Elvis Returns: Elvis Is Alive II

ELVIS RETURNS

A novel by

RM MAUGHON, M.D.

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

CHAPTER ONE

It was the ring. It was the beautiful garnet ring that Elvis Presley gave me the last night I was in Paris that got me to wondering about him. One year had passed since I had discovered that he was alive and working as an Elvis impersonator in the Moulin Rouge district in Paris. I had found him, and had learned a lot about the mystery surrounding his ‘death,’ or should I say, ‘disappearance.’ Afterwards, I had returned to Memphis after my two weeks with Elvis in Paris. I set about to resume my former life. I didn’t want my coroner’s job back. Besides, Dr. Regent had given it to another doctor anyway.

Marcia? Well, Marcia and I never did get back together. As a matter of fact, she married the guy she had met while I was chasing Elvis around the globe.

This was probably for the best, because I wasn’t over my wife Betsy, and for some strange reason, I felt I needed time to grieve for the young French girl, Brigitte. I had only known her for a week or so while I was with Elvis, but her tragic death had taken a huge emotional toll on me.

After a month in Memphis, I packed my bags and moved to Washington D.C. That was the start of the gnawing yearning that began in my gut. It was a slight feeling at first, and I wasn’t even sure what it was. Believe it or not, it was the idea of hearing that Elvis was seriously considering becoming a part of the DEA that caused my curiosity to bloom that spring, just as the famous cherry blossoms that explode every year in the nation’s capital.

I was her doctor. And she asked about the beautiful ring that I wore and twisted around my finger fervently; but that part of my story is another book entirely.

Every day I twisted and turned the garnet stoned ring around and around my finger. It was an annoyance at first, but slowly and gradually every turn made me think about all the unanswered questions I had about Elvis.

At first, the deaths of Brigitte and Babette must have made me bury each searing question into my subconscious as I tried to forget their lovely young faces. But just as time cures all pain, each revolution the ring made around my finger marked a passage in time, just as the rings inside a tree marks its tenure on earth. In time, the healing process began to allow questions to pop into my head.

I knew the why of Elvis’ disappearance, but how? Elvis had said it was easy. But that was hard to believe. Each turn of the ring made another question pop up from my subconscious and explode into my consciousness.

How could he have fooled his family and all of his fans? Was anyone involved in his disappearance? He said there had been a ‘double’ in the casket. Who was it? On and on the questions raged, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew that unless I found out the answers to the totality of the puzzle, I might actually risk my own sanity.

I fought it. I fought the urge mightily. I knew the price I had paid for my first journey to find Elvis. I remembered how I had lost Marcia. There was no more beautiful or talented lady in America, and I had lost her because of my quixotic search to find Elvis. I had damaged my medical career, or, at least in the eyes of my boss, Dr. Regent, I had.

I had respected Dr. Regent. He had stood by me when I had to exhume the Elvis Presley gravesite at Graceland, but when I went hopping around the globe searching for a corpse; well, Dr. Regent had questioned my sanity.

When a mentor in an esteemed profession such as medicine questions one’s mental health, it’s time to get a new profession, or to move. The latter is what I did, of course, but the move didn’t make my life any easier. There was no running away. The move only allowed me to ‘brush’ my past and all of those haunting questions ‘under the rug’, so to speak. It did not solve anything.

All of these inquisitive thoughts about Elvis made my body shudder in fear. I didn’t want to experience any more loss and emotional pain, but once my conscious mind had acknowledged all of the questions my subconscious had conjured up, I had no choice but to give in to the burning curiosity which devoured me. Once again, I took leave of my job, and walked away from a special lady who probably loved me. I left everything to go…in search of…Elvis.

CHAPTER TWO

I guess it was appropriate that it was raining when I left Washington D.C. to fly to Paris. To me, the best way to find Elvis again was to go back to where I had last seen him. I had tried desperately to reach the Elvis Review through the International Operator, but she said there was no such listing. Funny, when I was with Elvis in Paris before, I never asked him what last name he was using. It just did not occur to me to ask him.

His dark, sultry presence had been overpowering. Elvis is one of a handful of people around the world whom I had known by just one name. I sure as hell was not going to tell this nice operator to ...look up Elvis.... Elvis.

I had decided to just go ahead and fly to Paris and find him. When I had left him that night and he had given me the ring, he said he had doubted if he would stay in Paris after Babette’s death.

I decided to take the Concorde, as it was the fastest way to France. I had determined not to waste another year of my time finding Elvis this time. Nope, I was going to swoop in, find him, get the rest of the story from him, satisfy my burning curiosity, and leave.

The flight attendant kept apologizing to us as we continued to wait on air traffic control to give us clearance for takeoff. As soon as everyone had given up hope of taking off that day, the sun suddenly blasted through the rainy overcast sky, and the sleek Concorde jetted its anxious passengers and crew to Europe.

I hailed a taxi as soon as I left Paris International Airport. I only had one overnight bag, as I had expected this to be a short trip. My French, while never good, had become horrible since my last trip to France. Fortunately, the taxi driver was a transplanted Australian named Panky Rinks. His English was Aussie accented, but, he was the perfect guide for me this time. His red hair and freckles reminded me of Howdy Doody, another icon of the fifties, just like Elvis; and I took that as a sign that it had been ordained for me to hail this cab.

I want to try to find a friend of mine, Panky, but I’m not even sure that he is in Paris anymore.

Who is he, mate, another American?

Yes, an American, I explained as I looked out of the small taxi’s window, taking in sights which I had not really noticed the last time I was in Paris because I had been so intent on finding Elvis.

Who is he? Panky asked, making conversation.

Not wanting to get into a lengthy and almost impossible, incomprehensible explanation, I intentionally dodged his follow up question.

He lived and worked on the West Bank at a performing arts theater. It was a booming place the last time I was here.

Panky’s forehead crinkled into a thousand lines as he asked, What’s the name of the place?

The Elvis Review.

Never heard of it, mate, but I’ll drive you by the area you’re talking about. Maybe we can find it.

I explained that it was in the district with the other theaters, and that I remembered how to get there. Even if I had been blindfolded, that area of Paris was burned into my memory. I directed Panky to drive past the old bar where I had first met Elvis. It was closed.

The theater and my friend’s house are just down the street here a few blocks. I directed Panky as he drove past The Gypsy, the restaurant where I had eaten the night I had seen Elvis perform. Suddenly, we were at the corner where the Elvis Review had been. The entire theater was boarded up. It looked as if it had been closed for twenty years, but I knew at one time it had been a vibrant, pulsating entertainment showcase. I was shocked. I had not expected to see Elvis walking down the street, but I had not expected this either.

Wait here, I instructed Panky, as he pulled the small taxi across the street from the boarded up theater. I walked across the street, staring at the old building. The neon lights were gone. It seemed as if this entire section of Paris was a western ghost town. I walked down the street a bit further and walked up the back alley that had led to the entrance of Elvis’ apartment. The whole place was so covered with vines, weeds and cobwebs that momentarily I felt as if I had dreamed the entire episode from two years earlier when I had first met Elvis Presley and had spent two weeks with him. Now it appeared as if this area of Paris had not been occupied for years.

CHAPTER THREE

I stumbled back to the taxi in a daze. I must have looked so befuddled that Panky jumped out and opened the door for me.

Good Lord, Dr. St. John. Sir, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!

I simply shook my head in disbelief and slumped down in the back seat. I don’t understand. Just two years ago this whole block was an alive section of town.

This place? Panky waved at the deserted block that stretched in front of us. Turning around and stretching his arm over the back seat, he looked at me with the most serious brown eyes I believe I have ever seen.

Sir, you must be mistaken. This place looks as if it’s been deserted for years. Could you have gotten mixed up on your directions? After all, you said it had been two years since you had been in Paris.

Again, I shook my head in disbelief. I was absolutely sure this was the place. I understood Panky’s doubts, but if I had not been here two years earlier and seen what I had seen, I would have been doubtful that this area of Paris had ever been inhabited at all, it looked that desolate and abandoned.

Panky saw my confusion, but was convinced that this was the place I was looking for. Since there was no one here, it was obvious that we would be going elsewhere. Panky shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the wheel.

Where to, then?

I sat there for a moment not knowing what to say. It had never occurred to me that I would return to Paris and there would be absolutely no trace of Elvis at all. I was completely baffled and it must have shown. Panky stared at me with those big brown eyes affixed upward to the rearview mirror. He finally turned and looked over the back seat directly at me.

You’re the last fare of the day, mate. Want to go get a drink? You sure look as if you could use one.

I smiled for the first time since I had returned to French soil. Sure, why not?

Panky smiled, reached up to the roof of his cabbie, and flipped on the sign that was the French equivalent of ‘OFF DUTY.’ We sped off into Paris’ afternoon rush hour traffic, which Panky maneuvered skillfully through. We crossed over to the Champs Elysses and drove by the Arc de Triumph. Finally, Panky pulled the cab off the congested boulevard and parked by a small cafe where several couples were dining outside on linen covered tables, enjoying the delightful spring afternoon.

How does this look?

Fine. If you ask me, it looks great.

Panky must have been a regular, as he didn’t wait on anyone to seat us. He pointed to the table next to the sidewalk and said, How about right here, mate?

I didn’t even have time to respond before he had pulled out a chair for me and was snapping his fingers in the air, motioning for a waiter.

I’m having a Foster’s lager. What do you want, mate?

I’ll have a Jack Daniels on the rocks.

Panky nodded as he gave our order to a very young looking waiter. We made small talk and enjoyed the spring weather and our drinks. After a few minutes and a couple of drinks, it seemed as if he and I had been friends for years. Panky was probably thirty five to thirty six years old but he looked much younger. He wore his flaming red hair exactly as Howdy Doody had worn his. It was wavy and slicked back. He was also quite thin, so the resemblance to the iconic TV puppet was striking. In reality, I think Panky was probably avoiding becoming an adult by driving a cab in Paris.

What are you doing in Paris, Panky?

He blew the froth from the head of his third Foster’s and sighed. My father wanted me to join the family business, but I didn’t care to. He reluctantly explained this as he cast soulful eyes into his beer.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Instantly, I realized that my first impression of Panky had probably been correct.

I don’t want to follow in my Pop’s footsteps, you know. It’s just not me.

I understand, I nodded, sipping on my favorite drink.

So, Panky continued, tell me about this friend of yours who has disappeared. Where do you think he is?

He looked at me cautiously, trying to see if I was willing to open up to him. I looked over at this thin Australian. He was staring at me again with those big brown eyes. I started talking. I told him of my childhood in Tennessee and my training in New Orleans. I began to talk of my job as coroner; then I hesitated. Did I need to attempt to explain to this stranger the unusual, no, shocking story of Elvis Presley?

What the hell, Panky...

Sensing a dramatic tale was about to unfold, Panky snapped his fingers at the waiter and motioned for refills of our drinks. As I had told Elvis two years earlier, I began relaying my story of how I had met Dr. Regent and had taken a job that would change my life forever. I told Panky about meeting Elvis in Paris. Enthusiastically, I recalled the brilliant performance I had seen at the now vacant Elvis Review Theater. Carefully, I recreated all the glamour of the trip to Monaco and the Orient Express, and the tragic deaths of Babette and Brigitte. The evening flew by. It was about midnight when I ended the story of how Elvis had given me the garnet stoned ring. I held out my finger and slipped it off. I then held the ring up to the restaurant’s dim light.

Read the inscription.

Dr. St. John, Panky began. He halted mid sentence and looked at me as if he were getting my permission to proceed. It was as if he was reading something sacred and special. Maybe he was. I nudged the ring closer to him.

Go ahead, it’s okay.

Dr. St. John. Remember Paris and me. E.P.

Panky then let out a low whistle to accentuate the nature of my story as well as the incredible nature of the inscription, E.P.

Elvis Presley, I explained, trying to dramatize the effect.

Are you absolutely sure it was him? I mean after all... Panky did not finish his statement.

Absolutely, positively. Panky, after his coffin was opened and was empty, there is no doubt in my mind that Elvis is alive, and I met him two years ago in Paris. I had spent wonderful weeks with the man.

Panky didn’t say anything for a good minute or so. Finally, he broke his silence by saying, You know, that is an expensive ring.

I know, I said, stating the obvious.

Dr. St. John, I believe you. I want to help you find him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Where does one start looking for Elvis Presley a second time? It was as if there had been no trace of him, as if he had been a ghost. I’m a stable guy emotionally, or this whole incredible, unbelievable journey would probably have driven me crazy. Frankly, I was stumped. I didn’t know where to go now.

I wasn’t going to confide this lack of confidence in my search to this walking, talking Howdy Doody look-alike. Besides, I felt deep down that Panky Rinks did not believe me. I had a nagging suspicion that all he wanted to do was lug me around in his taxi and charge me a sizable fee for all of his trouble. I decided the only sensible thing for me to do was to get him to drive me to the graves of Babette and Brigitte. This was something I had sworn I was going to do before my trip, plus it would give me time to think about how I was going to find Elvis again.

Panky, I want you to drive me to the graves of the girls I met when I was with Elvis.

He stopped in mid swallow of his Foster’s. I was finally giving him a concrete place to go, and proof that I indeed had found Elvis Presley, and it had been right here in Paris.

All right mate, Panky said after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He put his mug firmly on the table. I’ll take you to the graves of... he