Hound Dog Read online

  ‘Hello?’ says the intercom.

  ‘Thisiselvispresley,’ he mumbles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Elvispresleyhoney,’ he says to the very male intercom voice.

  Fatty-Fatty-Fat-Fuck and Gaylord burst out laughing.

  ‘Drive away from the gate now sir, or you will be very sorry.’

  I clamber between the two front seats and over Fat Elvis, an experience that I never want to repeat, and shout into the intercom who I am and that I have an appointment.

  ‘Letting you in,’ says the intercom, with an audible sigh.

  ‘You stupid fat cunt,’ I scream at the Fatboy as he drives up the path. ‘You don’t mess with these people!’

  ‘I was just having a laugh with them.’

  ‘You’ll be laughing out of a fucking bullet hole in the back of your head if you do anything as fucking stupid again.’

  ‘Just having a laugh, that’s all.’

  Honestly, it’s like talking to a wall of lard.

  We drive to the front of the house where a gaggle of men in suits and sunglasses show us where to park. I’m hoping none of them were just working the intercom. If they were they give no sign. They’re not your usual security. Of course, they’re big and threatening, but also very clean and, well… moisturised. I never thought Eddie was that high up the totem pole, but he now seems to have more protection than any of his bosses ever did. Once we’ve parked, the men in suits open the car doors for us, carry out a body search, and form a cordon around us as they lead us up the steps to the house. It’s as if they’re afraid Fatboy’s going to explode or something. We go through the front door and into a hall that’s about the size of an aircraft hangar.

  We’re made to wait in some sort of study, decorated with old paintings and statues. At least they look old. In any case, they’re all of naked men. And naked boys. As I walk in, I feel panic rising up in my chest. The realisation that I’m about to come into physical contact with Eddie overwhelms me, and it’s all I can do not to run out the door and up the driveway. Why did I do it? I ask myself. Why did I get back in touch? The same reason you kept in touch with him all those years, says a calmer, more reasonable voice in my head, you needed him. It’s true. Although when I left prison the first time I never wanted anything to do with the dirty bastard ever again, the thing was, I was really just a sad little dozy twit with a criminal record and a reputation for getting caught. I didn’t have any real contacts, and other than the ability to mimic the recorded works of Elvis Presley, no noticeable skills. My prospects weren’t that good, in fact I might well have had to actually seek honest employment if it hadn’t been for Eddie.

  He was still in the nick, but he was grateful for the loan I had made of my arsehole as a depository for his spunk, and he made sure that there were people looking after me on the outside. He got me a job working as part of a fencing operation, and then when he got out and into the entertainment industry, he remembered the aural delight he received when I used to sing him ‘Hound Dog’, and even though he didn’t get to roger me senseless any more, he still booked me in his clubs and got me established. Not only that, when I got out of the nick the second time, he gave me the money I needed to start up my own Elvis act. So I suppose you could say that Eddie made me the man I am today.

  I’m calmer now, but I’ll be happier once I’ve sorted myself out. I ask the goons guarding the door to point me in the direction of the lav. Rather than give directions, they escort me personally down the hall. The lav’s enormous, and I feel quite puny sitting there on the throne, fiddling with myself. Eddie’s had the ceiling decorated with paintings of cherubs frolicking about in a very gay manner, so I have to close my eyes and imagine a space where grown heterosexual people might possibly have sex. I catch it in some luxury toilet tissue, wash my hands, and let the goons take me back to the study. I was gone too long. Eddie is in there already, and Fatboy and Gaylord are serenading him with ‘Love Me Tender‘. Christ, that wasn’t meant to happen. My heart scuttles up my windpipe and nearly chokes me. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of, what Eddie might still want to do to me, or the possibility that Gay and Fat Elvis will screw everything up. Letting them both tag along suddenly seems a very bad idea indeed. Still, there’s nothing for it but to let them sing now that they’ve started. I stand in the doorway, simultaneously wishing that they’d stop and also for them to carry on forever, thus delaying the moment when I have to reveal my presence to Eddie. I haven’t seen him for nearly a decade, but I can see that the years have been kind to him, which they often are if you have the money to beat them back with. Maybe he’s fatter, more jowly, but he’s still the same old Eddie, that same combination of cuddly old poof and cold-hearted killer. Depends which angle you look at him. He’s wearing flip-flops and a dressing gown, and his hair is wet and slicked back, still with no noticeable bald spot. The performance ends and he gives the boys a round of applause and cheers, ‘Bravo!’ I push myself forward into the room.

  ‘Hello, Eddie.’

  ‘My dear boy, it’s simply wonderful to see you. They’re very, very good. Where did you find them?’

  ‘In a kebab shop.’ This is actually true.

  ‘How are you my boy? Still wowing the crowds?’ He hugs me in a way that brings back bad memories, but I suppose might possibly be genuinely affectionate.

  ‘Still am, Eddie. Of course you know I could never have done it without you.’

  ‘Oh, you. You’re embarrassing me. Shall we conduct our business out by the pool? I’ve been having a dip.’ The four of us make our way outside, flanked of course by the super-clean security guards.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’

  Eddie has taken his dressing gown off to reveal a pair of tight blue Speedos, which make his dreaded penis look like the snout of something from outer space, or the bottom of the sea. I decline, and he climbs down the pool ladder and splashes about for a bit, before treading water. Not long before, he’d ordered two of the security goons to play a game of kick-about with Gay Elvis and Fatboy on the lawn. His men are playing skins. Without their shirts they are tanned, muscular, hairless and oily.

  ‘So what can I do for you, my boy?’ he asks.

  ‘I need three grand right now.’

  ‘Is that all? I thought you’d want a hundred thousand, or have someone wiped out in some drug turf war or what-have-you. I heard about you selling the waccy baccy. Can’t say I approve, but that’s by the by.’

  ‘No, I just need three grand. I’ll pay you back the money as soon as I have it.’

  ‘But you’ll never have it, my boy, I know what you’re like. It’s no secret that all your cash goes straight up your nose. I’ve been keeping tabs on you, dear chap. I know what you’re up to. Now, if I loan you this money I will end up having to have your legs broken to get it back, so I’m not going to do it.’

  ‘Eddie, I’ll pay it back, I promise. I need it for Elvis, not for—’

  ‘I am, however, going to give you the money.’

  ‘Eddie, I—’

  ‘Or at least I’m going to let you earn it. Three grand now, in return for an appearance by you and your lovely assistants at the sixtieth birthday party of Mister Johnny Brooks at the Trunk Club, in just under a month’s time.’

  Johnny Brooks is an old-style gangster, one of the few not to be overrun by the younger, more vicious breed, largely because he’s a class A psycho. Legend has it he once forced a man to eat his own eyeballs before killing him. The Trunk Club is one of Eddie’s lap-dancing venues in London, and a major hang-out for Eddie’s crime family. The thought of performing there fills my head with visions of me singing ‘Viva Las Vegas’ while naked girls writhe about on poles all around. There’s a thought to keep me warm at nights.

  ‘Of course, Eddie,’ I say. ‘I’d love to do that for you. You can certainly count me in on it.’ The whole thing’s a charade, of course. I knew that Eddie would never lend me the money. Eddie is too pr
oud to lend anybody anything, he only ever gives it. And seeing as Eddie’s been effectively bankrolling me on and off for the past thirty years, and rarely says no to anybody, if only to show off how much money he’s got to spare, I had reasonable faith that he’d bail me out now. The trick is to act like I’m not expecting him to. I’ve learned the drill over the years.

  ‘Well that’s utterly splendid,’ says Eddie. ‘I was afraid we’d have to have DJs playing that awful housey housey music that Johnny’s suddenly started liking, but Elvis is much better. Can you imagine, a man of sixty listening to that nonsense? It’s not very dignified, is it? Mind you, I think it’s far more to do with the pretty young thing he’s got himself hung up on. He’s not exactly using his ears to listen to it, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Johnny hasn’t broken up with Nanette, has he?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no, of course not. He’s just picked up a silly new bit of fluff, that’s all. The only thing is, this time, he thinks he’s in love with her, the old fool. It’s all quite embarrassing.’

  The deal made, Eddie has one of his beefcake goons bring him his chequebook. While he dries his hands on a towel for him to write the cheque, he says the words I’d been dreading for a long time. Words so disturbing, they sometimes turn up in my dreams. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I’d really like to hear you sing “Hound Dog” one more time. Why don’t you and your friends sing it for me now?’

  I feel sick. ‘Of course,’ I say, ‘I’d love to. Just give me a minute to prepare.’

  ‘Certainly, do your vocal exercises, or whatever it is that you do.’

  A goon rounds up Gay and Fat Elvis for me and brings them to the poolside.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to sing “Hound Dog” for Eddie, and he wants you two to be involved. So sing some backing vocals, and make ’em good.’

  ‘There aren’t backing vocals for “Hound Dog”, boss,’ says Fatboy.

  ‘I know there aren’t! But I can’t just have you dancing about like twats like you usually do, it’ll look fucking terrible! Make something up, for fuck’s sake, and do it quick.’

  They settle on some ‘doo-be-do-wah’ nonsense, and I motion to Eddie. ‘We’re ready!’

  ‘Oh, goody,’ says Eddie, and pulls his slug-like body onto a lounger floating in the pool. A goon hands him a martini. And so while Eddie lies on his lounger in his tight and tiny Speedos, we stand on the poolside and I begin to sing:

  You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog

  Cryin’ all the time…

  I’m shitting bricks, afraid that the backing vocals are ridiculous and belong on a barbershop record, and terrified that I won’t be able to remember the second verse when it comes. And then something unexpected happens. Maybe it’s because I’m not in my usual Vegas costume, or maybe because it’s Eddie, but something inspires me to slip into young hip-swivelling Elvis mode, something I haven’t done since the prison rec yard all those years ago. I don’t realise I’m doing it at first, but once I start I can’t stop if I tried. Even though I hate Elvis, young Elvis, old Elvis, fucking ’68 Comeback Special Elvis, every so often, very rarely these days, he gets inside of me in some way, as if he’s possessed me from beyond the grave, perhaps looking for another body to ruin. Usually, it’s when I’m singing some Vegas crap like ‘American Trilogy’, and I find myself buying into it for about five minutes before I remember how much I hate the fucker, but this time, it’s young Elvis that’s got inside. I become lost in my own performance. It’s in rare moments like this that I understand why I exist, what it is I am meant to do. By impersonating a dead rock ’n’ roll star I hate, my sick, psychopathic existence has some meaning. As long as I swivel my fifty-two-year-old hips at gay gangsters, or dress up in a white jumpsuit and serenade old-age pensioners, there is order in the universe. Cosmic balance is maintained only as long as I am Elvis, and if I cease to be Elvis then the forces of chaos will be unleashed. I am compelled to be, and I must be Elvis, for it is my destiny.

  We’re slowing it down, messing with the tempo just like Elvis used to do on television and I’m jerkily moving the way he did, when I see something that breaks the spell. Eddie is lying there with a serious erection. His Lycra trunks stretch around it so that you can almost see the veins. Idly, he strokes it as he bobs his head along to the music. I feel faint, and dots appear in front of my eyes. I’m still trying to walk like Elvis as I lose consciousness and fall into the swimming pool.

  The water revives me moments later, but by now I’m totally submerged and sinking. My thrashing about doesn’t help, and just as I experience sudden awareness of my impending death, I feel a pair of hands grab me by the armpits and pull me up and over the poolside. Then I feel another pair of fatter hands squeeze my stomach, causing me to choke up most of the swimming pool. Fatboy lays me on my side, and I can see Gay Elvis standing there, soaking wet. The boys just saved my life. I know I should be grateful, but being a psychopath I can‘t do gratitude, so I have to fake it for them.

  ‘Thanks lads,’ I say. Really, that’s the best I can do.

  Eddie sends us inside to dry off, escorted by a pair of his goons who provide us with towels and dressing gowns and a bathroom to dry ourselves in. There’s a sunken bath in it that you could easily fit Eddie into along with all of his security. He’s had it decorated with his usual young-men-touching-each-other motif, which doesn’t put me at ease when having to take off my clothes in front of Gaylord and Fatty.

  ‘Shit, my mobile’s fucked,’ says Gayboy. I guess mine must be too. The cheque from Eddie was folded up in my shirt pocket, but it’s mush now.

  ‘Don’t get too excited Gay Derek, but I’m getting my cock out,’ I say, as I pull off my pants.

  ‘Boss, we’ve got something to tell you,’ says the Fatboy.

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to like it, but, we’ve had a long talk, the pair of us, and… we’ve decided that we don’t want to do Elvis with you anymore. We’re going to do our own thing from now on.’

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ says Gay Elvis.

  ‘What’s wrong, you gone off Elvis or something?’

  ‘No. Not at all. It’s a number of things really,’ says Fatman, ‘we want to sing more, and we want to do something more informative, with the songs in historical order and appropriate outfits for different sections of the show—’

  ‘And we’re sick to death of you treating us like fucking dog shit,’ says the Gaylord.

  ‘Yeah, that too.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I mean, we don’t understand why you bother doing it any more,’ continues the Gayster. ‘Bookings are down, because nobody wants to see someone who doesn’t give a shit. You don’t even like Elvis.’ Of course, there’s no way I could make them understand why I have to do it, not that I’d really want them to.

  ‘We just thought we’d see it through to make sure you got hold of the money. We felt we owed you that.’

  Christ, I think, they owe me so much more. When I found them in that kebab shop singing ‘Girl Happy’, they’d never even performed in public before. I gave them the opportunity to be Elvis on stage, week in week out, even make a bit of cash out of it, and this is their idea of repaying me, one lift to Esher and a stab in the back. And they also saved my life I suppose, but I don’t see how that cancels out an act of betrayal like this.

  One of Eddie’s gay goons knocks on the door. He pokes his head round and grins. ‘Eddie thought you could do with a change of clothes. He said you could keep them. They’re a bit eighties, I’m afraid.’ The goon grimaces at the pile of neon-coloured clothes and leaves. There’s nothing that would fit the Fatman, but he’s not that wet. Gaylord and I have no choice but to pick out some god-awful stuff that makes us look like we’ve stumbled out of the fucking Breakfast Club. It’s all way too big for Gayboy, but it strangely suits him. The smiling goon pokes his head round the door again and tells us Eddie is waiting for
us in the hallway.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need another cheque,’ I say to Eddie when we shuffle out in our new duds. He’s dressed now, in a light suit.

  ‘Keep it safe,’ he says as he writes it, and then tucks it into the pocked of the black and purple diamond-patterned shirt he’s given me to wear. He kisses me on both cheeks and hugs me. ‘Have a safe journey home, my boy,’ he says, and turns and walks into one of his many rooms. The goons open the door and show us to the fatmobile. We sit in silence as we drive away. Of course, it only lasts a few minutes until they start talking about Elvis again. I wish I’d drowned. I’d got the money, but what good is it to me now? I feel wretched. Then, in the centre of all the noise, I find an oasis, a place of calm. In my mind’s eye I find Jen’s furry red bush. I imagine I’m resting my head there now, and I have peace.

  Naturally, thoughts of Jen’s bush get the old horn throbbing again, and then I can’t wait to get home to sort myself out. And I think, why wait? What’s the worst that could happen? So while the Fatman drives us down the motorway, I take a leap into the unknown and unzip Eddie’s offensive bleached jeans and whip it out. It takes a while for either of them to catch a glimpse of what I’m up to in the rear-view mirror, and by that point I’m nearly finished.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ says Gay Elvis.

  ‘What does it look like? I’m having a wank.’

  ‘Not in my car you’re not!’ says the Fatty. ‘Put it away now, you dirty fucker.’

  ‘No. Besides, I’m almost done.’

  The Fatlad frantically pulls up onto the hard shoulder, gets out, opens my door, and throws me out of the car. I point my cock in his direction as I ejaculate, but I miss, and it splatters on the concrete. Gay Elvis looks at me with contempt from the passenger seat.