THE
ELVIS
INTERVIEWS
By GLEN BONHAM
THE ELVIS INTERVIEWS © 2006 Glen Bonham
Elvis images used by permission, Elvis Presley Enterprises, Inc.
ISBN 0-9781175-0-6
This story is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and
dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products,
or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living
persons or disparage any company’s products or services.
CHAPTER 1
The familiar frenzy of New York greeted Jimmy Miyake as he arrived at JFK International Airport aboard JAL flight 439. He retrieved his luggage and nervously waited in line for Customs and Immigration, caught off-guard by the laborious security measures in place since 9/11. Finished with Customs, he breathed a sigh of relief and strode through the main exit.
As the full heat hit him in the face, he knew the day was shaping up to be a scorcher. It’s been a long time, he thought, the morning sun temporarily dazzling him along with a flood of memories. He removed a cell phone from his double-breasted sharkskin jacket, flipped it open and pressed a number.
“Hai (Yes)?” snapped a voice on the other end.
“Moshi moshi Yasamura san (Hello, Mr. Yasamura),” Jimmy said. “I’m here in New York. Made it through Customs and Immigration, no problems.” The party on the other end babbled something and Jimmy responded, “Hai, I will keep you informed.” He clicked off his cell and stuck it back in his pocket. His weekender slung over his shoulder and his carry-on bag firmly in grip, he joined the other arriving passengers in the limo line-up.
Tall, slender and impeccably dressed, Jimmy was causing more than a few stares even among the jaded New Yorkers. Depending on your fashion sense you’d guess he was either forty years behind the times, or directly on the cutting edge of retro. His sharkskin jacket overlapped generous-cut trousers tapering to cuffs that presided over pointy shoes. His jet-black hair was slicked into a pompadour that segued nicely into a 50s ducktail. Despite the muggy, blistering New York heat, Jimmy refused to remove his jacket or even unbutton his shirt collar, preferring not to call attention to the tattoos embellishing most of his body.
The other overnight passengers, exhausted and short tempered, jostled for position on the curb, each hoping to grab the first available taxi or limo. Jimmy, cool and composed amid the barrage of pushes and shoves, slipped out of line and approached a Punjabi limo captain just coming on duty. He deftly folded and palmed a fifty-dollar bill in his manicured fingers before slipping it into the captain’s hand. The man looked at the bill, then back at Jimmy. A quick nod to the driver of an incoming limo brought the shiny black car to the curb. The captain deposited Jimmy’s luggage in the trunk, opened the rear passenger door and waited for Jimmy to seat himself before closing it firmly. Stepping off the curb the captain put up his hand to stop oncoming traffic. With a dignified bow and a snappy salute to Jimmy, he sent the limo on its way while those still waiting in line glowered in disgust.
The limo pulled sleekly out into traffic and the driver asked,
“Where to, sir?”
“Philadelphia,” replied Jimmy.
“Philadelphia?” The driver peered back at Jimmy in his rearview. “Sir, I can’t take a fare that distance without checking with dispatch.” Jimmy nodded casually. The driver made his call and secured the necessary permission, informing his passenger that it would cost two hundred dollars.
“Done,” Jimmy said, leaning forward to hand the driver a slip of paper containing the address. He clicked off his cell phone, laid his head back, closed his eyes and thought about the mission that brought him back to the United States.
CHAPTER 2
Ed Stafford was sitting in his usual spot at the 21 Club, a combination restaurant-nightclub located in south Philadelphia. The place was swathed in gaudy red velour and gilded tassels, crammed with the sort of fake antique furniture small time Italian gangsters find so appealing. Ed was having an early lunch and was just about to wolf down his second slab of ham-on-rye when his cell phone started vibrating. He put down his sandwich, pulled the phone from his pocket, glared at the screen and let out an exasperated sigh. Damn, the office! He briefly considered not answering but changed his mind, flipped it open and muttered, “Stafford here.”
“Eddie?” came a voice from the other end, “Creighton’s been looking for you. Where are you?”
“Hi, Danielle.”
“Where are you, Eddie? The old man is really ticked. He said this is your last chance. I can’t stall him any longer. Have you got a story for this month?”
Ed let out another long sigh. “I’m working on something.”
“Are you at home?” asked Danielle.
Silence.
“You’re not at home, are you?”
“I’m on it, Danielle.”
“Are you sober?”
“Of course I’m sober,” answered Ed, defensively.
“Can I put you through to him? Can you please just talk to him?” she pleaded.
“I’m tied up at the moment, Danielle. Tell Creighton I’m working on something. I’ll be in later this afternoon. I’ve gotta go.” He flipped the phone shut before she had another chance to protest. He felt bad about cutting her off like that. She was a nice girl. Always looking out for him. Ed suspected that Danielle had a thing for him, but that was crazy. He was old enough to be her father. He did the math in his head. Danielle was what, around thirty? A very attractive thirty, with her long blonde hair, big gray-green eyes and eager-to-please smile, but even so . . . he was fifty-two. He shot a quick look at himself in the mirror at the back of the bar. His face was on the jowly side, in need of another shave, and the lines around his eyes a little more pronounced than they used to be, but he still had most of his hair. Hey, he told himself, giving the loose folds around his chin a quick tweak, I guess anything’s possible.
“One more, Dino,” Ed said to the bartender, who stood about five-foot-seven and was built as compact and square as a tank, a mop of dark curls framing his wary yet calculatingly friendly face. Dino poured a double shot of Jack Daniels over a couple of ice cubes and slid the chunky glass across the bar while Ed Stafford continued pondering his predicament. He was still drawing a blank on this month’s so-called scoop. To say that he
lacked motivation was an understatement, his writing career having seen far better days. In his heyday, Ed had broken some major stories, his name a familiar beacon among the leading publications. He even held the distinction for having re-opened some long-dead cases with his bulldog investigative journalism. But that was the past.
Ed savored his next sip of whiskey, trying not to think too hard about the fact that, in spite of the title of his current column, Stafford’s Scoop, it had been years since he had put out anything remotely resembling a scoop. Then again, it had been maybe a decade since anyone considered him to be in the “scoop” business. The publication he worked for now, The Hollywood Rattlebag, was nothing more than a sleazy gossip rag modeled after The National Enquirer. Editor Buzz Creighton—who wouldn’t know Hollywood if the sign that graced Mount Lee fell on him—wasn’t interested in scoops. He wanted gossip, the kind of stuff guaranteed to grab attention at the check-out counter, between the ka-ching of cash registers and the rustle of lottery tickets. The monthly Rattlebag’s entire editorial content consisted of bogus stories based on “candid” shots of celebrities in compromising positions, downloaded from the Internet. Ed Stafford knew the job was beneath his dignity, unworthy of his caliber of journalism and…
Yeah, well, he said to himself, interrupting his own thoughts, that was then and this is now. Get over it. Ed knocked back the remainder of his second Jack Daniels and looked up just as Frank Shapiro walked in.
The 21 Club’s owner was a sinister-looking guy with a barrel chest whose weasel-like, penetrating eyes registered everything and unnerved everyone in his path. He nodded stodgily to Ed, sauntered behind the bar, opened the till, and took out a stack of bills. As he counted off some twenties, Dino drifted down from the other end of the bar to hand him a pad and pen. Frank scribbled something on the pad, peeled off the top sheet and stuck it in the till, slamming the drawer shut with a little more force than was necessary.
“Lousy night in Atlantic City, huh, Boss?” asked Dino.
Frank grunted and stuffed the bills into his pocket. He walked around to the other side of the bar and straddled the seat next to Ed.
“Hi ya doin’ Eddie?” muttered Frank as he massaged his temples, trying to rub away a splitting headache.
“By the way,” interrupted Dino as he pushed a glass of water, two Alka-Seltzer tablets and a scrap of paper across the bar, “some guy by the name of Miyake called earlier. Wanted to know if you were gonna be around. I told him you’d be in maybe later.”
Dino looked at his watch. “About two hours ago.”
“He askin’ for money?” grumbled Frank as he dropped the two tablets into his water glass.
“Everybody wants money, boss,” Dino replied, caginess punctuating his sarcasm.
“You got that right,” Frank said as he waited impatiently for the tablets to dissolve. When they finally turned to fizz, he seized and drained the glass, belched loudly and scanned the scrap of paper. “Miyake,” he said to himself. Then it registered. “Well, what’d ya know? Jimmy Miyake!”
“Miyake . . . that’s a Jap name, right?” smirked Dino.
Ed Stafford shook his head in disgust. “Japanese, Dino,” he corrected the bartender, “I believe the correct term is Japanese.”
“Yeah, whatever,” snapped Dino, dismissively, “but this guy didn’t sound like no Jap . . . eh—Jap-a-neeze.” Dino corrected himself, deliberately enunciating every vowel as he grinned sarcastically at Ed. When there was no response, he sauntered back down to the other end of the bar to wash some glasses. Frank looked at Ed, shook his head and nodded in Dino’s direction. “Dumb Guinea!”
Ed, shaking his head in frustration, finished his drink and tossed some bills on the bar. He noticed Frank eyeing his uneaten half of the sandwich. “Help yourself.”
“You don’t mind?” Frank asked, reaching for the sandwich. Ed laughed, gave Frank a good-natured slap on the back, slid off his stool and left the bar to walk the two blocks back to the Rattlebag’s dingy headquarters.
CHAPTER 3
The airport limo pulled up in front of the 21 Club as the last of the lunch crowd trickled off into the dusty afternoon. The driver hustled out, grabbed Jimmy Miyake’s bags from the trunk and set them on the sidewalk. Jimmy removed two one hundreds and a fifty from his red sharkskin billfold and slipped them to the driver.
“Thank you very much, sir.” The driver glanced appreciatively at the fifty. “It’s been a pleasure.” He slipped back into the car, nipped the door shut and pulled back out into the busy traffic. Jimmy picked up his luggage, entered the club and paused inside the door. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he discerned a voice calling his name:
“Hey Jimmy! Over here!” He started moving in the direction of the raspy voice, his elbows brushing the edges of the dim corridor until he recognized Frank Shapiro sitting at the bar.
“Hello, Frank. It’s good to see you!”
Frank got up, gave Jimmy a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek and held him at arms’ length as he looked him up and down. “Nice suit. You look like you just walked out of a Frankie Avalon movie.”
“It’s called retro, Frank,” Jimmy informed him.
Frank shrugged and waved his arms. “Hey, what do I know? C’mon, siddown. What’ll you have?”
“Dry martini—two olives,” replied Jimmy, almost on cue.
Frank motioned to Dino who slowly sauntered back down from the other end of the bar. “Dino, this here’s Jimmy Miyake—outta Japan. He used to work for me.” Dino gave Jimmy the once-over and nodded. Frank ordered a martini for Jimmy and a scotch for himself. Dino went to work fixing the drinks.
“How you doin’ for jet lag?” Frank asked.
“A little when I got off the plane. I’m good now,” replied Jimmy as Dino set the drinks down flatly on the bar. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” he asked.
“Sure,” answered Frank, “we can go up to my office. Follow me,” he ordered as he picked up both glasses.
When Jimmy leaned down to pick up his luggage, Frank said,
“You can stash that behind the bar. Dino’ll take care of it. C’mon.”
Jimmy hoisted his weekender over the bar to Dino. “I’ll keep the carry-on with me,” he informed the bartender.
“Come on,” repeated Frank, as he motioned Jimmy to follow him through the club to the back stairs leading up to his office.
“Charming place you’ve got here, Frank,” Jimmy said as he cased the decor. The way he said it, Frank couldn’t tell whether or not he was being facetious.
****
In a corner of his office, laid out with the same fake Italian reproductions that filled the club downstairs, Frank had created a comfortable seating arrangement. He and Jimmy settled back in the two overstuffed crimson armchairs, a marble-topped coffee table between them. Frank leaned forward. “So how do you like livin’ in Japan? You miss the good old US of A?”
“A little bit. Japan took some serious getting used to. It’s an entirely different culture, but I’ve come to appreciate the place. It’s home to me now.”
Frank would always remember the day Jimmy Miyake first came to work for him: another cocky eighteen-year-old ready to make his big mark on the world. Jimmy’s family had immigrated to Philadelphia from Japan when Jimmy was a baby. He was seven years old when his parents’ car was struck by an out-of-control eighteen-wheeler. When the authorities learned he had no known relatives in the States, they placed him with a less than loving foster family. By the time he was ten, social workers had plastered Jimmy with labels: attention deficit disorder, with serious anger issues, to boot.
The boy’s constant urge to rebel resulted in his being kicked out of the house when he was sixteen. When Frank found him, Jimmy had been living on the streets for two years. Frank immediately spied the raw potential and started Jimmy out as a runner with one of his numbers operations. Jimmy was an astonishingly fast learner, and before long he had earned himself a rep as one of Frank’s top administrators. By his early twenties Jimmy’s days on the street were ancient history and he was firmly entrenched in Frank’s operations, doing quite well for himself. His wardrobe reflected his change in fortunes and attitude: frayed denims and ripped leather jackets exchanged for snappy, dark-hued cords
and stylish bombers.
One day Jimmy began to wonder about his Japanese ancestry. Because his mother had kept the Japanese culture alive in their home, he was familiar with the language. Though not fluent, he had a basic understanding of the short- and long-clipped syllables. Armed with nothing more than some savings he had managed to put aside, and a longing to find himself, Jimmy left Frank’s organization and headed off to explore his Japanese roots. For nearly ten years, Jimmy’s communication with Frank and his former homeland amounted to nothing more than the occasional post card.
“You making any money? You look like you’re doin’ okay for yourself.” Frank reached out to finger the silky texture of Jimmy’s jacket. “Not my taste, but the suit feels expensive.”
“It is,” smiled Jimmy.
“So,” Frank said, leaning back and taking a sip of his scotch, “Your message said you were comin’ to town to talk about some business?”
Jimmy leaned across the coffee table. “I have a proposition for you, Frank.”
Frank leaned forward, his eyebrows raised. “A proposition? I like propositions! Well! What have you got?”
Jimmy, his fingers lightly caressing the cool marble surface of the table, said, “I am employed by a wealthy business man in Japan. This man has sent me over here in the hope that I might acquire something he has desired for quite some time.”
“Uh, huh,” murmured Frank, listening raptly.
“He has mentioned this object on numerous occasions over the years.”
“Uh, huh,” repeated Frank.
“He would like to possess it.”
“And?”
“I told him I knew someone in America who was exceptionally good at acquiring things. Things that might not necessarily be for sale.”
“That would be me,” Frank said, clasping his hands together.
“Yes, that would be you, Frank. This man,” Jimmy continued, “is also very private. He prefers to keep a low profile.” He paused, wanting to make sure Frank understood.
“Yeah,” nodded Frank.
“Now my boss has a passion. A serious hobby, you might call it.”
Frank cocked an eyebrow.
“His hobby is . . . Elvis Presley.”
Frank smiled, “And I need to know that because . . . ?”
“Ah,” smiled Jimmy, “but that’s why I’m here.”
Frank shrugged and reached for his glass.
“This interest in Elvis Presley is more than some passing fancy. It borders on what you might call an obsession.”
“Really into it, huh?” Frank said before he took another sip of scotch.
“Yes, Frank, he is really into it. And when I say the man is wealthy, I mean that money is no object.”
The word “wealthy” had immediately snagged Frank’s attention. However, the mention of “money is no object” had him perched on the edge of his seat.
“So,” Jimmy continued, thoughtfully brushing a thread from the flawless fabric of his sleeve, “my boss would like to acquire this object—which unfortunately is not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale, Jimmy. You know that,” Frank said, draining his glass.
“My boss must have this object. And he’s willing to pay for it.”
“And how much is your boss willing to pay for this uh, ‘object?’”
“One million U.S. dollars.”
Frank sat there with an amused look on his face, oblivious to the creases in his own not-so-retro sleeve. Then he stood up and went to pour himself another drink from his private bar, situated directly behind a massive oak desk that purportedly once belonged to Al Capone. “You want another martini?” he called to Jimmy.
“No, I’m good.”
Frank came back and lowered himself back into his seat. “A million bucks!”
“One million dollars, Frank. Twenty-five percent down, the balance on delivery of the object in question.”
Frank stared at Jimmy, his mind moving back in time. “Jimmy, I sometimes think back to the days when you used to work for me. You were one of my best people. You weren’t crazy like some of my other guys.” He paused to take
another sip of his scotch, his eyes never leaving Jimmy. “So I guess what I’m sayin’ is, you come to me with this million dollar deal. And because it’s you, I gotta take it seriously.”
“I assure you, Frank, I’m serious!”
“A million bucks is a lot of money.”
“It certainly is.”
“Okay, so here’s the million dollar question. What object would we be talkin’ about here?”
“As I mentioned earlier, my boss is a big Elvis Presley fan.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“He has been a major collector of Elvis artifacts.”
“Get to the point, please Jimmy?” Frank could have gnawed his glass with impatience.
“My boss would like to acquire Elvis Presley’s pink Cadillac.” Jimmy said it so casually, he could have been talking about an Elvis postcard or first edition LP.
“His what?” Frank wondered whether the scotch was beginning to warp his hearing.
Jimmy slowly repeated the request, punctuating each word with a pause. “Elvis -Presley’s – Pink - Cadillac.” And waited for the words to sink in.
Frank squinted. “You shittin’ me?”
“No, Frank, I am definitely not shitting you.” Jimmy reached for the expensive carry-on sitting next to his chair and hoisted it onto the table. Within seconds he had emptied the bag of a few neatly folded shirts, a shaving kit and other incidentals. He flipped the bag over to expose the little brass feet on its bottom, and deliberately twisted them a quarter-turn each. He swung the bag back into the upright position, reached in to lift the false bottom and extract the stacks of hundred dollar bills secreted within, laying them on the coffee table.
“That is one hundred thousand in cash, Frank.”
Although he tried to maintain his cool, Frank couldn’t keep his eyes from protruding, reminding Jimmy of two very large, soft-boiled eggs. “Jeeze! How’d you get that through Customs?”
Jimmy ignored the question. “If you accept the job, my boss will transfer the balance of the deposit, another one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, into any account of your choice. Do you still do any off-shore banking?”
“Yeah, sure,” grinned Frank, blinking hard as he managed to regain his composure. “Whenever I have something to deposit.”
“If you accept the job, Frank, you will have. Would you like some time to think it over?”
“Think it over? A million bucks? What’s there to think over?” shrugged Frank, his eyes protruding even more intensely.
“This won’t be an easy job, Frank.” Jimmy said, bringing his immaculate fingers together in a silent tap.
“You let me worry about that,” Frank said, taking another sizeable gulp of scotch. “This pink Cadillac—what can you tell me about it?”
“The car is currently on display in the automobile museum in Elvis Presley’s mansion. In Graceland. Memphis, Tennessee.”
“On display? Oh, so we’re talkin’ some heavy-duty security, right?”
“Which is why my boss is willing to pay a million dollars.”
“Right,” Frank said, staring at the stacks of bills on the table. Then he smiled and shook his head. “Jimmy, we pull this off they’ll want to make a freakin’ movie about us.”
“I can assure you, Frank, the last thing my boss wants is to draw attention to himself.”
“Yeah, well, you know what I mean,” Frank said dismissively, “it was just a thought.”
“Frank,” Jimmy said in a serious tone, “I’m not going to presume to tell you your business, but you know this won’t be easy. You’ll need a real professional to pull this off. Do you know somebody who can handle a job of this caliber?”
“Uh huh,” Frank said, nodding his head, “I know just the guy.”
“So, do we have a deal?” asked Jimmy.
Frank’s office door was open just enough for Dino to hear most of the conversation. He had come up to see Frank about something. That could wait. Dino turned and crept quietly back down the dark stairway to the bar.
****
Jimmy stood up, removed a business card from a sterling silver case in his jacket pocket and, holding it in his two hands, very formally handed the card to Frank. Frank thought this gesture a little odd until Jimmy explained that it was a Japanese custom to
present your business cards with both hands.
Frank examined the raised embossed symbols and letters on the card before turning it over. One side was English, the other Japanese. Nodding his head he said. “Pretty classy! You’ve really got this Japanese thing down, huh?”
With a subtle bow Jimmy picked up his bags and walked to the door. “I’m staying at the Marriott. My cell phone number is on the card.”
Jimmy left and Frank sat down to contemplate the one hundred grand lavishly spread out across the top of the coffee table.
CHAPTER 4
JJ pulled up to the solid steel double-wide portals in a gleaming Aston Martin and beeped the horn. An exterior camera mounted above the doors trained its lens on him. He smiled and waved. The quiet hum of hydraulics propelling an invisible motor lifted the heavy doors, permitting him to proceed into a small body shop. Slipping the car into neutral, he revved the engine and listened to the motor throb before taking one last whiff of the rich leather interior. Reaching under he dash he disconnected some wires, cut the engine and stepped out of the car.
John Jason Fitzgerald, better known as “J.J.,” was forty eight years old, sported a slight paunch along with a salt-and pepper receding hairline he tried to camouflage with a wrap around comb-over. His I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude was underscored by a quirky, affable charm.
A tall, handsome man strolled into the shop, took a remote from his pocket, aimed and softly clicked it toward the doors until they lowered into place with a solid thunk. He listened for the subtle tick of the electronic locks and nodded primly, content in his knowledge that the place was sealed tighter than Fort Knox.
“No problems?” he addressed J.J. in a heavy French accent. Jules Saint Germain was thirty-something, originally hailing from somewhere in the south of France, and the proprietor of Saint Germain Fine Autos, a small and exclusive high-end car dealership located in downtown Philadelphia. His slim, aristocratic bearing was topped off with fashionably-spiked, dirty blond hair and the square-jawed ruggedness of a former male model: the perfect demeanor for the owner of such an exclusive establishment.
“Like clockwork,” answered J.J.“
And in broad daylight,” said Jules with pure admiration. He casually draped his arm over J.J.’s shoulder and guided him through the shop until they reached a palatial room. The room was so opulent it could have been culled directly from the pages of some chichi decor magazine—except for the three exotic automobiles parked within. This was a show room designed to make an impression, from its magnificent antiques amassed from God-knows-where, to its crimson rugs whose triple-thick plush released a semi-silent shhsss with each step. Passing the cars, they walked into Jules’ office. As Jules shut the door behind them, J.J. took his time savoring the surroundings. Either Saint Germain had impeccable taste, or he sure knew how to pick his decorator.
J.J. lowered himself into a stylish mocha leather wing chair while Jules walked over to a heavy gilt-framed oil painting that would have been right at home in an upscale art gallery. He seized and gently tugged at one corner until the painting effortlessly swung open on concealed hinges, exposing a chrome-plated wall safe. Jules spun the dial, cranked open the safe, reached in and extracted an envelope, and casually tossed onto his ornate Louis XIV desk. J.J. smiled and raised himself out of the leather chair, reaching for the envelope. He casually slipped the envelope inside his jacket pocket, not bothering to check the contents because he knew it would be there. Jules sat down behind his desk in a high-back chair and slid a highly polished humidor towards J.J., who instinctively lifted the lid to extract a fine Cuban cigar. Selecting a cigar for himself, Jules clipped off the end before tossing the cutter to J.J.
Jules lit his cigar, leaned back in his chair and a few pauses later intoned through a veil of smoke, “I have another order. Would you like the details?”
At that moment J.J.’s cell phone vibrated and he looked at the screen. “Sorry, Jules, gotta take this.” He flipped open the phone. “Hi, Frank.” He listened to the voice on the other end.
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” he responded, “I’ll drop by the club tomorrow.” J.J. shut the cell, lit his cigar and, leaning forward, took a long draw. As he exhaled a waft of smoke, he swiveled the cigar back and forth between his fingers, nodded his approval and sank back into the chair. “Now, where were we?”
CHAPTER 5
Having wrapped up his business with Frank Shapiro, Jimmy Miyake stood outside the entrance to the 21 Club and hailed a taxi. In less than ten seconds, a cab pulled up. Jimmy tossed his bags in the back seat, announcing, “The Marriott!” as he climbed in after them. As the cab pulled out into traffic Jimmy flipped open his cell and punched in some numbers. A couple of buzzes later a groggy voice answered.
“Hai.”
“Moshi moshi, Yasamura san.”
Hoshi Yasamura glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. It was 3:48 in the morning, Japan time: four hours after Jimmy’s last call. Jimmy knew he had jolted Mr. Yasamura out of a sound sleep. But his employer had insisted on being called the minute arrangements had been made, regardless of the time.
“Do you have good news?” asked Mr. Yasamura.
“Yes,” replied Jimmy.
“Stay on the line,” ordered Mr. Yasamura as he put Jimmy on hold. He pulled back the covers, struggling to force his cramped legs off the bed and onto the floor. Mr. Yasamura had let himself go over the years to such an extent that his body was far from its former youthful vigor. Because he almost exclusively used his brain and ignored the brawn, his life was void of physical activity. Combined with a steady dose of rich, artery-clogging, western-influenced cooking, his sedentary lifestyle made him appear older than his fifty-odd years. In spite of the fact that his naturally high metabolism had worked its magic, keeping his body from collecting too much fat, his doctors warned him that he was a prime candidate for a heart attack. Shameful, when he thought about it. He had once been as quick as a rattlesnake and twice as deadly. Right now, though, he had more important matters to consider. His big dream was starting to materialize.
Mr. Yasamura reached for a scarlet silk kimono draped across the chair next to his bed. His pampered bare feet padded him across the luxurious carpet to the window. Pushing apart the elegant drapes and sliding open the glass doors, he stepped out onto his balcony. As he leaned against its filigreed railing, he gazed up at the full moon, marveling at its breathtaking illumination of his estate and its manicured grounds. He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head, congratulating himself on his good fortune. The gods of his ancestors had indeed showered him with great favor and if their benevolence continued, the long-sought object of his affections, Elvis Presley’s pink Cadillac, would soon be his.
The eldest son of a poor farming family in Tochigi province, Hoshi Yasamura had done well for himself. At one point, he had slaved for a noodle factory in Tokyo. What a distance he had come since those lean and lonely early days. Refusing to submit to the chains of poverty rooted in an ancient, firmly-entrenched Japanese class system, Hoshi, through sheer ambition and ruthless determination, had clawed his way to the materialistic pinnacle of the lifestyle he ferociously desired. However, he had achieved all of this through another, equally ancient class system known as the Yakuza: the dreaded Japanese mafia.
Furthermore, he had not arrived at the top of Japan’s largest and most powerful crime syndicate—the Yamaguchi-gumi—by kissing backsides and performing skits at the annual bonekai. No, Hoshi was intelligent, suave, street smart—and it was this combination of characteristics that had catapulted him up through the ranks.
In 1974, at the age of twenty-one, Hoshi had come to America on a gambling junket as the personal bodyguard of a western-influenced major Yakuza crime boss. It was there in Las Vegas that he witnessed first-hand the phenomenon of Elvis Presley performing live. Even though Elvis had never taken his act to Japan, his popularity there was astounding. Hoshi had always been a big fan of Elvis’s music and movies, passionately relating to the legend’s meteoric rise from poverty to stardom. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the spectacle that engulfed him that night as he sat in a front row seat at the International Hotel, watching Elvis live on stage. It was a night he would never forget, an experience that propelled Hoshi from ordinary ardent fan to an outright obsession for all things Elvis.
Mr. Yasamura heaved a prosperous sigh, turned around and padded back inside the sliding doors, across his bedroom and down the hall towards the Jungle Room. Of the myriad rooms comprising his estate, he considered the Jungle Room to be his most sacred place, an inner sanctum reserved for his best thinking. Such was his fascination for the megastar that the Jungle Room had been designed as a precise replica of Elvis’s own favorite room in Graceland.
A towering statue of the god Tiki was the first object to catch the eye upon entering Yasamura’s private den. The mystery of the perpetually empty bowl in its outstretched arms relentlessly perplexed Hoshi, and his equally intensive research had yet to provide him with an answer.
In the center of the room, parked in front an early-model Advent video projector, were a gigantic sofa and a pair of overstuffed armchairs. Each was thickly upholstered with dark-brown fake fur. In front of one chair sat a cocktail table cut from the crotch of a huge cypress slab and coated with what appeared to be a quarter-inch of lustrous polyurethane. This arrangement, as Mr. Yasamura learned from one of countless books on Elvis, had provided the King with his favorite mealtime setting. Hoshi, much to his housekeeper’s chagrin, eventually adopted the same routine.
The den’s most dazzling feature was a wall of rough-cut fieldstone equipped with pipes and a system that pumped a constant cascade of water over the jutting rocks. The tranquil sound of water, illuminated by pot lights embedded in the ceiling, provided the ideal environment for Mr. Yasamura’s meditative forays.
Hoshi slumped his out-of-shape body into one of the plush chairs, and patiently pushed the hold button on his handset. Jimmy was waiting patiently on the other end of the line.
“Hai!”
“Things went fine, Yasamura san,” Jimmy said, watching the familiar sights float past as the limousine sped him through the streets of Philadelphia.
“Yes, one million.” He could almost hear the old man’s smile at the other end. “Yes, I will keep you informed.”
Jimmy flipped his cell shut and looked up to see the cab driver staring at him through the rear view mirror. Jimmy beamed back. “Land of opportunity!”
“Sounds like it!” exclaimed the driver.
In the jungle room, Mr. Yasamura placed his phone down on the cocktail table, leaned back in the plush chair, closed his eyes and in one of the worst imaginable Elvis imitations, complete with Japanese accent, he gushed: “Thank you. Thankyouverymuch!”
CHAPTER 6
Another afternoon was on the wane. The Hollywood Rattlebag editorial headquarters were located in an industrial building two blocks west of the 21 Club. The predominately twenty-something staff was in a typical flurry, trying to pull together enough material for the upcoming edition. Danielle was on the phone when Stafford walked in. Smiling up at him she placed her left index finger in the “wait” position. Whoever was on the other line was talking her ear off. She rolled her eyes and mouthed blah, blah, blah. Ed laughed and continued through to the tiny cubicle comprising his office. The entire floor was laid out in an open concept whose fabric-covered, multi-panel dividers provided each employee with a bare modicum of privacy. Danielle, still on the phone, caught Ed looking over his divider at her. You want coffee? she mouthed to him. Sure—he nodded his reply and sat down. Several minutes later, Danielle entered the cubicle with two cups in her harried hands, and set one down on the desk for Ed.
“How’s his mood?” he asked, taking a sip.
“Not good,” answered Danielle, brushing a blonde hair from
her eye. “Did you get your story?”
“Nope,” Ed said, nonchalantly.
“He’s gonna can your ass,” she said, shaking her head in frustration. “Where’s the story you said you were working on?”
“I lied,” he replied.
“I knew it.”
Ed took a drink of his coffee, pulled a flask out of his pocket and winked at Danielle as he splashed a shot of Jack Daniels into his cup. As she issued a familiar sigh of dismay, he put the flask back into his pocket, leaned back in his swivel chair, propped his feet up on the desk and took a sip.
“Eddie,” she looked him straight in the eye, “you think you might have a drinking problem?”
“I can’t do this any more, Danielle.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me that before. But do you think it’s a problem? Your drinking, I mean?”
“Danielle, I’ve got bigger problems than drinking.”
“What if I said that drinking was causing your problems?”
He shrugged.
“What’ll you do if he fires you?”
“Get another job somewhere.”
“Yeah? Doing what?”
“I dunno. I’ll find something,” he replied without a shred of conviction.
“Eddie, you’re a writer. Writers write. You told me that. If you can’t hack it here, where will you—”
Their conversation was interrupted when a young pony-tailed intern with a pimply face popped up from the edge of the partition. “Hey, Old Timer! Creighton wants to see you in his office.”
Ed looked at Danielle, shook his head and drained his cup. “Here we go.”
Ed navigated his way through the labyrinth of cubicles to Buzz Creighton’s office and tapped lightly on the door. “Who’s there?” growled Creighton’s voice from the other side.
Ed opened the door. Creighton peered up over the trendy but ancient black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Good, Buzz. And you?”
“Get the hell in here, Stafford!” snarled Creighton, impatiently running his ink-stained right hand through a thatch of Marine-buzzed gray.
Ed pursed his lips, continued into the office, shut the door and dragged a chair up to Creighton’s desk. Creighton always reminded him of a humorless version of Lou Grant from The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Creighton glared at him. “Does the term ‘deadline’ have any meaning to you whatsoever?” Without waiting for an answer, which Ed, in any case, was too world-weary to produce on such short order, he barreled on. “You’re an experienced journalist, for God’s sake. You know the rules.” He slammed his hand down on the scarred and cluttered desktop. “Every issue it’s the same damn thing. I’m always being left hung out to dry, wait-wait-waiting for your column.” He paused just long enough to catch his breath before ramming into the next wave of his tirade. “Look, Stafford, I hired you because you had experience. Real experience. Once upon a time you were a big deal. The real deal. Something happened and you bottomed out. You needed a break and I’m a big softhearted pushover. But quite frankly, you’re not worth what I’m paying you.”
“You finished?” Ed said, trying not to lose control.
“Yeah! I’m finished, all right. And so are you! Kaput. I want you out of here by the end of the day.”
Ed knew it was coming, and he knew there was no sense protesting. At that moment he began to experience an inexplicable and totally unexpected surge of relief. How could he argue with Creighton? The man was right, he knew the way things worked. The Rattlebag was a load of crap, but it was Creighton’s crap, and he had the right to run his paper any way he wanted. Ed stood up, walked over to the door, put his hand on the handle and paused. Slowly, as if trapped between a crag and a bottomless pit, he turned to face Creighton.
“You know, Buzz, you’re right,” he said quietly. “You gave me a break when I needed it. But I haven’t produced for you. I’ve been nothing more than a dead weight. And for that, I apologize.”
Creighton had been caught completely off-guard. Maybe it was only the booze talking, but in all the time Ed Stafford had been with him he had never known the stubborn newshound to admit he was wrong. Was this just another ploy or delay tactic? Creighton, who trusted his instincts, didn’t think so. Ed was too proud a man for something like that. No, this statement had a ring of sincerity to it. Should he give him one more chance? “Look, Ed…”
“Listen, Buzz,” Ed interrupted him, “what I’m trying to say is, I don’t blame you for firing me. I’d have fired me long before today. I wish I could do the job for you. I just can’t write the kind of stuff you need. I’m sorry.” Ed walked over to Creighton’s desk and stuck out his hand. “No hard feelings?”
Creighton was speechless as he gripped Ed’s hand. The two exchanged silent, disconsolate glances before Ed Stafford let go, turned and, with a brush of his hand against the door, left to join the ranks of the unemployed.
CHAPTER 7
Just before noon, J.J. cruised into the 21 Club. “Hey, have you seen Frank?” he called to Dino, who was at the other end of the bar washing glasses.
“He’s upstairs in the office.” Dino replied, not bothering to look up.
“You mind telling him I’m here?” pressed J.J.
“No problem,” said Dino, “Eddie’s in a booth at the back, in case you need to know.”
“Okay, thanks Dino.”
Dino shrugged.
J.J. found Ed sitting at a table, punching away at the keys of his open laptop. “New office?” he smiled as he slid into the booth facing Ed.
Ed looked up with a grin. “Frank wants me to start paying rent.”
“Next thing you know, he’ll want us to start payin’ our bar tabs,” laughed J.J., glancing over at Ed’s computer screen. “Working on your column?”
“There is no column,” Ed said, “Creighton canned me yesterday.”
“Awwww, that’s not good.”
“Ah, what the hell,” Ed said, picking up his drink and swirling the ice cubes with his index finger. “I mean, it’s not exactly like I was writing for the Times.” He drained the glass.
“At least it was a job,” J.J. said.
“I’m sick of writing crap. It would be like you having to go out and steal Chevy Novas.”
“I see what you mean,” shuddered J.J.
“I’ve just got to get back to some serious journalism, J.J.”
“So, how you planning on doing that?”
“I need to dig up an earthshakingly major, exclusive story. Shop it to the highest bidder with the agreement that I get a staff position out of it.”
“But then you’d have to go easy on this stuff,” J.J. tapped Ed’s empty glass.
“Speaking of which . . . ” Ed seized the glass and began angling to catch the waitress’s eye.
Within seconds, a large-eyed brunette boasting a knockout tan sashayed over to their table balancing a tray on her hip.
“You’re just in time, Virginia!” Ed feigned the pose of a man on his last legs.
“And this would be . . . your private secretary?” J.J. gave Virginia a wink.
“Real hilarious, J.J.” Virginia rolled her mascara-heavy eyes. “Do you want something? Or are you just here to pester Mister Stafford?”
“Oooooh! An executive-slash-pit-bull secretary at that,” chuckled J.J. as he checked her out in his not-so-subtle way. Definitely hot stuff, he marveled, noting how the white-and-burgundy lines of the kitschy waitress uniform showed off her generous proportions. Despite her brash demeanor, he could tell she was the type that would cave in to a guy the minute he showed the slightest sign of neediness. Ed had obviously already picked up on and tapped into her sympathetic undercurrent.
“Because if you are, you’ll need to make an appointment.” She hovered over J.J. like a female tarantula, tapping her pen against her pad. “Unfortunately, Mister Stafford’s schedule happens to be booked solid. Why don’t you leave your number with Dino over there and I’ll get back to you when Mister Stafford has an opening?” She paused and flipped her bangs, her lips curving into the hint of a smirk as she snapped, “Now, are you going to order anything? I’ve got things to do.”
J.J. took a deliberate look around the dim, almost empty club and tossed a grin up at her. “Actually, Sweet Thing, I’m not going to be taking up much more of Mister Stafford’s time, but I do need to speak to him. Would you mind?” J.J. gave her an inconsequential wave of his left hand while shooting a quick glance over at Ed, who was thoroughly enjoying their little improvisation. As he looked back at Virginia, J.J. raised his eyebrows and added, “—regarding a confidential matter.”
Ed smiled and nodded to Virginia, “That’ll be all, Virginia. Would you mind holding my calls? And don’t forget my drink, huh?”
“Yes, sir!” Virginia’s eyes widening in appreciation, she spun on her red patent heels and tripped back to the bar. J.J. watched her leave and turned to Ed.
“Think she likes me?”
“Everybody likes you, J.J., you’re the main attraction here,” Ed said.
Just then Frank approached the table. “I’m gonna have to start chargin’ you rent, Stafford,” he grumbled. Ed winked at J.J.
“Hey, J.J.,” Frank growled, “I need to talk with you—in private.” He squinted and tensed his mouth into an unmistakable I mean-business scowl.
Ed knew that “privately” meant Frank was cooking up some sort of a big deal and, in accordance with their longtime silent understanding, Ed didn’t care to know any of the details.
J.J. slid out of the booth and said, “I’ll catch you later, Eddie,” as he followed Frank upstairs.
****
Frank closed the office door and walked over to his private bar.
He poured a rye and coke for J.J., a large scotch for himself, carried the drinks over to the seating arrangement and set them down on the timeworn surface of the marbled coffee table. J.J. reached for his glass, and leaned back in his chair. “What’s on your mind, Frank?”
Frank looked at J.J. for a moment, as though trying to figure out how he should broach the subject, hoping to make it sound far less ridiculous than it seemed. “I got a job for you. If you’re interested.” Although Frank didn’t deal in stolen cars, there had been one occasion when one of his gangster friends requested a favor. J.J. preferred not to deviate from his usual way of doing things, such as sticking with seasoned pros like Jules Saint Germain. True, everything had run without any glitches, the time he had done the favor for Frank. All the same, he’d rather not make a habit out of this kind of work.
“Frank, you know how I operate.”
“This is a different kind of job, J.J., and you’re the only guy I know that might be able to pull it off.” Frank didn’t say what he was really thinking: You’re the only guy who might be crazy enough to try. J.J. was fully aware that Frank was schmoozing him. Whatever this job was, it sounded high risk.
“Well, you know me, the consummate pro. So out with it. What is this job?”
Frank shot him a peculiar grin. “I want you to steal Elvis Presley’s Pink Cadillac. Outta Graceland.” He sat back, waiting for the inevitable roar of disbelief.
It came. J.J. burst out laughing. He wasn’t sure what was crazier, the line he had just heard, or the fact that Frank was just sitting there with a completely straight face. If it was a joke, it was completely out of character for Frank. When J.J. had more or less composed himself he said, “Frank, lemme tell you, walking all the way up those stairs was worth it, just to hear that one line. Elvis Presley’s Cadillac. Beauuuutiful!”
Frank glared at J.J., the dead seriousness in his voice canceling out any possibility he had been joking. “J.J., you know I don’t have a sense of humor.”
“That’s what makes it so—funny, Frank.” J.J. stiffened his jaw.
Frank heaved himself out of his chair, strode over to his desk, opened the drawer, yanked out a fat envelope, walked back to the seating arrangement and aimed it at the coffee table, where it landed with a dull thud. When J.J. picked up the envelope, he was instantly nonplussed by its weight. When he looked inside, he noticed the hundred-dollar denomination of the top bill. Somehow he sensed that the rest of the bills in the stack—a sizeable stack—matched the denomination of that first bill. Before he could do anything about it, the same peculiar grin was working its way into his own features.
“There’s twenty-five grand there,” stated Frank. “Now, do you want to take the job? For your usual fee—which would come to ten percent of the Pink Caddie’s value up front, and the other seventy-five when you deliver.”
Hot damn, thought J.J., the grin freezing on his face, Frank’s serious!
CHAPTER 8
When he got back to his apartment J.J. shut the blinds, pulled off his jacket, plunked the fat envelope on the kitchen table and sat down. He carefully removed the hundred dollar bills from the envelope and slowly began arranging them in ten piles across his kitchen table. I might as well be playing Monopoly, he thought in amazement. When he finished he had lined up twenty-five piles of ten one hundred dollar bills. Twenty-five thousand and another seventy-five on the way. Who said crime doesn’t pay?
J.J. had no doubt he’d been born with larceny in his heart. For as long as he could remember he had been drawn to criminal activity, finding it downright intoxicating. Odd as it might seem, it wasn’t so much the results of his various crimes, nor even the multitude of ill-gotten gains, but the rush that shot through him with every fresh risk: the bigger the risk, the bigger the rush. Looking back in time, he could still see himself as a five-year-old standing next to his father at a corner convenience store. As his father was handing a cashier some money for milk, J.J. reaching his grubby little hand up, up, up to the box of penny candies sitting on the counter . . . pocketing three tangy rainbow colored cubes as the cashier handed his father the change, oblivious to what had happened right under his nose. From that moment on, J.J.’s life in crime began to snowball, almost taking on a life of its own.
After years of diversification, J.J. eventually settled into the specialized field of “grand theft auto.” He preferred this job description to, say, “boosting cars”—the same way “jewel thief” sounded better than “smash-and-grab”—and steadfastly stuck to his own hard fast rules. Number One: never work a client you don’t know. Number Two: only go after a car on order. Number Three: never accept a job that can’t be planned right down to the smallest detail. So far, his rules had served him well: he had never gotten caught and he wanted to keep his perfect track record.
J.J. heaved a groan as he began to consider the biggest challenge that had ever landed in his lap, a job that would demand measurably more than tracking down another pricey Porsche. Each and every one of J.J.’s successes resulted from painstaking time and research, a methodology that was almost an art in itself. Start the ball rolling with a slim jim or lemon pop, give the ignition a slap hammer yank, extract the steering column lock with a side kick, and freeze the alarm system with some liquid nitrogen. This Pink Caddie heist would take his career to a whole different level. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he had accepted Frank’s deal a tad too prematurely. Setting eyes on that fat envelope full of money was enough to make anyone’s head bloat with possibilities. I gotta feeling, he groaned inwardly, that this job is going to take one hell of lot of planning.
So caught up was J.J. in the Heist of a Lifetime he hadn’t noticed the blinking red light on his answering machine. He went over and pressed replay, and the friendly, efficient voice of his sister filled the room: “Hi, J.J. It’s me. You wanna come over for supper tonight? We haven’t seen you for a while. Gimme a call, would you?”
Maxine lived around the corner with her fifteen year-old son, Sean. Sean’s father had walked out on them when Sean was just a baby. Like most single moms, she was forever struggling to keep her head above water. J.J. did his best to help out Maxine and Sean whenever he could. His features lit up as he recalled the Heist of a Lifetime. Would he ever be able to work wonders for them once he had this job sewn up. The mere thought filled him with anticipatory flashes of joy and he began looking around the apartment for a safe place to stash the dough. He finally tucked the fat envelope inside a sheet he’d peeled from last month’s Rattlebag, snapped an elastic band around the bulky mass and printed the word FISH on the crinkled newsprint with a jumbo marker. Pleased with his ingenuity he shoved the ungainly mass into the freezer, picked up the phone and dialed Maxine.
CHAPTER 9
JJ side-stepped the glassy eyed drunk slouched in his usual spot on the front steps of Maxine’s apartment building. He walked into the drab and dingy lobby, pushed the elevator button, waited a few minutes and noticed the numbers weren’t moving. He could hear the muffled banter of two people echoing from somewhere upstairs. Obviously holding up the elevator, he grimaced as he resigned himself to walking up the three flights. He rushed up the exit stairs two at a time wincing at the putrid and perpetual reek of urine permeating the stairwell. When he reached the third floor, he moved quickly down the hall hoping to outrun the stench of bad cooking, until he reached Maxine’s door. He clanked the rusty cherub-faced knocker two or three times. Within seconds, an eye appeared in the peep-hole. Maxine unlocked the door and swung it open. “Forget your key again?”
“Yup,” J.J. said, extending his arms in a time-worn gimme a break gesture. Maxine planted a kiss on her brother’s cheek and pulled him inside. “C’mon in! I’m making a pot roast.”
J.J. followed her into the cozy and spotless apartment, appreciatively
inhaling the aromas of her cooking. The scent transported him back to the days of their mother’s famous Sunday pot roast dinners. Every square inch of the apartment, from the frayed green sofa and matching loveseat to the creaky dining table and chairs, was tidy and polished, yet utterly inviting. J.J. squinted at the cheap curio stand laden with family photos, some of them naturally sepia tinted, others whose color the years had drained to pale blues and pinks. Even her impeccable dusting, he noted sadly, couldn’t detract from the frames’ copious scars.
“You been staying out of trouble?” said Maxine, sounding like the living incarnation of their Mom as she leaned down to check the roast. Her once caramel-colored hair was dyed a blunt chestnut and her tomboy figure had thickened over the years, yet she still radiated her characteristic glass-is-half-full optimism, despite all of the burdens life had dealt her.
“You know me, Maxi. Sure I’m stayin’ outta trouble,” J.J. said, lifting the lids off the pots one at a time.
Maxine slapped his hands with the same playful scolding she had administered when they were kids. “Go wash up now, like a good boy. And give Sean a shout. He’s in his room.”
“Okay, Mom,” grinned J.J. as he trotted down the hall.
****
“Maxine, I swear, your cooking is right up there with Mom’s, God rest her soul.” J.J. loosened his belt and leaned back in his chair.
“Really?” she whispered, her already ruddy cheeks taking on the hint of a full blush.
“Absolutely!” exclaimed J.J. “If I could eat like this every day, I’d never look at another burger.”
Maxine smiled appreciatively, got up from the table and started to clear the dishes. J.J. rolled his napkin up into a ball and playfully fired it across the table at his young nephew.
“What do you say, Sean? Do you remember your Nana’s cooking?”
Auburn-haired Sean caught the napkin and threw it back at his uncle, chuckling. “How could I, Uncle J.J.? I was only a baby.”
“Sean,” said Maxine, “why don’t you show your uncle your new computer?”
“New computer?” J.J. said. “Did you guys win the lottery?”
“You know how Sean’s been needing a faster machine? Well,” explained Maxine, “his school has this special program where you can make monthly payments.” She gave her son a wink, “He spends so much time on it anyway. And it’s an investment in his future, right Sean?”
“Right, Mom.” Sean turned to J.J. with a big grin, “It’s wickedly fast, uncle J.J
J.J. didn’t know a lot about computers, but it sounded pretty impressive. “Sounds like you’re talkin’ about a Porsche.”
“It’s better than a Porsche!” exclaimed Sean.
“Well, let’s go have a look at this mean machine,” J.J. said, getting up from the table.
****
J.J. slouched down on Sean’s bed as his nephew pulled a chair up to the computer he had set up on his desk. As Sean started fingering the keyboard the monitor sprang to life. This kid’s not going to wind up as some street punk, thought J.J., impressed with the boy’s agility and speed, he’s got far too many brains for that. He was right. Sean was recognized as a gifted child from the time he uttered his first syllable. His high intelligence, creativity and imagination constantly inspired Maxine to do everything in her power to see that he got the advantages, whatever stimulation he needed— even if it meant sliding deeper into debt.
“Your Mom tells me you’re pretty good on this thing,” J.J. said.
“Yeah, I guess . . . ” Sean continued tapping on the keys, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen.