Necrophenia

‘Which makes you the real Lazlo Woodbine now. Doesn’t it, Laz?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I said. ‘I can pretend to be. And to be honest I did pretend to be, for a while, in England. But neither I, nor anyone else, can ever be the real Lazlo Woodbine. There can only ever be one Lazlo Woodbine.’

  ‘And so what do you think ever became of the one Lazlo Woodbine? ’ asked Fangio.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Ah.’

  ‘No,’ said Fangio, ‘it’s “arrr, harr-harr”. The way that Robert Newton did it in the television series of Treasure Island. Newton is the Long John Silver against which all future Long John Silvers must be measured. Measured and found to fall short, in my opinion. Arr-harr. Harr.’

  ‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘But there will never be another Lazlo Woodbine. ’

  ‘So what did become of him?’ asked Fangio.

  ‘A bottle of Bud,’ I said, ‘and a hot pastrami on rye.’

  ‘Do you want a couple of pieces of eight with that?’

  ‘No,’ said I. ‘Nor a sunken galleon.’

  ‘Don’t go refusing my cocktails before you’ve tried them,’ said Fangio. And he actually went off to fetch my bottle of Bud. So things had changed just a little hereabouts.

  Fangio returned with a Bosun’s Whistle. A cocktail of his very own formulation, he assured me. So perhaps things hadn’t changed after all.

  He did not discuss the matter of immediate payment, so, out of politeness, nor did I. I sipped at my Bosun’s Whistle and picked a bit of seaweed from between my teeth.

  ‘I’ll bet you can’t identify all the different ingredients in that cocktail, ’ said Fangio.

  ‘I’ll bet you’d be correct on that,’ I said.

  ‘How much do you bet?’ Fangio asked.

  ‘That you are correct and that I cannot identify the ingredients?’

  ‘Precisely. How much?’

  ‘Ten dollars?’ I said.

  ‘You pussy. Arr-harr-harr-harr.’

  ‘One hundred dollars?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s more like it. Shake.’ And Fangio extended a hand across the bar counter. ‘Sucker,’ said Fangio. And chuckling away, as had the man from American Heritage, he stumped off along behind the bar counter upon his newly fitted wooden leg.

  Leaving me to ponder one of life’s eternal questions.

  Why had I not pressed him further to explain about the pirates?

  I viewed the clientele of Fangio’s Bar. None of them were dressed as pirates. Although I did notice two fellows and a lady sporting wooden legs. But that was not necessarily an indication of piratical leanings. Most who know anything about New York in the nineteen-seventies will know that there was a brief fashion for bums. Bums being the American word for tramps. Fanny, apparently, being the American word for bum. The famous bums’ bible, The Autobiography of a Supertramp, which was written in the nineteen-twenties, had been reprinted, and along with Jack Kerouac’s On the Road had become the thing to read. And in the final chapter of Supertramp, the author, who is riding-the-rods on an American train, falls off and loses a leg and this caught the reading public’s imagination. And many folk went out and had a single leg amputated. Weird, eh? Of course, that kind of thing would not happen today, because the readers of autobiographies are far too sophisticated. And intelligent. And beautiful. And sexy. And—

  ‘Life, eh?’ said Fangio who, having served others, had now returned unto me. ‘You can’t live with it, but you can’t live without it. Or is that women I’m thinking about?’

  ‘Probably women,’ I said. ‘I think a lot about women. But I never seem to have sex with any of them.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re gay,’ said Fangio.

  ‘How dare you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘I should have said perhaps you’re gay. Ah-harr-harr-harr.’

  ‘I should think so too.’ And I sipped at my Bosun’s Whistle.

  ‘Getting anywhere near a solution regarding its ingredients? Ah-harr? Ah-harr-harr?’ asked Fangio.

  ‘Sadly not,’ I said. ‘If I can’t come up with something soon, I will just have to accept defeat and take the hundred dollars for failing.’

  ‘And that will serve you right.’ And Fangio chuckled again. ‘Harr-harr-harr-ah-harr, ’ he went.

  And then he said, ‘Ah-harr slice-me-membrane and walk-me-plank (also cocktails), there was a guy in here earlier, asking for you.’

  ‘Asking for me?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Aar-harr-harr—’ and then Fangio coughed. ‘I don’t know how pirates keep it up,’ he said. ‘It makes my throat sore. But yes, asking for you. Well, asking for Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye.’

  ‘A client?’ I said. ‘Well, if you see him again, you send him over to my office.’

  ‘No,’ said Fangio, shaking his head. ‘I can’t do that. Oh no.’

  ‘And why not?’ I asked, and I downed the last of my Bosun’s Whistle and then picked a pair of lady’s underpants out of my teeth. ‘Why can’t you send them to my office?’

  Fangio beckoned me close and whispered into my ear. ‘Between you and me only,’ he whispered, ‘that was the real Lazlo’s format. The four locations. You’ll have to come up with your own special format. I’m not going to help you to copy his.’

  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.

  46

  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 ar
ound 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 strands23 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.

  ‘Coming right up, sir,’ said Fangio. But he didn’t move an inch.

  ‘So what, exactly, is the problem?’ I asked Elvis.

  ‘It’s my brother,’ said Elvis.

  To which I said, ‘Your brother?’

  ‘Not so loud, sir, if you please.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. But your brother - I didn’t know that you had a brother.’

  ‘I was born one of twins,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Yes, well, I know that. But your twin died in childbirth. I know that, too. Very sad.’

  ‘He didn’t die,’ said Elvis. ‘They took him away. He was a special boy. He is a special boy.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Ministry of Serendipity?’ I asked Elvis.

  ‘Yes, sir, I have. And that Doctor McMahon ain’t no brother of mine.’

  ‘But you do know of him?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. He was part of the experiment.’

  And yes, I confess, I was warming to this. Elvis Presley’s twin brother. The Ministry of Serendipity. Part of the experiment. Oh yes, I was certainly warming to this.

  ‘I will have to ask you to tell me everything as clearly and precisely as possible,’ I told Elvis. ‘The facts are the most important thing to a detective. Oh, and one more thing—’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said Elvis.

  ‘Not you,’ I told him. ‘Fange.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Fange the barman.

  ‘Clear off,’ I said to Fange. ‘This is private.’

  And Fangio stumped away in a right old grump and a battered tricorn and I spoke on with Elvis.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I said. And he told me everything.

  ‘You must understand, sir,’ said he, ‘that I only know what I am going to tell you because my daddy told it all to me. After my mummy died-’ and Elvis crossed himself, though I never thought he was Catholic ‘- my daddy took me aside and said, “Son, I have things to say to you, and you’d better listen when I say them.” And I listened and so I’m telling them to you now.’

  ‘And very well, too,’ I said. And Elvis continued.

  ‘You see, sir, there’s a war going on. And I don’t mean a war like Vietnam. This war has been going on for ever. Between Good and Evil, God and the Devil.’ And I thought back to Captain Lynch and all he had told me when I was young. And I thought that I knew what was coming. And I did. To some degree.

  ‘Good and Evil, God and the Devil,’ said Elvis. ‘But God, He doesn’t war too much Himself. Though the Devil keeps right on. And the bad guys who work f
or the Devil - black magicians, I tell you, sir, real black magicians.’ And Elvis looked at me. Deeply, right into my eyes.

  And, if I had been gay, well . . .

  ‘Please carry on,’ I told him.

  ‘Powerful bad magic, sir,’ said Elvis. ‘And every century the most powerful black magician performs the most powerful spell there is and causes the Homunculus to be born - a human being with the soul of an unholy one. He’s kinda the Devil in human form, but not quite.’

  ‘And how do you and your brother, and indeed Doctor McMahon, fit into this?’ I asked.

  ‘It was meant to be me,’ said Elvis. ‘I was supposed to be the Homunculus.’

  ‘Golly!’ I said.

  ‘Where?’ said Elvis.

  ‘Never mind. Please continue. Please.’

  ‘I don’t know what you know about the Second World War,’ said Elvis, ‘but it wasn’t all fought with tanks and bombs. It was fought with magic, too. And Adolf Hitler got raised into power by black magicians and the SS was a black-magic cult.’

  ‘I have read of such things,’ I said. ‘And you believe this to be true?’

  ‘I know it to be true, sir. The Nazi magicians were trying to create the twentieth-century Homunculus, Hitler being the nineteenth-century Homunculus. The new one was to be his unholy son. But there were other magicians, all around the world, all waging war in their own ways. And the most powerful of all was in England. Have you ever heard of a guy named Aleister Crowley?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and I nodded also. ‘My father met him once.’

  ‘Your daddy met the Great Beast of the Apocalypse?’ And Elvis had awe in his voice and he crossed once more at himself.

  And I felt rather good that I had impressed him.

  ‘The British Government,’ Elvis continued, ‘a secret department of war in the British Government - the Ministry of Serendipity - recruited Crowley to beat the German occult war machine by raising the Homunculus before they could.’

  I looked on as Elvis spoke all these words. And I admit that I was pretty slack-jawed. Because you really wouldn’t have expected such stuff to come out of the mouth of Elvis Presley.

  Would you?

  ‘Mr Crowley was an old man,’ Elvis continued, ‘but still strong with spells. They brought to him a woman who would be mother to the Homunculus. My mummy. Their idea was simply to beat the Germans to it. And once they had brought the Homunculus into being, they would then kill it straight away, and so void the chance of another being created for another one hundred years.’