of a sudden?’
‘New York, New York,’ I told her. ‘It’s a wonderful town.’
‘And what you doin’ of here?’
‘No purpose whatsoever,’ I assured her and myself. ‘I am not here on a case.’
‘A zero-gravity briefcase?’ she asked, and she flipped the frying pan by means of remote control.
‘A detective case. I am a private detective. The name’s Woodbine, Lazlo Woodbine,’ and I added, ‘some call me Laz.’
‘Well, pleased to meet you, Mr Woodburn.’
‘Woodbine,’ I said.
‘Woodbine,’ she said. ‘But you’d better hightail it outta here. This is Masser Elvis’s kitchen. And Masser Elvis don’t take too kindly to strangers in his kitchen.’
‘Elvis is a friend of mine,’ I said.
‘Elvis is a friend to all Mankind,’ said the black lady. And she crossed herself above her ample bosoms. ‘The Pope says Masser Elvis is the Blessed Second Come.’
‘The Pope says what?’ I asked, in some surprise.
‘That Masser Elvis is Messiah Elvis. Praise the Lord and pass the phase-plasma rifles in a forty-watt range. Lordy Lordy.’
‘Right,’ I said. As I was wont to do on such occasions. ‘And when exactly did the Pope say this?’
‘About half an hour ago. He teleported in from the Vatican to take lunch with Masser Elvis. That’s what I’m cookin’ up here.’
‘Hm,’ I went. ‘This is all most unexpected.’
‘Maybe for you, Mr Widebum, but not for the rest of the world.’
‘I think the rest of the world may take my side on this issue,’ I said.
‘You think?’ And the black lady diddled with some futuristic-looking contrivance that was strapped about her wrist. And the wafer-thin (mint-coloured) plasma TV lit up like the Fourth of July. Or the fifth of November, back home.
‘I am standing here, outside the gates of Graceland,’ said a TV news reporter. And there he was, doing that very thing. ‘Where myself and news teams from all around the world and thousands of followers of Elvis are gathered.’ And the TV camera panned around and there were indeed thousands gathered around Graceland. And there were news crews and police cars and ambulances, too. ‘For this momentous day,’ the TV news reporter went on. ‘Within Graceland, his Holy Fatherness Pope Keith the First is at this very moment issuing the private blessing and sorting out all the complicated paperwork that will confirm Elvis as the Second Come. And usher in the End Times. For which all we Christian folk rejoice. Praise Jesus, praise Elvis. Amen. Lordy Lordy.’
And I looked at the black lady.
And the black lady looked at me.
And I said, ‘No, this isn’t right.’
And then she hit me with the frying pan.
And I found myself falling down and down into the whirling black pit of oblivion that nineteen-fifties American genre detectives always fall into at this time.
Which was definitely not supposed to happen.
50
And then I awoke to find Elvis looking down at me.
And he was dabbing at my brow and singing.
And he was singing ‘The Smell in the Gents”. And I wrote that. But he sang it very nicely. And Elvis smiled and said, ‘Are you all right, buddy? You took a bit of a tumble.’
And I lifted up my head a tad and felt the lump on the back of it. ‘Your cook welted me with a frying pan,’ I said. ‘And although that looks very funny on TV, it doesn’t half hurt in real life.’
And Elvis said, ‘Lo, you are healed.’
And I said, ‘What?’
And the Pope who was standing nearby said, ‘It is a miracle.’ And added, ‘Lordy Lordy.’
‘It is a what?’ I said. ‘No, it’s not!’
‘Elvis has raised him from the dead,’ said the Pope, ‘as he formerly did Lazarus.’
‘He never did,’ I protested. ‘I was just unconscious.’
‘You were dead,’ said the Pope. ‘I saw you at it. You weren’t breathing.’
‘I was too breathing. I was.’
‘Delirious and no surprise,’ said the Pope. ‘This is the final proof I needed to confirm your divinity, O Holy One.’ And he fell to one knee and touched the hem of Elvis’s jumpsuit bell-bottom garment ending.
‘Hold on there,’ I complained. ‘This is all some mistake. All of it. And a very big mistake, too.’
‘How did you get here, sir?’ asked Elvis.
‘I teleported,’ I said, ‘from the same booth-thingie that you did. From the corner near Fangio’s Bar.’
‘Never heard of such a place,’ said Elvis. ‘It sounds like some den of vice, where shameless women and wanton men meet to engage in acts of filthy congregation.’
‘It’s not quite as much fun as that,’ I said. ‘But it’s my bar now, so I might think about giving that a go.’
‘Antichrist,’ cried the Pope, and he whipped out a cross from his papal robes and waggled it at me with menace. And I stared into the face of that Pope and then I saw who he was.
For it was indeed Keith, though Pope Keith he called himself.
Keith, the brother of Elvis.
‘Oh my God!’ I shouted at Elvis. ‘It’s him!’
‘The Pope,’ said Elvis. ‘Show some respect, sir, please.’
‘It’s him,’ I said. ‘And I’m me. Elvis, don’t you know me?’
‘I don’t think we’ve made acquaintance, sir. My name is Elvis Presley and-’
‘It’s me, Elvis – Lazlo Woodbine.’
‘Lazlo Wormwood more like,’ said the Pope. ‘The Evil One himself. ’
‘I’m not the Evil One,’ I shouted, rising as I did so to shake a fist or two. ‘You are the Evil One. The Homunculus. The Evil Twin of Elvis.’
‘Twin?’ said the Pope.
‘Well, brother then. I know who you are.’
‘An auto-da-fe,’ said the Pope. ‘The public burning of a heretic. That would begin your Earthly reign with a big media event, O Holy One.’
Elvis nodded. ‘It would,’ he agreed.
And as he nodded I smelled him.
I didn’t mean to smell him. I wasn’t doing furtive sniffings, not like I had done earlier that morning. I just sort of smelled him because his smell came wafting all over me. It positively engulfed and took to drowning me. And Elvis no longer smelled of all those nice things.
Elvis smelled of sulphur.
Elvis smelled of brimstone.
‘It’s you,’ I said. ‘You lied to me. You tricked me somehow, I don’t know how. But it’s you. You are the Homunculus.’
‘I think you’ve been drinking, fella,’ said Elvis, and he took me by the trench-coat lapels. And I tried to struggle, as well I might, but Elvis did know karate and he flung me rather hard, right across the room, and I bounced off a rather hard wall at the end.
‘Handcuff him,’ I heard Elvis say to someone, ‘and we’ll get him ready for that burning automobile thing.’
‘Auto-da-fe,’ said Pope Keith.
‘That,’ said Elvis. ‘Yeah.’
