Read Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis for Free Online

considered Southern general Nathan Bedford Forrest a war hero. A statue of Forrest stood tall and proud in a small park on Union Avenue in the heart of the medical district, marking his and his wife’s graves. On the river bluffs downtown, despite some efforts to rename it, Confederate Park overlooked the Mississippi, its cannons aimed at invisible enemies. Tom Lee Park celebrated the heroics of a black citizen who’d pulled people to safety after a horrific boiler explosion on a riverboat, and the site hosted the annual worldwide barbecue every May. Riverboats docked at the river daily, and it was a big deal when the Memphis Queen paddle-wheeler stopped on its way downriver to New Orleans. Nineteenth-century bricks made walking to the boats rough, barges slogged down the middle of the river dragging wide wakes, and smaller paddle-wheelers made daily trips along the riverbanks for tourists. The city skyline had the glass Pyramid at one end, and President’s Island with a toxic waste dump and dusty concrete plant at the other. Sandbars and wide expanses of muddy water lay on the southern horizon. Despite—or maybe because of—all its diversity, Memphis had a reputation for Southern hospitality.
     
    Born in California and transplanted in Memphis sixteen years ago, Harley was glad to do her part at welcoming paying tourists. It beat dealing with former bosses at a banking corporation.
     
    The group she picked up at their hotel was pretty sedate. They were English, and not only excited to be here, but polite. The excitement in the van increased as the tourists saw the billboard and Graceland exit signs when she got off the Interstate at Brooks and Elvis Presley.
     
    “Has it always been named Elvis Presley Boulevard,” one of the ladies asked, “or was it named that after he died?”
     
    “After he died. Before then, it was called Highway 51 on this end, and Bellevue inside the city limits,” Harley replied. “My mother met Elvis back in the sixties. Ann-Margret and some other celebrities were there, riding motorcycles in the horse pasture. She hung over the stone fence to get his autograph.”
     
    It was just a little tidbit of personal information that Elvis fans usually liked to hear, as well as the regular spiel.
     
    “Did he act like just a regular bloke,” one of the men asked, “or was he shirty?”
     
    Harley grinned. She loved the way the English talked. “Elvis was always courteous. He really appreciated his fans, even though it meant he was almost a prisoner in his own house.”
     
    “Sad, the way Elvis died. Too bad he couldn’t have the street named after him before he went. Guess that’s the way it is, right? Most people aren’t truly appreciated until they’re gone,” the lady commented rather sadly.
     
    Harley thought about that after she let them out behind the tourist shops to get on the EPE—Elvis Presley Enterprises—van that’d take them across the busy street to the Graceland mansion. The tourist was right. People took others for granted far too often, and she’d been just as guilty of that as anyone else.
     
    Mike came to mind. It wasn’t that she hadn’t appreciated him, because she had, but she hadn’t thought about how her actions affected him or his job. She felt a little guilty. It was a lot different than with Bobby because, after all, he was just her friend, not her boyfriend. Besides the ribbing he took from cohorts, Mike had to be put in an awkward position every time she stumbled across another body.
     
    But damn, it wasn’t like she was trying to infiltrate undercover operations or anything. He had to know that. Didn’t he? Maybe he’d just been looking for an excuse to cut out. Her finding bodies may have been the excuse he’d needed to move on. It was possible. She’d done the same thing herself a few times—grab at the first thing she could to make a graceful exit from a relationship that wasn’t working. Sometimes her tongue outpaced her brain, but