31 Tippi

Her mother had always been attracted to rich, dangerous men. Or at least men who pretended to be rich and dangerous. One of Joanna's last boyfriends had been a man named Richie Valentino who liked to hold court at the Sinatra booth at La Dolce Vita on Santa Monica Boulevard. He'd drop little hints that he was connected with a "family" back in New York, always with the shiny suits and cologne. He said he dabbled in trucking and the movie business, but when Tippi would try to pin him down at one of his long dinners (what movies have you actually made?), he'd wave his hand away and her mother would admonish her for asking Mr. Valentino too many questions. He was going to produce her life story for Lifetime. He had a top writer on it and had already talked about casting. But Valentino soon disappeared, leaving her mother with the tab for at least six dinners at La Dolce Vita along with a grimy toothbrush, a half-used bottle of Brut, and four pairs of black silk Jockey shorts. Ah, Joanna. You never did learn.

As Tippi sat on a concrete bench in front of the Graceland Welcome Center, her friend Mark looming somewhere nearby in case of trouble, she wanted so much to believe her mother was still alive. Joanna Grayson could talk her way in or out of most anything. They'd gone from absolutely broke to somewhat comfortable in L.A., Joanna trading on her relationships with old movie has-beens to a decent job at an antiques store in West Hollywood, or what Joanna called the edge of Beverly Hills. She and this Peter Collinson were probably planning to run off somewhere, Peter being the new bit of danger and excitement, and soon she'd get a cryptic postcard from Martinique or Cancun mentioning a specific hotel or bar to find her. After all, it had happened twice before.

But now Tippi had to look out for Tippi—Joanna would most certainly understand—and if she could trade this latest cargo container full of priceless junk for enough cash to get the hell out of Memphis, all the better. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Mark sorting through a CD bin in one of the souvenir shops, his greasy black hair glistening in the fluorescent light.

The allotted meeting time came and went, Tippi figuring on giving up the whole thing, when a striking older man with a prominent nose and closely cropped hair turned the corner between the shops and Elvis's airplanes. He wore a dark, slim-fitting suit with a silk pocket handkerchief and elegant cuff links. He cut through the crowd of elderly people in sweatshirts and Crocs like a knife, glancing about until he locked eyes with Tippi and offered a confident smile. He was very handsome in an aggressively European way.

"Even without the red scarf, I would've known you."

"How's that?" Tippi asked.

"You have the most beautiful voice," he said. "And the most beautiful face."

"That's nice."

He introduced himself as Monsieur Gaultier and then lifted her hand to kiss it.

"No need for all that," she said, snatching her hand away. "And don't think about any funny business. You're being watched."

"Oh?" Gaultier smiled and took a seat beside her. He smiled as if he owned everything around him, precise with all his little movements and not-so-subtle flirting.

"Why would you ever get involved with Peter Collinson?"

"Oh, no," she said. "Not me. I thought he was a short little twit. Like I said on the phone, he and my mother. She thought he hung the moon."

"Collinson is not a good man."

Tippi knew her mother had gotten herself into some real trouble this time. If she'd wanted to flee Memphis with Collinson, Joanna would've at least warned Tippi. Instead, she had gone out with a kiss on the cheek as Tippi lay on the couch watching American Idol and told her she'd be back by midnight.

"Can you tell me what this is all about?"

"I thought you would know," Gaultier said. "Of course, you must know what it is that we are bargaining for?"

"I know it's worth a lot of money."

"No doubt."

"And it is very old," she said. "Old and rare. And for the right price, I can lead you right to it, Monsieur Gaultier. Now let's cut the bullshit and talk cold, hard cash."

The man smiled and placed a hand on her thigh. What bothered her most was that the gesture didn't offend her in the least. There was something almost comforting about it, like he would be the one who would solve all her problems and fetch her mother back right away.

"Do you know where he is?"

"Collinson?" Gaultier said. "I assume he is at home with his family and his dog. Waiting for the right moment to collect this prize."

Tippi took in a deep breath, watching the passenger vans line up along the welcome center, the Elvis faithful walking along the red carpet fiddling with headphones. "He can't collect what he can't find," she said. "Only my mother knew, and she wouldn't tell him unless she'd been paid."

"And the last time you saw her was with him."

Tippi nodded.

Gaultier took in a deep breath, removed his hand from her thigh, and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned to her and nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "As I said, if she didn't tell Peter what he wanted to know, she is most surely dead."

Tippi already knew. She'd known since Joanna hadn't come home that night. But to hear the man say it struck her with a rotten, cold feeling. She looked at the goose bumps raised on her arm before turning back to see if she could spot Mark. "What you're looking for is locked up with customs," she said. "You'll need me for the manifest. Without the manifest, you are stuck in Shit City, monsieur."

"Shit City?"

"I guess this all depends on what this old crap is worth to you," she said. "Peter Collinson is absolutely useless."

Gaultier reached out to straighten the shirt cuffs peeking from his suit. She stared at his white cuff links shaped like skulls, and he shrugged. "A gift from my father. It's a rather fascinating story..."

"I don't have long," she said. "How much?"

"When I was very young, I used to watch a lot of American television shows," he said. "There was this one we called Faisons Un Marché. ‘Let Us Make a Deal.' You know this one? You are offering me a prize that is in the box without telling me what I may find."

"It was valuable enough that Collinson killed two people."

"Perhaps more," Gaultier said. "I know of at least three in Paris."

Gaultier shrugged and crossed his legs, looking across the street at the Graceland mansion perched on the hill.

"Is that your friend?" Gaultier said, pointing to Mark, who was talking to one of the security guards.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he won't stop staring at us."

"Am I really beautiful?"

"You are, my dear," he said. "You remind me of a young ??Jane Birkin."

"Oh?"

"She and Serge Gainsbourg were like gods in France. Do you know ‘Je T'aime Moi Non Plus.' You know. ‘I Love You. Me Neither.' It is a very practical song. Birkin breathing so incredibly sexy. It is nearly orgasmic. Gainsbourg is like Elvis to us."

"I don't give a shit about Elvis," she said. "Or goddamn Gainsbourg."

"No?"

"I only care about you giving me a goddamn price," she said.

Gaultier let out a long breath and rubbed the cleft of his chin. He nodded and then turned back to her. "I will need to discuss this with my people."

"There are more of you?"

"There is an awful man who insisted I come to Memphis to straighten out a very messy situation," he said. "All the way from Dubai. Which I didn't really mind. I don't really care for Dubai."

"And does he know what he's in for?"

"All he knows is that Peter Collinson cheated him, and he wants whatever it was that Peter traded for his money." Gaultier looked over at Mark and gave him a friendly wave. Mark looked away, running a hand over his pompadour, and turned his back. His jean jacket was airbrushed with a scene from the '68 Comeback Special. "This is your boyfriend?"

"Just a friend."

"Have you ever been to Paris?" Gaultier said. "To walk along the Seine at night is absolute magic, my dear. You should be there and not here."

This man had a confidence about him that was far more than arrogance. He smiled at her again, so self-assured, and placed his hand back on her knee.

"That's far enough," Tippi said, removing his hand.

"A woman like you deserves so much more," he said. "I think I have an idea to make sure that you have it all."

"You should know there is another buyer," she said. "Some rich weirdo in Arkansas who would kill his own mother to have this."

"Then why involve me?"

"You said you can get us through customs."

"Ah," he said. "Are you asking for a partnership?"

She looked at Gaultier, a little wind blowing down Elvis Presley Boulevard and ruffling her hair. "I don't know you," she said. "I don't trust you. I want my money up front. If you want me to connect you to this man, that will cost extra."

"Don't worry, darling Tippi," he said. "I will make you a very happy woman."