head toward the intrusion. Jack stood next to the bed looking down at him. Jack was wearing a suit coat over his nightgown and he had on thick glasses. He said, “Sebastian. It’s loose.”
Elvis collected his thoughts, pasted them together into a not-too-scattered collage. “What’s loose?”
“It,” said Jack. “Listen.”
Elvis listened. Out in the hall he heard the scuttling sound of the night before. Tonight, it reminded him of great locust wings beating frantically inside a small cardboard box, the tips of them scratching at the cardboard, cutting it, ripping it apart.
“Jesus Christ, what is it?” Elvis said.
“I thought it was Lyndon Johnson, but it isn’t. I’ve come across new evidence that suggests another assassin.”
“Assassin?”
Jack cocked an ear. The sound had gone away, moved distant, then ceased.
“It’s got another target tonight,” said Jack. “Come on. I want to show you something. I don’t think it’s safe if you go back to sleep.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Elvis said. “Tell the administrators.”
“The suits and the white starches,” Jack said. “No thanks. I trusted them back when I was in Dallas, and look where that got my brain and me. I’m thinking with sand here, maybe picking up a few waves from my brain. Someday, who’s to say they won’t just disconnect the battery at the White House?”
“That’s something to worry about, all right,” Elvis said.
“Listen here,” Jack said. “I know you’re Elvis, and there were rumors, you know…about how you hated me, but I’ve thought it over. You hated me, you could have finished me the other night. All I want from you is to look me in the eye and assure me you had nothing to do with that day in Dallas, and that you never knew Lee Harvey Oswald or Jack Ruby.”
Elvis stared at him as sincerely as possible. “I had nothing to do with Dallas, and I knew neither Lee Harvey Oswald or Jack Ruby.”
“Good,” said Jack. “May I call you Elvis instead of Sebastian?”
“You may.”
“Excellent. You wear glasses to read?”
“I wear glasses when I really want to see,” Elvis said.
“Get ‘em and come on.”
Elvis swung his walker along easily, not feeling as if he needed it too much tonight. He was excited. Jack was a nut, and maybe he himself was nuts, but there was an adventure going on.
They came to the hall restroom. The one reserved for male visitors. “In here,” Jack said.
“Now wait a minute,” Elvis said. “You’re not going to get me in there and try and play with my pecker, are you?”
Jack stared at him. “Man, I made love to Jackie and Marilyn and a ton of others, and you think I want to play with your nasty ole dick?”
“Good point,” said Elvis.
They went into the restroom. It was large, with several stalls and urinals.
“Over here,” said Jack. He went over to one of the stalls and pushed open the door and stood back by the commode to make room for Elvis’s walker. Elvis eased inside and looked at what Jack was now pointing to.
Graffiti.
“That’s it?” Elvis said. “We’re investigating a scuttling in the hall, trying to discover who attacked you last night, and you bring me in here to show me stick pictures on the shit house wall?”
“Look close,” Jack said.
Elvis leaned forward. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, and his glasses probably needed to be upgraded, but he could see that instead of writing, the graffiti was a series of simple pictorials.
A thrill, like a shot of good booze, ran through Elvis. He had once been a fanatic reader of ancient and esoteric lore, like
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
and
The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft
, and straight away he recognized what he was staring at. “Egyptian hieroglyphics,” he said.
“Right-a-reen-O,” Jack said. “Hey, you’re not as stupid as some folks made you out.”
“Thanks,” Elvis said.
Jack reached into his suit coat pocket and took out a folded piece of paper and
Elvis collected his thoughts, pasted them together into a not-too-scattered collage. “What’s loose?”
“It,” said Jack. “Listen.”
Elvis listened. Out in the hall he heard the scuttling sound of the night before. Tonight, it reminded him of great locust wings beating frantically inside a small cardboard box, the tips of them scratching at the cardboard, cutting it, ripping it apart.
“Jesus Christ, what is it?” Elvis said.
“I thought it was Lyndon Johnson, but it isn’t. I’ve come across new evidence that suggests another assassin.”
“Assassin?”
Jack cocked an ear. The sound had gone away, moved distant, then ceased.
“It’s got another target tonight,” said Jack. “Come on. I want to show you something. I don’t think it’s safe if you go back to sleep.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Elvis said. “Tell the administrators.”
“The suits and the white starches,” Jack said. “No thanks. I trusted them back when I was in Dallas, and look where that got my brain and me. I’m thinking with sand here, maybe picking up a few waves from my brain. Someday, who’s to say they won’t just disconnect the battery at the White House?”
“That’s something to worry about, all right,” Elvis said.
“Listen here,” Jack said. “I know you’re Elvis, and there were rumors, you know…about how you hated me, but I’ve thought it over. You hated me, you could have finished me the other night. All I want from you is to look me in the eye and assure me you had nothing to do with that day in Dallas, and that you never knew Lee Harvey Oswald or Jack Ruby.”
Elvis stared at him as sincerely as possible. “I had nothing to do with Dallas, and I knew neither Lee Harvey Oswald or Jack Ruby.”
“Good,” said Jack. “May I call you Elvis instead of Sebastian?”
“You may.”
“Excellent. You wear glasses to read?”
“I wear glasses when I really want to see,” Elvis said.
“Get ‘em and come on.”
Elvis swung his walker along easily, not feeling as if he needed it too much tonight. He was excited. Jack was a nut, and maybe he himself was nuts, but there was an adventure going on.
They came to the hall restroom. The one reserved for male visitors. “In here,” Jack said.
“Now wait a minute,” Elvis said. “You’re not going to get me in there and try and play with my pecker, are you?”
Jack stared at him. “Man, I made love to Jackie and Marilyn and a ton of others, and you think I want to play with your nasty ole dick?”
“Good point,” said Elvis.
They went into the restroom. It was large, with several stalls and urinals.
“Over here,” said Jack. He went over to one of the stalls and pushed open the door and stood back by the commode to make room for Elvis’s walker. Elvis eased inside and looked at what Jack was now pointing to.
Graffiti.
“That’s it?” Elvis said. “We’re investigating a scuttling in the hall, trying to discover who attacked you last night, and you bring me in here to show me stick pictures on the shit house wall?”
“Look close,” Jack said.
Elvis leaned forward. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, and his glasses probably needed to be upgraded, but he could see that instead of writing, the graffiti was a series of simple pictorials.
A thrill, like a shot of good booze, ran through Elvis. He had once been a fanatic reader of ancient and esoteric lore, like
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
and
The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft
, and straight away he recognized what he was staring at. “Egyptian hieroglyphics,” he said.
“Right-a-reen-O,” Jack said. “Hey, you’re not as stupid as some folks made you out.”
“Thanks,” Elvis said.
Jack reached into his suit coat pocket and took out a folded piece of paper and
Similar Books
