Dark End of the Street

She sat down. He leaned close as the boy disappeared to make a phone call. He’d been drinking. And smoking. She smelled the Scotch and Cuban cigars he lived on. How did she ever find him appealing?

He held her hand, smoothing his long calloused fingers over hers. His nails were too long for a man. But clean and manicured. “Y’all fucked up,” he said. “You should’ve taken that little girl out to Moon Lake and did it there. This was sloppy as hell, Perfect.”

“You knew,” she said and drew her hand away. She took a breath and pretended like she was watching the monitors.

Ransom plucked a cigar into his mouth, lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke that crinkled and curled up into the ceiling. He stayed silent for a few minutes, just studying the wavering image of the man. He kept clicking it back and forth and toying with the video until he pointed to something she could barely make out.

“Parking pass from the Peabody Hotel,” he said. His voice weathered and cracked.

The boy walked back in the room, smiling. “Man’s name is Travers,” he said. “He’s from New Orleans.”

“I’ll head up to Memphis tonight,” Perfect said. “He’s probably still at the hotel.”

Ransom shook his head. “C. J., I want you to call Mr. Jim back. Have him put this thing out. I want someone quick, dirty, and good.”

“That bastard tied me up like a hog,” she said.

Ransom laughed to himself. “He sure did… but no.” He took another long draw of the cigar and surveyed Perfect’s crossed legs. “You ever killed someone?”

She nodded.

“Maybe some poor ole fool that couldn’t see it coming. But this is different.”

“Let me go,” Perfect said. “Let me learn.”

Ransom caressed the back of her neck. She remembered all those nights in Biloxi when she was nineteen. The spending sprees, the cocaine, and all those random blackouts. He still had a spot for her. He’d give in.

He watched her legs some more. She parted them a half inch and saw his eyes move up to her face, scanning for something. Maybe trying to see if she was serious about killing the man who had disrespected her and made her feel so nasty.

Ransom nodded. “Lord help this man Travers,” he said, toying with the band around his cigar. He ripped the band away and studied the label for a while as if he were reading a novel. “Tell Mr. Jim to make the hits for twenty thousand dollars. Each.”

His face and eyes clouded with purple smoke.

Graceland Too stood in Holly Springs, a good thirty miles from Oxford and about fifty from Memphis. A back city street led to the old two-story plantation house guarded by stone lions. Just like the ones at E’s place. But this place wasn’t so fancy. A vine grew wild and twisted up over the first floor and by the chimney. And the owner, some heavy guy named Paul McLeod, had stuck a satellite dish out back. All for a good purpose, Jon Burrows thought. This place was jacked into Elvis twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.

McLeod charged tourists five bucks to come look at his E collection. He’d take the early shift and his son, Elvis Aaron Presley McLeod, would take the night. Junior was about six foot five and had this “photographic memory.” He could remember things about E that Burrows had never even heard of.

The family had pictures of E on their walls, their ceilings, even in the damned bathroom. E played on about twenty televisions all through the house. Speedway in the living room. Change of Habit in the dining room. And the ’68 Comeback Special in the kitchen.

Burrows smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow with the black Resistol hat he’d just bought at a truck stop outside Vicksburg. It was there that he’d called Black Elvis who put him in touch with the McLeods. Black Elvis said they’d take care of him until the heat wore off a bit. So he’d stayed there with them for the last couple weeks. And man, did they treat him right. Salty country ham in the morning with a side of hot biscuits. Even had coffee mugs with E’s face on them.

Burrows walked down the gravel road, cicadas buzzin’ in the trees, a red twilight shining down on rain pools dotting the land. Tonight, everything smelled like sex. Rich and humid. Steam smoking from the hot ground. The air filled with sweet honeysuckle.

Man, he sure missed his woman, Dixie. Black Elvis said her trailer would be the first place the police would look. But, man, he wanted to call his Tupelo honey so bad right now the buttons were about to pop off his fly.

“Mister Jon,” McLeod called out into the early night.

Burrows looked up at the porch of the old house. McLeod said it was 150 years old. Maybe that’s why it kind of leaned to the right.

“Mister Jon, Elvis ’bout to put on Viva Las Vegas and I knowed that it’s yore favorite. You was tellin’ us about Miss Ann – you know, the Memphis Mafia called her Thumper – liked to get all hot when they was dancin’. You know, rubbin’ their noses together and all.”

“All right.”