Losing Graceland by Micah Nathan Page A

door. The old man drew himself up.
    “I’m seeking information from another lifetime,” the old man said.
    The first man patted the wispy white hairs on the side of his head and sniffed proudly. “Name your name.”
    “Hank Rickey.”
    The other man nodded and started to talk, but a wet coughing fit overtook him until he spat something thick and bloody onto the floor. “Hank has grown old like us,” he said finally. “Time chipped away at him like sand against the Sphinx.”
    “Still a giant,” the first man said. “Heard he led a revival in Jackson some time ago. They said he had a voice that could move mountains.”
    “True,” the other man said.
    “Slaughters men like lambs,” the first man said. “Marks their blood on the doors of their homes.”
    “I can’t say I believe that,” the other man said.
    “Makes women throw their underwear,” the first man said. “Makes them swear off underwear rest of their lives.”
    “True,” the other man said.
    Ben saw tears in the old man’s eyes.
    “Heard he got diabetes ten years ago,” the other man said. “They chopped off his leg at the thigh. No more singing.”
    “No more singing,” the first man repeated.
    The other man sniffed. “Heard he left Memphis for Shake. Retirement. Sunday golf, a maid, and a personal chef to help with his blood sugar problems. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
    “Sure would,” the first man said.
    The other man nodded. “Took a child bride with him.”
    “Too much work,” the first man said. “Child brides always bitching about one thing or the other.”
    “They all bitch,” the other man said.
    The old man asked, “Is the child bride Nadine?”
    The first man shrugged. “A child bride is all we know.”
    Ben looked at the walls. Stock photos in store-bought frames hung high. Cracks ran through the plaster. Cobwebs in the corners billowed gently.
    “That all?” the first man said.
    The old man rubbed his left pinky. “Last question. My daughter. Is she happy?”
    “What daughter is this?” the first man said.
    “Lisa Marie.”
    “Lisa,” the other man said.
    “Lisa
Marie,
” the old man said.
    The first man sniffed. “Don’t know a Lisa Marie.”
    The old man stared hard at the floor. He remembered holding her close as if it were yesterday. His baby with tiny clenched fists and eyes that broke his heart. He remembered a dark hotel room, curtains duct-taped with foil on the windows, watching shaky footage of his family emerging from Graceland, pale-faced with grief.
Nothing but bullshit if I stuck around
, he remembered screaming at the television, then he whipped out his snub-nose and popped three into the tube, exploding sparks and the tinkling rush of glass.
    He’d read all the true-crime books. He knew what happened to American gods. They’d kidnapped the Lindbergh baby. Everyone clamoring for a piece of divine flesh. For a teaspoon of the muck.
    “Lisa Marie is my daughter,” the old man insisted, and the first man shrugged and thumped his cane on the floor.
    The kitchen door swung open and Delilah shambled in, holding a silver tray upon which sat a silver coffeepot and two chipped porcelain cups. The old man took his cup, nodding at Ben to do the same, and Ben mumbled, “Thank you, ma’am.”
    The coffee was strong and bitter. The old man heaped a tablespoon of sugar into his and filled it to the top with cream.
    “Delilah, bring the knife.” The first man moved his head in the direction of the old man. “Now, which one of you will it be?”
    “Right here,” the old man said.
    “What’s going on?” Ben asked.
    The old man rolled up his sweatshirt sleeve. He exhaled sharply and laughed. He winked at Ben. He kissed his left pinky and Delilah handed him the silver coffee tray, along with a kitchen knife, as he placed his hand flat on the tray.
    Ben raised his voice. “What the hell is going on?”
    “Payment long overdue,” the old man said. “Charlie gave it up twice before, Red once. I