Read Halfway House for Free Online

us.”
    “I’m not worried. And listen—” He stopped and grabbed her hand. She turned to him. “Don’t be worried about me. There’s so much you don’t know. I’m a good guy, I think, but I haven’t always done good things. I know these guys. I know their kind. I can deal with them.”
    “These aren’t like the people you—”
    “Yes they are.”
    “But they’ve been to jail and—”
    “Laurie, stop worrying. You’ve done so much for me. Getting back my birthright is a big deal. I’ll never get to know my dad, but at least I can have what he left me. For a chance at that, I owe you more than I can repay.”
    She tried to smile, but couldn’t meet his gaze. Holding both of her hands, he watched as she toed the sidewalk. She finally whispered, “Maybe you shouldn’t tell them who your father was.”
    Bobby grinned. He’d heard this before. He didn’t mind people laughing at the idea of Elvis Presley being his father. He actually appreciated it. The idea was ludicrous, and any self-respecting person would refrain from putting themselves in the position to have to admit it in public. But not Bobby Dupree. He’d bantered Elvis with the best of them, and after hearing his facts, they grudgingly agreed to the possibility of his truth.
    “I can’t deny my namesake. That’s what this is all about, Laurie. I’m trying to get closer to the father I never had, by getting back the thing he wanted me to have.”
    Bobby had left the day after Sister Agnes passed away. On her deathbed, she’d tearfully given him the envelope that had been left with him as a swaddled infant on their front lawn. Inside was a letter from Colonel Parker that had said it all, detailing Bobby’s father’s sadness at not being able to be a part of his life, information about his mother who’d died in childbirth at Memphis Memorial and who Elvis had met at a concert in Biloxi, and finally about his father’s wish that little Bobby Garon Dupree get the Double Platinum Award for Heartbreak Hotel .
    “Then maybe you should wait until the time is right to tell them.”
    Bobby shook his head. “These guys are straight shooters. They’ll appreciate my honesty. Trust me on this, Laurie.”
    She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she bit her lip and nodded. They resumed their journey to 8th Street. The lower in the street numbers they got, the poorer the homes and shops became. No more palm trees. Bare dirt plots. They passed an abandoned Buick, the engine ripped out along with the tires and the bucket seats. They passed a taco stand, a wizened woman pushing a chalupa cart, and a secondhand store where Fernando Valley yuppies were busy loading furniture into the back of their Lincoln Navigator.
    When they turned onto 8th Street the aura completely changed. A well-maintained suburban street rolled out in front of them. Postage stamp lawns, neatly trimmed, and fences painted white. The single-story shotgun shacks all sported new paint. Children tricycled down the sidewalk. Old men watered flowerbeds. About halfway down the street, seven or eight young men spoke low among themselves as they stood around two low riders rumbling in a driveway.
    Bobby spied the lookout sitting on the porch of the first house. Holding a cell phone on his knee, watched Bobby with a predator’s gaze. As Bobby passed, the young man brought the cell phone to his mouth and spoke several words. When he’d finished, he snapped shut the phone, then resumed watching the street’s entrance.
    One of the low riders was the neon green beast that had passed them earlier. The other was a midnight blue Impala. All the young men wore shorts below the knees, and most had steel-toed boots. Two wore flannel shirts, the rest wife-beaters—white tank tops.
    An immense Buddha-sized Mexican stepped forward. His chin was lost amidst rolls of fat. Bald, his tattoos began just below the left eye with a single tear drop. His arms and chest were covered in enough ink to