Necrophenia

  ‘I could do breakfast,’ said Elvis. ‘Peanut butter and banana-stuffed French toast with cinnamon butter and maple-beer syrup, washed down with strawberry shasta.’

  ‘Sounds delightful,’ I said. ‘Do you think you could get it delivered? ’

  ‘Am I Elvis?’ said Elvis.

  And I agreed that he was.

  And so Elvis made a phone call from the phone that Fangio had denied all knowledge of to Mama Cass. Or perhaps he’d had it installed later, in case any other rock icons needed to use it. Elvis, for instance.24

  And soon as you like, Elvis and I were chowing down upon peanut butter and banana-stuffed French toast with all the trimmings and the strawberry shastas.

  And I rather enjoyed mine. And Elvis clearly enjoyed his. Because he telephoned for further helpings. And then Fangio came down in his dressing gown and Elvis made another call for even more breakfast.

  ‘I don’t normally do my own phone calls, you understand, sir,’ he said to me, ‘but as this is a special occasion.’

  ‘And it is for me, too,’ I said. And it was - breakfast with Elvis. But I wasn’t happy any more. I just had too many things all gnawing away at my mind.

  ‘So,’ said Elvis, when finally done with breakfast, ‘are we going to my brother’s night club now? So you can lure him onto the roof and send him on the long and final journey down?’

  ‘Ar-harr,’ went Fangio. ‘Can I come too and watch that?’

  ‘Ah, no,’ I said.

  ‘Do you mean “Ah-harr, no”?’ asked Fangio.

  But I just shook my head.

  ‘So what is your plan, Mr Woodbine?’ asked Elvis.

  ‘Well,’ I said. And I made a face suggestive of deep thinking. ‘This is not something that can be rushed into. It will be necessary to set up a surveillance network. Plot your brother’s every move. Work out graphs and pie charts. Get sample opinions from the general public. Do market research into key areas which may need re-examination to determine prime targets. Define—’

  ‘Why are you reading from the copy of Advertising Executive Today magazine on the bar counter?’ asked Fangio.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said to him.

  ‘Oooh,’ went Fangio. And he mimed the holding up of a handbag.

  ‘We can’t just go in all guns blasting,’ I said to Elvis.

  ‘Why not?’ asked the King of rock ’n’ roll.

  ‘Because, for one thing, I am not certain whether it can be proved that your brother has actually broken any laws. I know I’ve seen him do—’ And I cut myself short. I didn’t want to mention what had happened to Laz to Fangio. But regardless, I couldn’t prove anything. Not, I agree, that it mattered, as he was going to have to be killed. I just didn’t really want to be around when the actual killing was done.

  ‘That’s no reason not to shoot him,’ said Fangio. ‘It sounds like he’s a wrong’n. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘So do you want to do the actual shooting?’

  Fangio stuffed peanut buttery stuff into his face. ‘Not as such,’ he said. ‘But if you want him throwing out of this bar, then I’m your man.’

  ‘I will bear that in mind.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Elvis shoot him?’ asked Fangio. ‘It’s a family affair, after all. As Sly Stone used to say when he drank in here. Before I threw him out.’

  ‘Uh uh,’ said Elvis. ‘I can’t kill one of my own, no matter how evil nor intent on the extermination of all human life they may be.’

  ‘I’ll just make a note of that,’ said Fangio. ‘Not that anyone I tell will ever believe you said it.’

  ‘Mr Woodbine must do it,’ said Elvis, ‘because this will be Mr Woodbine’s greatest ever case. The one everyone will remember him for. And be forever in his debt—’

  ‘Hold it there while I get a pencil,’ said Fangio.

  But Elvis continued, ‘This case will be the case for Lazlo Woodbine. And who but Lazlo Woodbine could solve this case? My evil brother must be tracked to his secret lair and destroyed. And the world will be saved and all the world will honour Lazlo Woodbine for saving it.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Fangio, raising a pencil. ‘One more time, if you will.’

  But Elvis shook his head. ‘Mr Woodbine will deal with this,’ he said. ‘And he was right - I must return to Vegas and prepare for my tour. I will leave this case in the safe hands of Lazlo Woodbine.’

  And he reached out a hand to me and I shook it.

  And Fangio stuck his out for a shake, but Elvis did not shake his.

  And then Elvis said, ‘I have your address, Mr Woodbine. I’ll have further money sent on. And you know my address - keep me informed, if you will. And thank you, sir. The whole world will thank you when this is done. But I can thank you now.’

  And then he sort of bowed. And did that thing where he whirls his arm about and goes down on one knee. And he produced from another pocket a silk scarf, and this he hung about my neck. And then he swiddled from the bar. My bar. Like that.

  Just like that.

  Elvis had left the building.

  And I looked at Fange.

  And Fangio looked at me.

  And we shared a moment. An Elvis moment. And it was a special one, too.

  ‘Who was that masked man?’ asked Fangio.

  ‘Why, don’t you know?’ I said. ‘That was the Lone Ranger.’

  And then we both laughed and shared another moment. And I came almost close to being happy, but not quite.

  ‘So what would your plan be now, Laz?’ asked Fangio. ‘If you are no longer going for the four-location format, how do you intend to deal with this Case of Cases, this Case to End All Cases, this Ultimate Case, this Case Beyond—’

  ‘Shut up!’ I said to Fangio. ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Do you wish to indulge in further pirate repartee? Or do some more guessing-the-ingredients-of-cocktails humour? Or should we simply talk the toot and see what comes to pass?’

  ‘It’s a Woodbine format thing, talking the toot,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll miss that, then,’ said Fangio, sadly.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to think about, training for your new career.’

  ‘My what?’ asked Fangio. ‘I mean ah-harr-harr-harr. My what?’

  ‘New career,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget, I own this bar now, so you can consider yourself sacked. And I’ll take over behind the bar. Where I can think about this case in peace. Dawn of a new era and dawn of a new format, eh? Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye/Barman. Hold on, it’s coming to me - Lazlo Woodbine, Private Barlord. A pint, a quip and another case solved.’

  ‘Please tell me you’re joking,’ said Fangio.

  ‘I am,’ said I. ‘But not entirely. I wish to employ my newly developed Tyler Technique to this case. Which, I agree, will be the Biggest Case That Ever There Was. It would appear to be my fate to deal with this evil being that is the brother of Elvis. So, Fange, today will be the dawning of a new era in crime detection. And it will all begin here. What is today’s date, by the way?’

  ‘The sixteenth of August, nineteen seventy-seven,’ said Fangio.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘And so this is the date that people will always remember. As the day I took on the Ultimate Case.’

  And yes, folk would remember that date.

  And I’m sure you know why.

  49

  ‘What do you have in the way of cocktails?’ I asked of Fangio.

  The fat-boy did blinkings of his patchless peeper. ‘Won’t you be heading off to have a showdown with the bad guy?’ he asked me.

  I made major tutting sounds. ‘Mustn’t go rushing into things half-cocked, ’ I said. ‘These matters take time.’

  ‘Well, some things never change, then,’ said the barlord-for-now. ‘The original Lazlo Woodbine used to make his cases last and last.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ And I raised an eyebrow, but lowered the brim of my hat.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Fangio did innocent whistlings. ‘I’m not su
ggesting that as you are being paid by the day, it might be in your interests to keep the case going for as long as possible.’

  ‘Such a thought has never crossed my mind,’ I said. And I made the face of one appalled. Which, added to my raised eyebrow and lowered brim, presented Fangio with a formidable impression of outraged innocence.

  ‘Hm,’ went Fangio. ‘But hey, I am interested - exactly how does this Tyler Technique of yours work? You just sit about doing nothing and hope that something will happen - is that it?’

  ‘It’s much more complicated than that.’ And I waved the barlord on his way with an order for cocktails and quickly.

  And I sat on my favourite bar stool and gave this matter some penetrating thought. The Tyler Technique had not as yet been tried and tested, so it might take a while to perfect. And if I was getting paid by the day, and I was, then these days would not be wasted. They would be spent bringing the Tyler Technique to perfection. And with it the case to a satisfactory conclusion. And, pleased with the logic of this, I awaited my cocktails. And yes, I did mean cocktails in the plural.

  And eventually Fangio returned with cocktails in the plural.

  ‘A Round-of-Chainshot, a Dead-Man’s Chest and a Bloke-on-the-Blower, ’ said Fangio.

  ‘There’s only two drinks here,’ I told him.

  ‘Correct,’ said the barlord. ‘The bloke-on-the-blower is a bloke on the blower - a guy on the telephone, for you.’

  ‘You see, the Tyler Technique is already kicking in,’ I told the Doubting Thomas of a barlord-for-now. And I went off to answer the phone.

  And then I returned to Fangio.

  ‘Where is the phone?’ I asked him.

  ‘Right here,’ said the barlord-for-now. And he presented me with a big black box about the size of a house brick. ‘It is the portable, or mobile, phone. It was just invented this morning.’

  ‘This morning?’ I said. ‘And you already have one?’

  ‘Not just me,’ said Fangio. ‘Folk all over the city. So I suppose that August the sixteenth nineteen seventy-seven will indeed be a date to be long remembered, just as you predicted.’

  I made certain grumbling sounds but answered the phone anyway. I had to rest it on the bar counter because it was so heavy and then shout into it.

  ‘Who is this? I shouted.

  ‘It’s Elvis,’ Elvis shouted back.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ I shouted.

  ‘Nothing,’ shouted Elvis. ‘I just wanted to try out this new mobile phone that I got today.’

  I made certain other grumbling sounds. ‘Where are you now?’ I shouted into the portable telephone.

  ‘Home in Graceland.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘I travelled through one of the new teleportation booths. They just went “online”, as they say, today. So I suppose this date will be forever remembered for that.’

  ‘Teleportation booth?’

  ‘On the corner outside Fangio’s Bar. It looks a bit like a telephone booth, but more futuristic.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. And rolled my eyes. This was clearly a wind-up.

  ‘Well, have to say goodbye now, Elvis,’ I said. And with some sarcasm, ‘Have to test out my new jet-pack.’

  ‘Did yours arrive today, too?’

  But I switched off the portable phone.

  And pushed it across the bartop to Fangio.

  ‘Teleportation?’ said Fangio. ‘Ah-harr-harr. And jet-packs? What a historic day this is turning out to be.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ I said and I tucked into my Dead-Man’s Chest. And presently pulled a digital watch from between my teeth.

  ‘Perhaps this is the dawn of the New Tomorrow that we have been promised since back in the nineteen-thirties, when Hugo Gernsback edited Amazing Science. Not to mention Future Scientist Today magazine. ’

  So I didn’t mention it.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s been a long time coming. Let’s be grateful, eh?’ And giving my eyes another roll, just for the Hell of it, I downed the rest of my Dead-Man’s Chest. And at least I did not pull an iPod from between my teeth. Which was something.

  ‘Well,’ said Fangio, ‘I can’t keep chatting here all day. Have to open up the bar for business. I do hope that delivery comes soon.’

  ‘And what delivery might this be?’ I asked. As this was now my bar.

  ‘The microwave oven,’ said Fangio and he stumped away.

  I downed my other cocktail, gave up on identifying its ingredients, took myself away to behind the bar counter, cashed up ‘No Sale’ on the publican’s piano and helped myself to some fifty-dollar bills.

  And then I thought I’d go for a walk. And that is what I did.

  The folk on 27th Street were looking pretty spivvy. Today they mostly favoured silver jumpsuits with Dan Dare-style flared shoulders and platform-soled boots. Hairstyles were combed up very high and slim little sunglasses worn. I watched as a solar-powered dirigible crossed the sky and marvelled just a little as a hover-car moved by.

  ‘New York,’ I said to myself. ‘When New York takes to a fashion, it really takes to a fashion.’ And then I spied the teleportation booth.

  There was a bit of a queue formed beside it. And I joined the end of this queue. Just to have a look-see, you understand. Not to do anything purposeful. And not to do anything involved with the case I was on. I was sticking with the Tyler Technique for now. What would happen would happen, and as long as I was in the right state of mind when it did happen, then I would benefit from it happening. So to speak.

  A guy at the head of the queue now entered the booth. He spoke into a sort of grille, received instructions, inserted money, pressed certain buttons. Then there was a buzz and a flash and a puff of smoke and the guy had vanished away.

  ‘Now that,’ I said to a lady in a straw hat, who was before me in the queue, ‘is very clever, don’t you agree?’

  ‘We’ve had them on my planet for years,’ said the lady.

  ‘On your planet?’ And I viewed the lady. Her skin was quite grey and her eyes rather black. ‘You are not from this planet?’

  ‘I am from Planet Begrem in the Sumerian Constellation. Haven’t you been watching the news? Our ambassador landed his craft upon the White House lawn this morning and made first contact with your President.’

  ‘It’s true as true,’ said a fellow before her in the queue. ‘A fellow in a weather dome, with a zero-gravity briefcase. August sixteenth, nineteen seventy-seven. This date will go down in history, eh?’

  And I agreed that it probably would and got in a right old grump.

  And presently all the folk in the queue before me had vanished away in little puffs of smoke, and I found myself standing before the teleportation booth.

  ‘I wonder how this works,’ I wondered, into the little grille.

  ‘Please place a fifty-dollar bill into the slot provided,’ said a strangely mechanical voice. And I shrugged, and having nothing better to do, fished out a fifty-dollar bill and slipped it into the slot provided.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ asked the artificial voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. And I didn’t.

  ‘Have to hurry you, sir,’ said the voice. ‘There are other people waiting behind you.’

  ‘Yes, get a move on,’ said a different lady in a different straw hat. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

  ‘This isn’t the queue for the toilet,’ I told her.

  ‘The toilet in Graceland.’

  ‘Graceland? ’ I said.

  ‘Graceland it is,’ said the voice.

  ‘No, hold on—’ I said. ‘I—’

  But there was a buzz and a bang and a flash.

  And I vanished off in a puff of smoke.

  And I appeared in a kitchen.

  It was a rather attractive, kitchen, really. All mod cons. All well beyond mod, really. There was a microwave oven, although I did not recognise it as such then. And what I did not recognise as a plasma-screen TV a-hanging on the wall. And a co
mputerised food-synthesiser and a device for peeling potatoes that involved the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. And a Teasmaid.

  And a large black lady, who looked like the cook in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. And she was frying up peanut butter and banana on French toast in a frying pan about the size of a dustbin lid.

  And I gave this lady a bit of a shock through my unexpected and sudden arrival.

  ‘Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,’ said this lady, as it was still permissible to say such things back in nineteen seventy-seven. ‘By the laser-lav of Lady Raygun, Queen of the Pan-Galactic Ukulele All-Stars! Where did you spring from all 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.