Necrophenia

  ‘Rather clever,’ I said. ‘If a little horrid.’

  ‘So, Mr Crowley - he—’

  ‘Had sex with your mum?’ I asked.

  ‘Please keep your voice down, sir.’

  ‘So you are the son of Aleister Crowley?’

  Elvis looked to the right and the left, then nodded. ‘Through magical invocation.’

  ‘Well, damn me!’ I said.

  ‘That’s not really my line, sir,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘I was one of twins, sir, like I told you. The English magicians beat the German magicians in the race to create the Homunculus. And eventually they managed to kill Hitler also and end the war. The Americans did that, sir, not the Brits.’

  ‘Why did it come as no surprise to me that you were going to say that?’ I said.

  ‘Because you are Lazlo Woodbine and always one step ahead of the game, sir?’ Elvis suggested. And I agreed with him. And so he went on—

  ‘It wasn’t twins, sir,’ said Elvis. ‘I have to be honest, sir. On January eighth nineteen forty-five, six boys were born. Because Mr Crowley was the Beast Six-Six-Six. Three boys died. I survived, and my brother. And my other brother - Doctor McMahon, as he calls himself now.’

  ‘And the actual Homunculus?’ I said. ‘It’s not you, is it? And it’s not Doctor McMahon?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s my other brother, Keith.’

  ‘Keith?’ I said, both slowly and surely.

  ‘Keith,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Keith,’ I said once more. ‘Your sextuplet, Keith, the evil Homunculus.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, sir. And I want you to find him.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see. He’s gone missing, this Keith?’

  ‘He escaped, sir, yes.’

  ‘Escaped?’ I asked.

  ‘The Ministry of Serendipity intended to kill him at birth, sir, but then someone got to thinking that maybe they should study him instead. Keep him under control and under constant surveillance, but keep him, as their own. For their purposes.’

  ‘And the British Government thought this?’

  ‘The Ministry of Serendipity, yes, sir. So they moved Mummy and Daddy over to America. They were originally from Brentford in London, England, but the Ministry resettled them in Tupelo, Mississippi. My brother Keith was kept a secret - he never left the house. He has ways about him, sir. Horrible ways. Wherever he goes, things die. All things. So my mummy and daddy kept him indoors. And time passed and now I’m kinda famous. Which I hear don’t please my other brother Darren too much. And he’s kinda angry too that Mummy and Daddy left him behind at the Ministry. You see, sir, they couldn’t care for three children - they didn’t get much of a Government grant.’

  ‘And so why exactly do you want to employ me?’ I asked Elvis.

  ‘I want you to find my brother Keith, Mr Woodbine. If anyone can find him, you can.’

  ‘This is true,’ I said to Elvis. ‘So when did he escape?’

  ‘About twenty years ago.’

  ‘Twenty years? Haven’t you waited rather a long time to report him missing?’

  ‘I guess so, sir. But I guess I thought, like my daddy and my mummy thought, too, that he was dead. We thought that the Ministry of Serendipity men had changed their minds, taken him away and killed him. But he ain’t, sir. He ain’t dead.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked Elvis. ‘How do you know he isn’t dead?’

  ‘Because I saw a picture of him in the newspaper. He’s still alive.’

  ‘Let me get this clear,’ I said. ‘You recently saw his picture in the newspaper? Did it tell you where he was?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have the address.’

  ‘Then he’s not really all that lost, is he? Why do you want me to find him if you already know where he is?’

  ‘Mr Woodbine, sir, this is my brother, Keith. He is at large in the world. He is the most evil man who ever lived, capable of channelling all the powers of Evil through him. He is the Homunculus.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think you do, sir,’ said Elvis. ‘I don’t want you just to find him.’

  ‘You don’t?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Elvis. ‘I want you to kill him.’

  47

  Now, to be honest, I was having some problems with this.

  And I now felt suddenly sober.

  It might well have been that I had drunk myself sober. I had heard of such a thing happening, but never actually experienced it myself. I always fell asleep. But I was definitely feeling rather sober now and it was probably down to all that the King of rock ’n’ roll had just told me.

  And how I was having some problems with it.

  With quite a lot of it, actually.

  Such as, well, that was an awful lot of deeply personal secret stuff that Elvis had just spilled out, to a complete stranger. Even if he did believe that the complete stranger was Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye.

  And there was a rather big gaping hole in the timeline going on here.

  If Elvis was born in nineteen forty-five rather than nineteen thirty-five, as I had otherwise been led to believe, then he would only have been nine years old when he went into Sam Phillips’ Sun Studios to record ‘That’s All Right (Mama)’. And that didn’t seem all that likely.

  And then there was the matter of him seeing a picture of his brother, Keith, in a newspaper. Surely this would be his twin brother. So whatever Keith was pictured doing, folk would have thought it was Elvis doing it. Which might well have had Colonel Tom Parker asking questions. These and other problems I was finding with this.

  Ah, yes, and one in particular.

  And this being that I was Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye.

  And not Lazlo Woodbine, Assassin.

  ‘Are you okay, sir?’ asked Elvis. ‘You look kinda strange. Do you want that I should sing a song or something? I always do that in my movies when folk get that strange look on their faces.’

  I stared hard at Elvis and said, ‘Do you know any Sumerian Kynges songs?’

  And he might very well have said to me, ‘Why yes, sir, they’re my favourite band.’ But happily he didn’t. Instead he just shook his head, showering me with a fine film of olive essence. ‘There’s only one King,’ said Elvis. ‘And that one and only King is me.’

  ‘God bless you, Elvis Presley,’ said I.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, sir,’ said he.

  ‘And so then,’ I now said, ‘I do have many questions that I need to ask you, because things do not tie up as neatly as they might. But I do have to say to you that I am not an assassin.’

  ‘But the villain always dies, sir,’ said Elvis. ‘At the end of every one of your cases. In the final rooftop confrontation. They take the big, long fall to ultimate oblivion. They always do. And that’s why I came to you. Most other detectives bring the criminal to justice by taking him to stand trial. But the criminal always dies when you take on the case.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. And, ‘I see.’

  ‘You do, sir, yes.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right.’

  ‘I have the newspaper-cutting here, sir,’ said Elvis, ‘so you can recognise my brother, Keith.’

  ‘I think I’d know him if I saw him,’ I told Elvis.

  ‘How, sir?’ he asked me. ‘Cos you ain’t ever met him.’

  ‘Right,’ I said once more. But nevertheless Elvis pulled from the pocket of his jumpsuit (because he was wearing a jumpsuit - white, rhinestoned, big-golden-belted, bell-bottomed-trousered) a rather crumpled-up newspaper-cutting. And he flattened out the creases in this with his hands and patted it down on the bar top.

  And I viewed the photograph before me.

  And then I fell back in surprise.

  Although, fair doos, it should not really have been a surprise, should it? Because I am sure, fair reader, that you knew who that picture was of.

  A rather stumpy-looking fellow, who resembled an amalgamati
on of Dickens’ Mr Pickwick, a shaven-headed Shirley Temple and bad old buck-toothed Caligula of Rome.

  Papa Crossbar. That’s right.

  “‘Keith Crossbar”,’ I read aloud from the text beneath the photograph. ‘ “New York entrepreneur night-club owner to open brand-new venue - Papa Crossbar’s Voodoo Pushbike Scullery Two. ‘It is a dream come true for me,’ said the colourful man about town, ‘combining my favourite hobbies - clubbing, cycling, cooking and the Black Arts—’ ” ’ And there was more, but I didn’t bother to read it.

  And I weighed up the pros and the cons of the matter. It was Papa Crossbar who had dispatched Lazlo Woodbine into the great beyond. And it was Papa Crossbar who was threatening to dispatch everyone on Earth into the great beyond. So killing Papa Crossbar would be at the top of the list of anyone’s priorities really. It was right there at the top of mine.

  But, and this was a big but, I didn’t really want to kill anyone. And I was determined to stick with the Tyler Technique. Because the Tyler Technique would keep me out of danger.

  But - and the ideas were now spinning around inside my sober head - but perhaps I could call upon the services of my brother Andy to do the actual assassination. He had dispatched the Zeitgeist without so much as a second thought, so he might well go for it. And he wouldn’t need to take a share of the very large fee I intended to extract from Elvis. He’d probably do it just for the buzz and for a chance to wear the real Lazlo Woodbine’s trench coat. Yes, the ideas were certainly spinning around, so I ordered further drinks and Fangio, who had remained throughout my conversation with Elvis, stumped off to prepare them.

  ‘All right,’ I said to Elvis. ‘I will take on your case. But as you are well aware, your brother Keith is a very powerful being. I have already met him and it will be no easy matter to catch him unawares and assassinate him-’ (I couldn’t really believe I was actually saying such things and saying such things to Elvis. But as I was, I continued) ‘-so it will be a very expensive case and I will need some money up front.’

  And Elvis now produced an envelope from another jumpsuit pocket.

  And he handed me this envelope, and I, in turn, tore it open.

  And lo, there was a cheque for ten thousand dollars.

  And lo, this cheque found favour in my eyes and brought joy unto my heart. And I was thankful, withal. Blessings unto thee, oh Elvis Presley.

  ‘Many thanks,’ I said. ‘That’s the first couple of days covered, then.’

  Elvis rubbed his hands together. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said he. ‘Shall we head for the alleyway now? Or do you want to wait around for the dame-that-does-you-wrong to come in here and bop you on the head?’

  ‘Ah,’ I said to Elvis. ‘We’re not doing it like that any more. That was the old format. That’s old-fashioned. Now we have a brand-new nineteen-seventies-style format. It’s a more Zen kind of thing. It’s not quite as hands-on as the old format, it’s—’

  And I looked up at Elvis and the blankness on his face.

  ‘Never mind,’ I told him. ‘I will be doing it my way. You have nothing to worry about. You can go back to your rehearsals. You want to be your best for Begrem.’

  ‘But, sir,’ said Elvis, ‘I took a week’s vacation so I could help you out. And I brought this.’

  And wouldn’t you know it, he had another pocket in his jumpsuit, an inner pocket this time, and from this pocket he produced a pistol. And it was a very big pistol.

  ‘This is a World War Two Colt Forty-Five, just like the one I gave to President Nixon in the Oval Office.’

  ‘Put it away!’ I told him. And Elvis tucked it away.

  ‘You still carry the trusty Smith & Wesson?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But neither of us will be involving ourselves with guns at the present.’

  And Elvis gave me another blank look.

  And Fangio arrived with our drinks.

  ‘Two Jamaican Longboats,’ said Fangio.

  ‘Jamaican Longboats are Wimpy Bar ice-cream desserts,’ I told him. ‘One scoop each of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream, topped with glacé cherries.’

  ‘Arr harr-harr! Correct,’ cried the fat boy. ‘Then that makes us even. Do you want to go for a double-or-quits on the next ones?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘And bring us some alcohol. We don’t want these ice-cream desserts.’

  ‘I do,’ said Elvis. Although it was difficult to make out his words as he was already tucking into both Jamaican Longboats.

  Fangio left our company and later returned to it in a company of his own. A company of two Avast-Behinds. ‘You are never going to figure out what I’ve put in these,’ said Fangio.

  ‘I’ll just bet that I won’t,’ I said.

  ‘You’re on.’

  And we raised the stakes and Fangio went off, chuckling.

  I fished a napkin from the chromium-plated napkin dispenser that stood upon the bar top and handed it to Elvis. ‘You might need this,’ I told him. ‘You have a bit of ice cream . . . on your . . . well, everywhere, really.’

  Elvis looked somewhat baffled.

  ‘You don’t actually do wiping yourself, do you?’ I asked him.

  ‘Would you?’ asked Elvis. ‘If you were me?’

  And I supposed I would not.

  And so Elvis and I drank on into the night. And I ordered further drinks and failed to identify their ingredients. And at the end of the night’s drinking, Fangio handed over the deeds to his bar and told me that I had the luck of a Latvian.

  And so I didn’t have to stagger back to my unelectrified office. I was able instead to pass out on the floor of my new bar.

  Which I did, with a smile on my face. Because I had only been Lazlo Woodbine for about twelve hours. And already I was chumming it up with Elvis. Had become ten thousand dollars richer than the nothing I was previously worth. And was the very proud owner of Fangio’s Bar.

  It was clear that Fate had finally decided to smile upon me, and that my fortunes were already changing.

  And so I kipped down with a grin on my chops.

  And ne’er a care for the future.

  48

  And do you know, I sometimes think back to that night in Fangio’s Bar as being one of the happiest moments of my life. Really. Truly. And for a man such as myself, who has done so many things, that might sound strange. I had played Hyde Park in front of a quarter of a million people. And made love to some of the most beautiful women in the world. Well, the former, anyway. But that night, in Fangio’s Bar, I was happy. Which, I suppose, is why I remember it so well. Because I was never happy again.

  I think it may be that prior to that night in Fangio’s Bar, my life never had a focus. I might have thought it did and that I had a purpose, but it wasn’t true. And I was manipulated. And my life was orchestrated. But now, for the first time, I acquired that focus, that purpose, that sense of direction. I knew what I was and what I had to do. And I will write more of such things, but not now.

  Because something else happened that night. Something that shocked me and set my focus, my purpose, my sense of direction all to the same grim goal.

  To destroy the being that called itself Keith Crossbar.

  It happened to me while I slept, but it wasn’t a dream. I had a vision. The detail was so precise. And I watched every bit of it as if I was watching a television show.

  I had a vision of Death that night as I lay upon the floor of Fangio’s Bar. Or Tyler’s Bar, as it might soon be renamed.

  And in this vision I learned the identity of Death.

  And Death was Keith Crossbar, brother of Elvis and evil Homunculus.

  And I awoke in a sweat.

  Which is why I remember the night before with such fondness. Because in the days that followed, things got very grim indeed.

  Elvis was asleep on the counter, with his sweetly smelling head resting upon the chromium-plated napkin dispenser. I rose from the floor, clicked my limbs, did stretchings, clutchings at my skull, sea
rchings and findings of my fedora and, at length, quiet stumblings towards the bar counter.

  Where I beheld the other King of Kings.

  The King of rock ’n’ roll.

  True, it was a fair old time since Elvis had actually done any real rock ’n’ roll and he had long ago sacked Scotty Moore and the other members of his original backing band. But he was the King. Elvis was a one-off.

  Except, of course, I had now learned that he was anything but. He was one of a three-off. But a good one. And he lay there, sleeping like the King he was. And yes, I confess it, I had a little sniff.

  And Elvis smelled sweetly even there.

  Captain Lynch had once told me about the odour of sanctity, which issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints. He had personally sniffed Saint Bernadette of Lourdes, he told me, and could confirm the smell. She smelled of lilacs.

  I had a good old sniff at Elvis. And yes, he smelled of lilacs, too. And my sniffing awoke the King of rock ’n’ roll and I had to back off in a hurry.

  Elvis roused himself and yawned and saw me and said, ‘Hey, Laz, sir. Have you been awake all night, guarding me?’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Yes, I have. I will add that to the bill, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Nope,’ went Elvis, and he straightened his hair. ‘I was having me a weird old dream there. And my brother was there, and he was Death, and—’

  I said, ‘Really?’ and yawned a bit myself.

  ‘Do you think it might mean something?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about it. You leave the thinking to me.’ And Elvis made the face of relief. ‘I love it when folks say that to me,’ he said. ‘Colonel Tom, or the movie director, or some Jimbo that the manager of Caesar’s Palace has had sent up to my room.’

  I opened my mouth, but then closed it again. We wouldn’t go into that.