Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

One of his eyebrows dipped as he scanned me up and down. Then he shifted his weight—all four hundred pounds of it—and stared at me, a smirk on his face and a no way look in his eyes.

“Oh no,” I said, “I don’t want to come in.”

“Good thing too. Dressed like that, you could maybe wash the dishes.”

My feathers ruffled. My shoulders stiffened. Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a fashion plate, but still. I held up the picture of Jean-Claude before I started a fight I’d never win. “Have you seen this man?”

The door opened behind him as someone came out of the club. Loud music with a heavy bass thumped against my ribs. The door closed, and the sound dimmed to a dull whump, whump, whump.

He smiled. “What’s it worth to you?”

He had nice teeth, bright white and gleaming. I realized I’d been expecting gold caps, and yelled at myself for buying into stereotypes. Then it registered what he was saying.

Ana hadn’t mentioned anything about paying for information. In my head, I calculated what money I had. I fished in my leather backpack, pulled out my wallet.

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Three fives and two ones. Not likely to buy me much. I held out a five.

He laughed.

“Ten?” I asked, pulling out another five, and giving him my best please-help-me look. I batted my eyelashes and everything.

He rolled his dark eyes, snatched the money. “That’s JC.”

JC. Jean-Claude. “Does he work here?”

The giant shook his head.

“Around here?”

He shrugged.

Great. I pulled out my last five.

“I’ve seen him at All Shook Up a few times.”

“Does he work there?”

Another shrug.

I was down to my last two bucks. I figured I’d try my luck at All Shook Up. “Down that way?” I asked, pointing down the street.

The giant blew me a kiss, then brushed me aside as he let in two stunning young things with four-inch heels, mile-high legs, and way too much makeup.

In my humble opinion.

I found All Shook Up midway down the Blue Zone. It wasn’t another dance club like I’d expected, but a martini bar. When I pulled open the door, I felt like I’d stepped into a zone of another sort—the Twilight Zone.

I was suddenly surrounded by Elvis. At least a hundred of them. Rhinestone jumpsuits, gold lamé, big glasses and all.

A hostess, dressed like Ann-Margret in Viva Las Vegas, must have caught my surprise. “Every Saturday night is Elvis night,” she said. “Did you want a table?”

I shook my head, still taking in the differing Elvis hair-styles. From pompadour wigs to greased-back black dyed hair.

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I held up Jean-Claude’s picture. “Do you know him?”

She frowned, pulling in her bottom lip. I couldn’t help but notice her breasts spilling out of the skimpy top. She’d have had no problem getting into Bump.

“He looks familiar,” she said over the karaoke crooning of

“Blue Moon.” “Maybe ask Jake?”

“Jake?”

She pointed to a thirty-something man tending one of the three bars in the place. He too was wearing an Elvis costume.

I thanked her and started across the room. “Blue Moon”

ended and someone took up the mic and started in on “Blue Suede Shoes.” Sure enough, I looked down and saw that my Keds were the only white shoes in the vicinity.

I felt my phone vibrate on my hip. I flipped it open, saw Ana’s name.

“Where are you?” she said.

I covered one ear with my hand, shouted, “At All Shook Up.”

“Be right there!”

I slipped my phone back onto my waistband.

“Hey, baby.” Elvis’s hand snaked around my waist, pulling me up close and personal with his chest hair.

“Hi,” I said, trying to wiggle free.

“Now now. Let’s dance.” The opening lines of “All Shook Up” played and the room went wild. I was definitely in the Twilight Zone.

“Really, I—”

Before I could get away, Hairy Chest had me spinning and swirling to the music. Every so often I’d look up to find him smiling at me, one corner of his mouth lifted in a classic Elvis grin.

I clutched his white jumpsuit with my left hand to keep from falling, and kept Jean-Claude’s picture tight in my right Digging Up Trouble

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hand, which was being held captive by Hairy Chest. My backpack thumped my back.

As he twirled me, I said sarcastically, “Come here often?”

He either missed the sarcasm or ignored it. “Every Saturday. You’re new, though. We’ve got to work on your outfit.

I’m thinking Joan Blackman in Blue Hawaii, except you’d have to go brunette.”

Brunette. Right. I’d forgotten about the wig.

“Um, maybe.”

The song came to a hip-jarring end. “Want a drink?”

Hairy Chest asked.

More than anything. But I only had two dollars.

“My treat,” he said, winking. He had pretty blue eyes, and I assumed he knew it—which was why he didn’t wear those big aviator glasses like every other Elvis in the room.

“Sure.” I figured he owed it to me, grabbing me like that.

Though if I were really honest, I’d have to admit I’d had fun dancing. It had been a long time.

He followed me to the bar, where there were two open stools. Hairy Chest held out his hand. “Alan,” he said.

“Not Elvis?”

He shrugged. He was kind of cute, and I wondered where Ana was. Maybe I could match-make while I was at this whole Jean-Claude recon thing.

Which reminded me. “Are you Jake?” I asked the bartender, just to make sure.

He winked at me, Elvis-style. I was starting to feel claustrophobic. “That’s me, darlin’,” he said. “Can I help you?”

After Alan and I ordered a drink, I showed him Jean-Claude’s picture. “Do you know him?”

Someone started singing “Love Me Tender.” Off key. I winced, wishing I’d brought ear plugs.

“Sure. That’s JC. Comes in all the time.”

“Really?”

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“Sure. After work.”

“Where’s he work?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t as in won’t or can’t as in you don’t know?”

“Don’t kn—”

He was cut off when I was jostled on my stool by some -

one sitting down next to me. It was a slightly pudgy Elvis, who would have been better off portraying an older Elvis, but had opted for a Jailhouse Rock look. Except he had on the glasses.

“Hey,” Alan said, sticking up for me. “Watch it.”

“Sorry.” The Old Elvis swiveled our way.

I gasped and fell off my stool, spilling my drink down the front of my shirt.

Pudgy Elvis squinted. “Nina, is that you?” He reached down, pulled off my blonde wig, and held it out like it was something toxic.

I looked up, my mouth open, my eyes blinking as if I was hallucinating. “What are you doing here?”

Twelve

Hairy-chested Alan snatched my wig back, set it on my head, and helped me up. “Do you know him?” he asked me, sounding like he was looking for a fight.

I saw Pudgy Elvis take note of Alan’s hands. They lingered on my bare arms. “I suggest you take your hands off of her, sonny.”

“Says who, chubby?”

My father’s chest puffed. I stepped in between them before punches flew. “Alan, this is my father, Antonio Ceceri.

Dad, this is Alan.”

My father’s eyebrows, dyed freakishly black, slashed downward. “Who was just leaving, right?”

“That’s up to her,” Alan said, apparently having a death wish.

Just then Ana hustled in, elbowing her way through the crowd. She stopped just short of us, took in the scene. “Why do I always miss all the fun? Uncle Tonio, is that you?”