo’s DNA to get a teensy thrill from the autograph.
With a mumbled, “Catch you later, sugar,” Elvis strolled to the curb.
Priscilla sidled up to me with an amused snort. “Santa Elvis write anything interesting?”
“‘Thanks for the rockin’ night. Sorry about your TV. Love ya, girl.’” I wrinkled my nose. “Ew. He has me mixed up with another Heartache guest. I feel like I need another shower.”
“If there are two guests who look like you, this really is one sorry motel.”
A white panel van pulled alongside the curb and Santa Elvis made his move. He yanked on the passenger door handle. The door popped open, revealing the Blue Christmas Review elf.
The elf had lost his green jingle bell suit and gained a polo, khakis, and glasses. With a suggestive hand gesture and a few curt expletives to Santa Elvis, the angry elf motioned for Elvis to take the back seat.
I leaned toward Priscilla. “I think the elf’s not thrilled with Elvis spending the night at the Heartache.”
“That’s the kind of thing that breaks up bands.”
Elvis and the angry elf jabbered at each other for half a minute. The driver leaned over and jerked his thumb toward the backseat. Santa Elvis offered the elf a choice finger and climbed into the rear.
“I’ll be damned if that isn’t Little Jimmy,” I said. “What’s he doing driving around the floor show? I don’t like this. That man ruined a perfectly good sketchbook.”
“Who knows. Maybe Little Jimmy’s got a taxi service as a side job.”
“I’ll catch up with you later.” I glanced around for a cab. I wasn’t sure if I could trust Priscilla, but I needed to follow that van.
“Are you dismissing Priscilla? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m the one with the beef with Little Jimmy, not you.”
“You’re acting like a Charlie’s Angel, all stealthy and such. If you’re following Elvis, I’m following Elvis, too. I get to be Farrah Fawcett. You’re Kate Jackson.”
“Priscilla, you’re making it real hard to maintain my high standard of gracious Southern charm.”
The van pulled away from the curb. I ran toward a yellow cab with Priscilla close on my heels. Giving up on the idea of leaving Priscilla, I pounded on the taxi door. The driver sputtered awake and rolled down the window.
“You see that white van over there? Waiting to pull into traffic?” I pointed.
The driver nodded.
“If you’re coming, get in,” I said and shoved Priscilla into the backseat. I slid in behind her and scooted forward to speak to the driver. “Follow that van. But don’t let it know we’re following.”
“Kate Jackson, you quit with the bossing,” said Priscilla. “You are just like the Colonel, ordering people around and making decisions for everyone.”
“Are you paying for this cab?”
Priscilla dropped her eyes to examine her flawless manicure.
“That’s what I thought. Just be glad I’ve got some money to spend on a cab. It’s an unusual event to find me this loaded.”
“Loaded?” said the cabbie.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “Loaded for me equals Friday night cruising money for the average sixteen-year-old.”
The cab pulled away from the Heartache. We slid forward in our seats, keeping an eye on the van. Little Jimmy took the exit for the interstate, but instead of turning northwest toward downtown Memphis, the SUV headed on the ramp leading east. We passed exits for various suburbs and I watched the money counter on the digital meter flip into the ouch zone.
“Holy crap,” I said. “If they don’t stop somewhere soon, I’m going to run out of money.”
The cabbie darted a look into his rearview and caught my eye.
“If you think you can pull over on the side of the interstate, just forget it,” I said. “This money was supposed to go toward a tree, turkey, and Christmas presents for some children whose daddy just lost his job.”
“You don’t pay me my fare, and my kids’ll have a daddy who lost his job at Christmas.”
Priscilla hooted.
It looked like I was saving Christmas for all kinds of children this year. “Where the hell are we going? Mississippi?”
The driver shrugged.
As the fare inched closer to my breaking point, the van took the off ramp. Our driver slowed and followed, winding through the streets of an industrial area. The van continued over a weedy set of railroad tracks and down a street lined with pawn shops and gas stations offering check cashing services. Young men in hoodies huddled together on corners and watched our cab pass. An honest- to-God hooker waved at us.
I waved back and got an eyeball full of something I’d rather never see again.
As our drive deepened into sketchier territory, Priscilla’s Vandyke Brown eyes grew wider. I took to gnawing on my Fa-La-La-Lavender nails and thought about guardian angels who rescued well-meaning folks from railroad bridges at Christmas.
Finally, the van pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. I directed our cab to park across the street between a discount furniture and a dollar store. The more familiar surroundings of bargain priced shops gave me the shot of confidence I needed.
The cab driver pushed a button and the fare counter blinked. “That’ll be eighty-nine dollars,” said our cabbie.
I handed over a wad of twenties. He didn’t offer change. “Can you wait here? We’re gonna need a ride back.”
He eyed the Christmas shopping clientele at the discount store. A child pointed a toy semi-automatic at the cab and mouthed “boom.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll give you ten minutes and then I’m headed back, fare or no.”
“Deal. Ten minutes.”
I slid out of the cab and hurried to the side of the highway. Semi trucks roared past and beater cars moved at a slower gait. I heard the slam of the cab door and patter of plum platforms on concrete. I didn’t bother to turn around. Either Priscilla hadn’t given up her tail on me or she really did enjoy my company. Maybe she didn’t get many offers to play Charlie’s Angels.
“What were you thinking? Follow that van?” Priscilla set a stony glance toward me and a more menacing one at the van across the street.
“You followed me, remember?”
“Now what, Miss Hicksville?”
“Now I’m just going to jog across this highway and figure out what Little Jimmy, the elf, and Santa Elvis are doing here.”
The wind whipped up, as it usually does in the nastier parts of town, and bits of debris and garbage eddied around our feet. A flatbed truck drove by, kicking more flotsam into the air.
“My Sergio Rossi platforms are getting dirty,” she whined. “And I’m getting pink stuff stuck in the faux fur collar of my genuine imitation 1974 Bis & Beau original.”
“I think that’s insulation.” I said. “At least you’re warm. I’m freezing. I packed for basking in the Las Vegas sun, not playing Frogger with a drag queen.”
Noting a break in the traffic, I grabbed her hand and darted into the highway. A Ford F-250 barreled toward us, and in the opposite lane a Mack truck roared past. Priscilla broke away from my grip and galloped across the remaining blacktop. I chugged my little legs and worked my arms to keep up.
Across the highway, I collapsed against her. “Dang, you’re fast. How do you run in those shoes?”
She patted her hair with the pads of her fingers. “Honey, getting splattered by a truck is not the way to stop traffic. My hair is messed and I need a touch up. Let’s get this gig done so I can freshen up.”
We climbed over the highway barrier and into the parking lot with our backs bowed, our heads up, and our feet scurrying toward the van. I imagined our Mutt and Jeff act caught a few snickers at the nearby pawn shop. We hunkered behind the van and peered around the side.
“That door says it’s a realty office,” I said. “What kind of realtor would want an office in this part of town?”
Priscilla shrugged. “Got to be cheap land around here.”
“But who wants to buy it?”
The rest of the mini-mall stretch comprised of the pawn shop, a diner with barred windows, and an office for a set of storage units. As we pondered our next move, Little Jimmy waddled from the office and clambered into the vehicle.
We dropped to the ground.
“What we gonna do now, Kate Jackson?” said Priscilla. “Besides get run over?”
I cut my eyes to the restaurant. “Keep as low to the ground as possible and run for the diner. Maybe Little Jimmy won’t notice us.”
“Maybe not, but Santa Elvis will.”
“This thing probably has a back-up sensor. As soon as Little Jimmy puts it in reverse, he’s going to know we’re here.” I peered around the side of the van, jumping as the engine turned over and exhaust shot out beneath my arm.
Santa Elvis stood in the open realty doorway, lighting up a smoke. His pose gave him an excellent view of our fine circumstances.
“Crap,” I said.
Santa Elvis held up a hand and beckoned. Little Jimmy opened his door. The chassis shook as he stepped out of the van and onto the pavement. He lumbered toward Santa Elvis, leaving the van running.
“Quick.” I reached for the rear door handle and jerked it. Holding the door open a crack, I climbed inside. The back of the van held a rack of Elvis costumes, a sound mixing board, and speakers.
“You can’t be serious,” Priscilla hissed, dropping her affectation. “I can’t fit in there.”
“Then stroll back to the taxi and hope Elvis doesn’t spot you hunkered behind his ride.”
With an effective eye roll, she slid into the vehicle and onto the floor.
I pulled the door shut and felt the truck rock as Little Jimmy climbed in. Are You Lonesome Tonight? blared from hidden woofers.
“Lord have mercy,” whispered Priscilla. She lay bent in a position that would make a frightening crime scene outline.
I curled up next to her. “Don’t worry. I told you I’d get us out of here.”
“I do not remember Farrah Fawcett spooning Kate Jackson in the back of a vehicle. Getting us out is going to require a historic unfold and fluff.” She grunted as my bony elbow struck soft tissue. “Start thinking, Angel.”