Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And I thanked Fangio for his whispered words. And I concluded, in my rather drunken state, that he did have a good point there. I mustn’t copy the way Laz had conducted his business, even if I was going to work under his name. And I was. I would have to come up with my own special way of doing things. Perhaps, learning by Laz’s fatal mistake, not such a hands-on, in-your-face, get-up-and-go, jumping-directly-into-danger kind of way of doing things. I would definitely have to come up with my own. Some way to get the job done with no direct danger to myself. Some technique, in fact, that mostly involved sitting down, preferably in the office, or in this bar, and thinking things out. A technique of my own. A technique for Tyler.

The Tyler Technique, that’s what.

And I would have ended this chapter right there. At that momentous moment, when I made my momentous decision. But for the fact that Fangio suddenly tapped me briskly upon the left trench-coat sleeve and said, ‘Hey, Laz – that’s the guy. The one that wants to speak to you. About a case. I think.’

And he pointed and I turned to look. And there he was in the doorway. And I raised up my fedora to the guy.

Because he was Elvis Presley.

Well, it certainly looked like Elvis Presley.

But then, how was I to be sure?

Because I remembered Dr Darren McMahon, the Scouse one at the Ministry of Serendipity. So was this the real Elvis Presley, or just another Elvis Presley? Whatever that might mean. But think about this. If this really was Elvis Presley. And he had a case he wanted Lazlo Woodbine to solve. And I was, for all the world, Lazlo Woodbine now. It would mean that I would be solving a case for Elvis. How cool would that be? How cool? I tried to hold on to myself and my composure. I would have to act professionally here. Keep calm, I told myself. And so I kept calm. Very calm. Very very very calm, I kept. Though really rather drunk.

The chap that might be Elvis Presley caught sight of me and he grinned, with that most-distinctively-Elvis-lip-curl grin, and swaggered in my direction.

And I use the word ‘swaggered’ without fear of correction. Elvis was a swaggerer. He sidled also, did Elvis. In fact he combined swaggering and sidling into a walk that was quite his own. Unique, one might say. So perhaps I shouldn’t say that he swaggered. No, he swaggered and sidled simultaneously.

He swiddled.

‘Mr Lazlo Woodbine, sir?’ he said to me, swiddling up and sticking out his hand. He smelled very strongly of ‘product’, this fellow did, and I found myself almost immediately engulfed by an overall cloud of it. I know folk like to write that in his last years Elvis rarely washed, taking the occasional ‘whore’s bath’ – a wipe under the armpits and around the willy and bum/fanny regions – but I can vouch for his cleanliness. It was scrupulous. And so he smelled of ‘product’. Of products.

A musky aftershave. A cedarwood-based body lotion over vanilla soap. An olive essence hairspray that kept those roguish darkly dyed strands [23]in place and a lily-of-the-valley-flavoured foot powder, which ensured for ever freshness of the feet. I did not know at the time, and in fact never did find out, that these personal products had all been promoted through a Fifth Avenue advertising agency in which my old chum Rob of The Sumerian Kynges now owned a controlling interest. I’m glad I never knew, really, because I’m sure it would probably have upset me.

‘You are Mr Woodbine, ain’t you, sir?’ asked the sweetly smelling swiddler.

I nodded in the manner that suggested that yes, I might be, but who was it who was asking.

‘The name’s Presley, sir,’ said the fellow. ‘Elvis Presley – you might have heard of me.’

‘I might,’ I said. Enjoying the moment. A drunken moment, it was.

‘Help me, Mr Woodbine. You are my only hope.’

I bade the fellow seat himself beside me. And I glanced around at the clientele, who had now all ceased to speak, but not to whisper, and were staring slack-jawed at my would-be client. ‘Back about your business,’ I cried at them. Firmly, with authority.

‘A drink?’ I asked Elvis. Because it appeared to be him. The accent was certainly right. And the manner. And the swiddling.

‘Well, thank you, sir.’

I called out to Fangio. But not too far, as he was leaning right across the bar counter behind me.

‘It is him,’ whispered Fangio, his big face once more close against my ear. ‘It is him, isn’t it? Say it is him.’

‘It is him,’ I whispered in reply.

And Fangio whistled. Tunelessly. ‘Richard Nixon,’ he said. ‘Right here in my bar. Just wait until I tell the guys at the tennis club.’

‘Tennis club?’ I said. ‘You?’

‘I’ll have you know that I do own a tennis club,’ said Fangio.

‘Own a tennis club?’

‘Certainly. It’s a thing about yay-long.’ Fangio mimed the yayness. ‘Made of wood, with criss-crossed strings at the fat end.’

‘That’s a tennis racquet,’ I said.

‘Not the way I use it,’ said Fangio.

‘Two Bosun’s Whistles,’ I said to Fange. ‘And don’t feel that you need to skimp on the speed when serving them up. As fast as possible will do just fine.’

Fangio made the sound that a sparrow will make when pushed through the strings of a tennis club. And went to mix our drinks.

‘An honour to meet you, sir,’ said Elvis. ‘Might I say that you’re younger than I figured you’d be.’

‘I keep myself fit,’ I told him, ‘because in my business, keeping yourself fit can mean the difference between serving up a winning storm at Wimbledon and serving time in Sing Sing with a swarm of bees up your jumper.’

Elvis looked at me blankly.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re right, it was rubbish. I promise I’ll never do it again.’

Elvis looked at me some more. Even more blankly this time.

‘Right,’ I said. And then our drinks arrived.

‘Shall I put these on your bar tab, Laz?’ asked Fangio.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Take the cost out of the one hundred dollars you owe me. I give up on these cocktails. I have no idea what’s in them.’

‘And you never will,’ said Fangio. And chuckling once more he took himself off to the cash register.

‘Were you just talking the toot, sir?’ asked Elvis. ‘Only I read about that, in the Lazlo Woodbine Thrillers.’

‘You’ve read those, have you?’

‘Well, no, sir, not really. I have them read to me.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘But you need my help. You have a worried mind. And a problem that only Lazlo Woodbine can solve for you. Am I correct?’

‘You are, sir, yes.’

I was really rather taken with the way Elvis spoke. He didn’t just smell nice, but he was so polite, too. So well mannered. All right, he was rather fat. And I didn’t mention this at the beginning of the chapter, although perhaps I should have, because he had put on weight. He was now a bit of a bloater. But I didn’t mention it, and what with him being so sweetly smelling and so polite, I am not going to mention it. Not even in passing. No.

‘So,’ I said to Elvis Presley, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Well, sir, I gotta problem. I been playing Vegas, six nights a week, two shows a day, practising for my big tour. This tour is going to take me all over the world. I never left America before, except to go to Germany for my call-up, and now I’m going to England. And through Europe. And Africa. To Sumeria.’

‘Sumeria?’ I said. ‘Why Sumeria?’

‘I don’t know, sir. It’s on the tour list – New Begrem, Sumeria.’

‘Begrem?’

‘Yes, sir. But that ain’t the problem.’

‘You might need me to accompany you on that leg of the tour,’ I said. ‘In fact, we should probably write out a contract to that effect right now.’ And you do have to understand that me saying this was not going against the Tyler Technique even before I’d had a chance to put it into operation. Because, come on, I really did have to get to the Lost Golden City of Begrem if there was any chance at all. Didn’t I! ‘Fangio, fetch paper and pen,’ I said.