They had agreed to meet on New Year’s Day, corner of Western and 63rd, at 1:10, under the cover of broad daylight. Jimmy was early, but not by much. The sky was overcast, a damp chill in the air, Mother Nature unimpressed by the holiday. Droplets of sweat sprinkled a furrowed brow. He couldn’t afford to be recognized. This rendezvous had been planned fifteen years ago and there had been no contact since.
A passing car backfired and Jimmy almost dove behind a trashcan. He took an exasperated breath as he pretended instead to be tightening a shoe lace. Was that him? Almost a half block away, an overweight man sauntered down the road. The ridiculous sideburns were gone as were any attention-grabbing clothes. The hair wasn’t slicked but there was still that familiar movement of the pelvis.
He would be… what? … 57? Jimmy was almost 79, his age and identity further masked by some surgical work.
And there it was—the sign! Elvis lowered his left hand to his waist, fingers outstretched, palm down, and touched his side. Three taps. Right on time. As agreed.
Jimmy let him pass without making eye contact again and began to follow about a quarter of a black behind. The street was busy but not too busy to prevent keeping the King in sight. They had agreed to meet at the post office after initial contact if everything looked clear. Neither were aware the building had been shuttered some eight years ago. Elvis placed something along the concreted ledge just past the locked entrance to the old post office. He kept walking. Jimmy found a small, business-card sized envelope on the ledge and pocketed it.
They were off-plan at this point. It seemed like Elvis had quickened his pace. He turned right at the next corner, lost to visual contact. Jimmy sped up but could feel hid heart edging into dangerous territory. He was almost panting when he reached the corner. No sign of Elvis in any direction. He opened the small envelope and the type on one side of a thick card read: I’M SORRY.
The truth hit him at almost the same time as suited men firmly took each of his arms and “escorted” swiftly into a dark sport utility vehicle with tinted windows. The vehicle had appeared out of thin air. One of the men simply said, “Come with us, Mr. Hoffa.”
textualmadness 