Halfway House Page 16

  “Why do you always have to drink everything in fucking sight?”

  Instead of answering, she lolled her head to the side. Bobby caught her gaze and held it for a brief moment as they passed. He’d seen that kind of faraway look before. In the eyes of hobos across the campfire in the yards. In the eyes of his cellmate at Lawrenceville City Jail. In the eyes of his fellow orphans at the home. In the eyes of his friend Kanga as he dreamed of what it would have been like if he hadn’t run off to be a surfer superhero. All of them had shared the same backwards-looking gaze, as if they could see where things had been good, before whatever had happened to make everything so bad. Why did she always drink? Maybe because she wants to forget where she is.

  “Can I help you?”

  A pair of security guards looked him up and down. One held his palm out, barring the way.

  “I was invited by Mr. Shrewsbury,” Bobby managed to say.

  The security guard glanced over his shoulder, then nodded. Suddenly both the guards’ demeanors changed as they stepped aside. One held open the door, saying, “Have a nice evening, sir.”

  Bobby turned to see who it was behind him. Sure enough, the big Hawaiian stood there, giving a low shaka, his face a stern reminder to keep cool. Bobby turned back, promising himself that cool was where he’d reside, and stepped into the mansion.

  The inside was like everything he’d imagined and like nothing he’d imagined. The marble entryway, the grand staircase to the second floor, the expensive porcelain and Picasso paintings on red-velvet wallpaper were things he’d expected to see. But in the middle of the entry hall, posed like two statues, were a man and a woman, their naked bodies painted in gold and locked in a sexual embrace.

  No matter how metropolitan and worldly Bobby thought he was, he couldn’t keep from mouthing the words what the fuck as he followed the trail of limbs from the man’s feet to the woman’s chin and everything in between, each breast as perfect as if they’d been created by a master sculptor.

  Realizing he was staring, Bobby moved further into the house. To the right was a study, filled with people sitting on chairs and couches and chatting. To the left was a living room where the main party was happening. People of all races and sexual orientation milled about, talking and touching each other.

  He stepped that way and found a tuxedoed waiter presenting a tray of champagne glasses containing dark sparkly liquor. He downed a glass and handed it back to the man. Bobby took one step and felt his knees simultaneously buckle and his spine snap straight. He wobbled a second as his eyes bulged and blood raced through his heart. The burning liquor tasted like black licorice cough syrup but had the kick of a mule.

  He returned it to the waiter who was beaming with pleasure. Evidently he’d had this reaction to the concoction before. But Bobby surprised him by taking another and sipping it. This time it went down easier...

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s called a Jager Bomb, sir.” The man pronounced the J as a Y.

  “Jager Bomb?”

  “It’s a mixture of Jägermeister and Red Bull. All the young people are drinking it these days.”

  I’m young and I’m people, Bobby thought. He slung down the rest of the drink, replaced it on the tray and grabbed another one. And if you aren’t careful, you’ll be a young drunk people, he reminded himself. Bobby nodded to the waiter who moved on, seeking fresh prey.

  Bobby sipped this one and skirted the edge of the party. He kept his eyes on the wall so he wouldn’t be drawn into any conversations and be forced to try his cover story. From waist-high to ceiling, the wall was plastered in pictures of a tall bald man with a goatee beside all sorts of men and women. In every picture, the man wore black boots, jeans and some sort of black shirt. Notably, none of the other people in the photos wore anything.

  For some reason Bobby had forgotten that Shrewsbury was a porn director. How Verdina had hooked up with him was still in question. If it was for regular consenting adult movies, he had no problem, but if Bobby even once thought this was about more pedophiles, he’d find a way to go nuclear on them all.

  So far, Bobby wasn’t getting that vibe from the home.

  He moved on, stepping blithely through conversations about movies coming out, bestselling books people were reading and some fluffer who’d fallen in love with his fluffee and was being sued for sexual harassment.

  Bobby turned a corner and found a woman falling into his arms. He managed to catch her without spilling either of their drinks. She flashed brown eyes at him, kissed him hard on the lips, then staggered past into the crowd. A man who’d been watching the whole thing grinned. Bobby couldn’t help but grin back.

  He kept to the walls, looking for anything that might resemble his heirloom. He hoped it wasn’t upstairs. He didn’t want to be caught in a part of the house he wasn’t supposed to be in. The idea of Gabe tossing him into the street didn’t seem at all pleasant.

  Above the buzz of the crowd, he heard a guitar riff from an old Colin Hayes song. By the unmistakable sound of a Peavey amplifier, it had to be live. He headed in that direction and found himself descending.

  The basement was one immense room. The ceiling was low and covered with black baffles. The largely empty floor was covered by a dark blue carpet that reflected the wear of many parties. Cigarette burns pocked the carpet. White flecks from trash and other mysterious detritus lay scattered around. The walls were covered in rock and roll memorabilia. Posters from concerts, pictures of artists, and more than a few gold and platinum records lined the room.

  At the far end on a raised lighted platform, half a dozen people stood around a guitarist as he spun rifts up and down the frets. Two were women whose most stunning quality was their complete and utter olive-skinned nakedness. One held a drink on a tray. The other held an ashtray on a tray. Both were dark haired Asians, petite except for ample breasts.

  The man on the stage playing the guitar had to be Shrewsbury. Bobby recognized him from the pictures he’d taken with the porn stars, and like in the pictures, he wore black cowboy boots, blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the words The Rising emblazoned across his chest. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open in selfless concentration.

  Bobby turned away. The last thing he needed was for the owner of the house to open his eyes and not recognize Bobby. He’d check the basement later when the coast was a little clearer.

  He was about to climb the stairs when a picture caught his eye—Elvis in black leather for his televised Comeback Special. Bobby had seen that show on video so many times that the VHS had worn away until it looked like Elvis was playing in a blizzard. His favorite song had been One Night With You, and his heart had leapt with every repeat of the chorus. His father had been young and beautiful then, and at the peak of his charisma. He’d had the kind of high-cheeked smile that made girls swoon and men wish they were him.

  Bobby allowed the poster to draw him in and as he got closer, noticed that it was signed. To Shrews. Thanks for everything. TCB, which represented Elvis’s catchphrase Taking Care of Business. Remembering the dark brown areolas of the two women on stage, everything was not at all mysterious. A man like Shrewsbury had to find ways to ingratiate himself, and sex certainly was one of the oldest ways.

  Bobby noticed the two framed items next to the concert poster. One was a gold record, the other a platinum. Could this be it? He remembered a conversation he’d had with Lucy about the importance of finding the album.

  “It’s like a test to see if the story is really true. After all, I can’t exactly match DNA, so I’m figuring if that part of Sister Agnes’s story is true, the rest will be too.”

  “What are you gonna do if you find out Elvis really is your father?” Lucy had asked. “You gonna track down Lisa Marie and start calling her Sis? You gonna ask for your share of the millions?”

  “You know,” Bobby replied. “I’m not gonna lie and tell you that the idea of being rich never crossed my mind. But that’s not what’s most importa
nt to me.”

  “What then?”

  “The idea of belonging. I never had that. If Elvis does turn out to be my father, I can at least know I have a family out there. Every time I hear a song or see a picture or watch a movie I would remember that he was my father. I don’t know. The idea of that seems special to me.”

  “And if the album doesn’t exist?”

  “Then nothing has changed.”

  “It could still be possible.”

  “What? That Elvis is my daddy? Nah. Everything is balanced on the head of a pin and that pin is Heartbreak Hotel. Without that, everything comes tumbling down and like Humpty Dumpty, once fallen, you might as well kick him and Elvis to the curb, as helpful as they’d be. No, the album is proof that all of this isn’t crazy.”

  He was nose-to-nose with the glass covering the platinum album. His mouth felt like ash. He bit his lip. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling. Then he read the words. Suspicious Minds. Damn. All the air left him as the opening strains to the song strayed free in his mind.

  “You look a bit like him,” a deep voice said from behind.

  Bobby caught the reflection in the glass. Shrewsbury. If Bobby wasn’t very careful, he’d be in big trouble. He turned and found a smile from somewhere.

  “I hear that all the time, actually.”

  “I don’t think I know you.” He said it simply, with no threat implied. Behind him, the others were strumming the selection of guitars on stage. The only other people nearby were the two Asians, who seemed deaf and dumb to the conversation.

  Bobby decided to go for as much truth as he could stand. “Name is Bobby Dupree. Hope you don’t mind me crashing the party. I heard about it down at the Viper Room and decided this was the place to spend my Saturday night.”

  “Who’d you hear about it from at the Viper?”

  This was the part of his cover story that had some holes. “An old surfer friend of mine named Kanga. He said you’re always having a party and that I should come if I get the chance, especially ’cause of my background.”

  “Background?”

  “I’m from Memphis and insane about everything Elvis.” He pulled up his sleeve and showed Shrewsbury the tattoo of Elvis’s head drawn from a picture from the 1972 Hawaii Tour. “Kanga said you had some memorabilia.” He turned to the wall. “He wasn’t exaggerating. This is incredible.”

  Shrewsbury smiled and placed a meaty hand on Bobby’s shoulder, drawing him into his personal space. “Well then, welcome, Bobby Dupree. Yeah, these are some of the best in my collection. Suspicious Minds is a classic. One of my favorites.” He sang the opening verse, his voice deep blue velvet to match the carpet. When he was done, he grabbed a glass of beer from the tray, drained half of it then put it back down.

  “I got it from a guy in Upland who thought he could beat my inside straight. He had three queens and tried to draw a ten or an eight to make a full boat, but came up short. I was more than happy to take this baby as collateral until he found the means to pay.”

  “What was the bet?”

  “A hundred thousand.”

  Bobby whistled.

  “You should have seen his face as I sat with two through six of trashy little cards. But then that’s my life. I’ve always surprised people by making things work. I built all this on trashy little videos and now look at me.”

  And how exactly does Verdina know you? Bobby begged to ask. But instead he kept the man’s ego stroked. “This is an amazing place. Almost as big as Graceland.”

  “Do you really think so?” Shrewsbury’s eyes brightened. “I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard some incredible things.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Bobby painted a serious frown on his face as he nodded. “And Elvis would have loved this place. For instance, the living statues in the entryway. If it hadn’t been for his momma, Elvis would have insisted on one of those. He’d do nothing that would upset his momma.”

  “My mother was a meth addict and let all sorts of bad things happen to me. I don’t care if the bitch lives or dies.”

  The sudden change threw Bobby. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing came. Luckily, he was saved by Shrewsbury himself as his mood swung wildly back to where it had been. “What about this gold album? Have you seen this one? I consider this his best movie.”

  Bobby peered through the glass and read the words King Creole. Although it wasn’t his revered Heartbreak Hotel, just seeing something that his father had most certainly touched was achingly special to him.

  “I loved this one too,” he said. “Wasn’t Vic Morrow in it?”

  “Yes, he was. You really know your movies. Vic is a legend in the business and was a good friend before he died.”

  “I didn’t know he died.”

  “Didn’t you see the movie Twilight Zone? Where have you been? It was all over the news when it happened back in the early 1980s.”

  “I was in an orphanage back then. We didn’t have television.”

  “Old Vic died along with two kids in a helicopter accident. Really a fucking tragedy. I tried to help out his daughter, offered her a few parts, but she wouldn’t come near me back then. Said she was too good for my kind of movie.” He stared wistfully into space as if he were imagining directing this girl in an acrobatic love scene. “She had these fuck me eyes I hadn’t seen since Bette Davis. She could stop traffic on the 405 with those eyes.”

  Bobby didn’t have any idea who she was, so he smiled and nodded, but his eyes gave him away.

  Shrewsbury whistled. “What grave did you crawl out of, boy? You don’t know who the hell I’m talking about, do you?”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “Jennifer Jason Leigh,” the host offered. When Bobby still didn’t seem to recognize the name, Shrewsbury rolled his eyes. “She played the hottie teenie virgin in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. She played a hottie hooker in Last Exit to Brooklyn. She played a hottie psycho roommate in Single White Female.”

  All Bobby could do was shake his head again.

  “Let me guess. The orphanage. What happened to you, boy, they keep you locked in a closet?”

  They’d managed to gain a crowd. Everyone in the studio was gathered behind Shrewsbury and he played to them, catching their eyes and shaking his head with every revelation about Bobby’s ignorance.

  Bobby’s strategy of getting in and out with just a quick reconnaissance was going to hell fast. He was the center of attention and didn’t like it one bit.

  He felt his face burning and had to concentrate not to stare at the ground. “No,” he said.

  “He gives me the creeps,” a slim blonde said, frowning over the lip of a red martini.

  “What’s wrong, Sally?”

  “Is he really an orphan?”

  “He says he is.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Why? Because he was an orphan?”

  “No, because no one wanted him, like he was some kind of secret serial killer or something. Why wouldn’t someone want to adopt a kid?”

  Bobby wanted to tell her about the million kids that went unadopted every year. He wanted to tell her about the state of social services in the country and the way children were treated as notations in ledgers predicating budget lines. He wanted to tell her about a system corrupt with parents who took kids in for a monthly check, and were often criminals who molested them. He wanted to slap that information into her Southern California skull.

  Shrewsbury guffawed. “Is that true, Bobby Dupree? Are you a secret serial killer who escaped the welfare system?”

  “I’m just a guy,” he gulped, trying to maintain composure. “I don’t mean no harm.”

  “I come in peace,” mimicked someone in the crowd. “Maybe the reason he doesn’t know anything is because he isn’t from this planet. Maybe he’s an alien.”

  The crowd snickered. The woman next to him elbowed him in the ribs. He merely shrugged. “It could be true.” His face was now molten red.


  “The alien orphan from the planet Elvis,” Shrewsbury guffawed. He put his arm around the slim girl and pulled her to him. By the way she leaned in, Bobby could tell it was a place she was used to holding. “What should I do with him, Sal? Should we let him stay or kick him to the curb?”

  The crowd erupted with shouts, with kick him to the curb far more popular than let him stay, although there were a few of the latter. Hands were thrust forward, thumbs pointing up and down as if this were an impromptu gladiator match.

  “Listen,” Bobby said, pressing his palms out. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just wanted to see your Elvis stuff. I just—”

  The girl cut him off. “Kick him to the curb, Shrews. He gives me the creeps.”

  “There you have it. It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Bobby Dupree from the planet of green-skinned Elvii.” Shrewsbury grinned drunkenly at his own joke. “You can come along quietly, or if you prefer, and this is my personal preference, you’ll create a scene and I’ll get a chance to see my security force in action.”

  “No. It’s all right. I’ll go.” A man reached for his elbow, but Bobby jerked away, keeping his hands in the air at chest level.

  The crowd moved with him as he ascended the stairs, heckling and laughing, making fun of his orphanhood, crooning Hound Dog and Blue Suede Shoes until it was a drunken chorus of misremembered verse and out of tune parody.

  He turned left and saw a crowded room before him. His eyes were drawn to a tall redhead tongue-deep in a muscular black man’s face, their lips tight against each other. Between them, her dress fluttered as a dwarf stood, his head hidden beneath the cloth, his face presumably buried in her crotch. Everyone who’d been watching this, turned momentarily toward Bobby, the noise from his entourage drowning out conversation and the sound of dwarven-created moans.

  Bobby had never been more embarrassed in his life. He smiled weakly and was about to excuse himself when his vision slammed hard against the walls of a tunnel. Suddenly the dwarf beneath the woman’s dress seemed a hundred feet away. His vision dimmed even farther. He felt his body buzz with energy and begin to shake.