The Graceland Gang

By Stephen G. Yanoff

The mysterious death of a colleague leads Adam Gold, a claims investigator, to the discovery of a treasure trove of never-before-heard songs by the world's most popular recording artist. The King of Rock n' Roll himself -- Elvis Presley. Gold will soon learn that there are many people who are willing to die -- or kill -- to get their hands on the tapes. The list will include religious fanatics, crooked cops, the mafia, and even his own employers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491820704

Stephen G. Yanoff

Stephen G. Yanoff is a 20-year veteran of the insurance industry and an acknowledged expert in the field of high risk insurance placement. He holds a bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral degree from the Texas A & M University System. In addition to GONE BEFORE GLORY, he is the author of two other highly acclaimed history books, THE SECOND MOURNING and TURBULENT TIMES. All three histories have won numerous awards for “Best U.S. History Book of the Year.” Dr. Yanoff has also written several award-winning mystery novels, including THE GRACELAND GANG, THE PIRATE PATH, DEVIL’S COVE, RANSOM ON THE RHONE, A RUN FOR THE MONEY, and CAPONE ISLAND. A native of Long Island, New York, he currently lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife, two daughters, and an ever-growing family. For more information about the author or his books, readers can go to: www.stephengyanoff.com

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ALSO BY STEPHEN G. YANOFF

The Pirate Path

Devil’s Cove

Ransom on the Rhone

The Second Mourning

For my ladies—

Hazel, Patty, Rachel, & Rebecca

Acknowledgements

As always I must first thank my best friend and love of my life, my wife, Patty. As I said on our wedding day, you have more sand than any other woman I have ever known. Thank you for putting up with me all these years! To my parents, Arthur and Hazel, I owe everything. They gave me life, love, an education, and a career. (The rest I did on my own.) To Rachel and Rebecca, my heart and soul, my pride and joy. To my first editor, Barbara Talbott, and my second editor, Karl Monger. To my dearest friends, Max Talbott, Susan Marquess, Helena & Lee Bomblatus, Jaime & Gary Rubenstein, Debbie & Ron Lazarov, Stan & Molly Naftolin, Nola Firestone, and Vicki Isler. This wouldn’t be fun without you guys!

To Janice, Ron, and Glenn, my dear siblings. See, I told you the guidance counselor was wrong!

To the poor souls who tried to teach me the insurance business—Tom Mannion, Christine Nickles, Ingrid Kaminski, and Jean Carbonari. Thanks for trying!

A tip of the hat to all of my poker friends down at Steiner Ranch—Rich and Sharon Walker, Ken Evans, Kevin Evans, and Leigh Ann Woodward.

Special thanks to my life-long advisors about southern living, Gladys & Jim Deatrick, Jimmy Deatrick, Thelma & Grady Wilson, Susan Wilson, Lane Wilson, and the semi-amazing marksman, Ron Nunley.

Also a round of applause for my own insurance expert/consultant, Ted H. Heaton, III.

To the lady who makes travel fun and unforgettable, the wonderful Lori Randig.

Finally, love and hugs to Baker. (My most loyal fan!)

The history of the great events of this world are scarcely

more than the history of crimes.

—Voltaire

CHAPTER ONE

B y the time Joey Russo reached the twenty-fifth floor, he was traveling so fast that he lost two fillings and his toupee. Ten floors later, he hit terminal velocity, which for a man of his size and weight, was roughly one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Unfortunately for Joey, he was going down , not up, and he was not in an elevator at the time. When he hit the pavement, he left an impression not unlike a Rorschach Test, and caused a near panic on John Street. The police responded immediately, but there wasn’t much left to identify, bag, or cart away.

Later on, the police learned Russo had started his descent on the fifty-fifth floor of the Anchor Insurance Company, one of the oldest carriers in Lower Manhattan. He had made his exit through the head honcho’s window, an act as dramatic as it was puzzling. What made it puzzling was the fact that Bill McKenna, the president of the company, had a fear of heights, and he always kept the shades drawn tight, the windows closed and locked.

When Adam Gold, a claims investigator, peered into McKenna’s office, the first thing he noticed was the shades were pulled back, and even stranger, two of the windows were wide open. He immediately felt a sharp pang in his stomach.

He felt even worse when he realized that he was looking at a crime scene. The entire room had been marked off in yellow tape and a photographer was snapping away from all angles. Looking around, he spotted another person making a sketch of the office and its contents.

Something was terribly wrong.

Stay where you are, ordered a burly detective. Don’t take another step.

Who are you? Gold asked.

Lieutenant Feretti. Manhattan South. He flashed his badge. Who might you be?

Gold introduced himself, then said, What the hell is going on? Where’s McKenna?

McKenna stuck his head through the doorway of an adjacent conference room. Over here, Gold. He was pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf. Come inside.

Gold simply nodded. What’s wrong, Bill? Why all the cops?

You’d better sit down, McKenna said solemnly. I’ve got some bad news. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Joey Russo just took a swan dive.

What are you talking about?

McKenna sighed. He took a header.

Gold shook his head in disbelief. You gotta be kidding.

The crazy bastard jumped right out.

Gold staggered backward, reaching for a chair. Russo was an old friend and fellow investigator. Holy shit, he whispered. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

McKenna sat down and poured himself two fingers of scotch. God, what a way to start the week. The press will have a field day with this one. He took a long sip. Why do these things always happen to me?

Gold shook his head. God, this is awful. What the hell happened?

Russo lost his friggin’ mind, that’s what happened. He barged into my office and started ranting about his health care premium. Jesus, we all got hit with the same increase. What the hell did he expect me to do? I told him to call his damn congressman. He looked away, then sighed. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. The next thing I know he’s climbing out the window. What a fucking moron.

Did you try to stop him?

McKenna made a face. Of course I tried to stop him. He held out his arms. Look at my forearms. I scraped the shit out of myself. He drained his glass, then poured another shot. You want a drink?

Yeah, I could use one.

Well, this is another fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.

Gold was staring at him, his jaw clenched. Struggling to retain his composure, he took a deep breath, then said, Did you contact his wife?

The police called her. I spoke to her, too, but I don’t think she heard a word I said.

What did you tell her?

I told her that she’d have to find another date for the Christmas party. He gulped down the scotch. What the hell do you think I told her?

I bet she took it hard.

Very hard.

After a while, Gold looked back, his head cocked, wearing a slight frown. He had spotted a briefcase under the table. Is thatRusso’s case?

McKenna nodded. I was gonna give it to his wife.

We should take a look inside. He might have left a note or something.

The damn thing is locked.

I could jimmy the lock.

Later. Right now we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands. He gestured for Gold to come closer. I was just about to send for you when this happened. He pushed a thick claim folder across the table. You’re not going to believe this one.

Another nightmare?

The mother of all nightmares.

Gold sighed. You say that about every claim.

Yeah, but this time I mean it. His gaze was direct, then drifted away. Read it and weep.

Right now?

No, the next time you go on vacation. He leaned forward, just a little. Are you deaf? I just told you it was the mother of all nightmares. I kid you not. Read the damn summary.

When McKenna got angry his Irish eyes stopped smiling and he turned beet red. Lately, his temper had gotten the best of him for silly reasons, and it was starting to worry some of his colleagues. The water-cooler crowd blamed the outbursts on age and alcohol, but those who knew him best knew the true source was the pending sale of the company. There was talk that senior management would have to go, and if that was the case McKenna would soon find himself pounding the pavement. And for a man of sixty-five it would be very difficult to land another executive position.

Gold opened the file and read the summary. Eventually he said, Is this your idea of a joke?

No, this is my idea of a goddamn disaster. McKenna brought his right hand to his forehead, his fingers massaging his brow. We issued this policy to cover one specific peril.

Which one?

Loss of income.

Who’s our insured?

Sony Music Entertainment. The parent company of RCA Records.

Gold stared at him. Good Lord, we’re in trouble. They’ve got some great lawyers. What’s our policy limit?

The primary policy is one million per occurrence, two million aggregate.

"The primary policy?"

There’s an excess policy on top.

What limit?

Ten million.

Gold gave a theatrical shiver. Who approved this mess?

I did. It looked like a sure thing at the time. McKenna gave a snort of disgusted laughter. Basically, we’re covering piracy, plagiarism, and unpublished material. We’ve got a large deductible, so I’m not worried about piracy or plagiarism, but the unpublished material, well, that could break the bank.

Gold smiled indulgently. The guy’s been dead for thirty, thirty-five years. I don’t think we have to worry about a new album.

I wish you were right, McKenna said solemnly. You ever watch the Antique Road Show? They got a bunch of antique dealers and art experts that travel around the country appraising collectables. People bring in guns, knives, pottery, paintings. All sorts of junk. He took a letter out of the file and placed it directly in front of Gold. This jackass collects antique recording equipment. He just found an interesting tape on one of his machines. He leaned back with his arms crossed, frowning. Would you like to guess what’s on the fucking tape?

Gold could feel his pulse jump. Not…

Twelve songs. Never released. All recorded at Graceland.

Gold stared at him in disbelief. Jesus Christ… He glanced at the letter. Why did he contact us?

I don’t know how, but he got wind of our policy.

What does he want?

Two million dollars.

Gold gaped at him, caught off guard. Excuse me?

He’s willing to sell the tape to us, but if we don’t come up with the money in one week, it goes to the highest bidder. Swallowing hard, McKenna came closer. Do you know what that tape might be worth?

Elvis may have left the building for good thirty-six years ago, but since his death he was generating fifty million dollars a year in income. The record sales were staggering. Six hundred million sold in the United States. One billion sold worldwide. Over 147 gold, platinum, and multi-platinum albums and singles. The man was more popular now than when he was alive.

Slowly Gold began to understand the seriousness of the situation. Lord, those are big numbers.

You can say that again.

So what’s your next move?

I’m inclined to buy the tape. I don’t know any other way to reduce our exposure.

Gold shook his head in disgust. Two million is too much.

I can hide two million. Twenty million is a different story. He began to rub his chest. You know what a loss of twenty big ones could do to the company? Wipe out the last two quarters. Maybe the whole year. I can’t risk it.

I don’t know, Bill. We could be buying a pig in a poke. He looked up. Where did this guy get the antique recording equipment?

From somebody close to Presley.

How close?

He says he knew someone in the Memphis mafia.

I’ll bet half the people in Memphis say the same thing. Several thoughts crossed Gold’s mind, but he was too harried to dwell on any of them. Bill, he began haltingly, what do we really know about this guy?

The owner of the tape was a man named Grady Walker. He was an ordained minister and the spiritual leader of the Mt. Zion Pentecostal Church in Tupelo, Mississippi. The old boy was old school, and he made no bones about his position. He seemed to have a firm grasp of the Scriptures, invoking several passages to support his demands.

I know what you’re thinking, McKenna said, breaking the silence. He’s a little aggressive.

The Lord helps those who help themselves? What is that supposed to mean?

He’s entitled to a fair settlement.

He sounds like a crackpot.

Ye of little faith.

Look, Bill, for all we know he could be down there juggling snakes and burning Korans. I don’t trust these Holyrollers. There was a new sense of urgency in his voice. Somebody needs to have a chat with this character.

I’m glad you feel that way. He reached into his coat pocket and took out an envelope. You leave tomorrow morning.

Hold on, Gold said, standing. I can’t just jump on the next plane. I’ve got other claims to handle.

Nothing this important.

You want me to tell that to the claimants?

No, I want your staff to handle the claims. I need you in Tupelo.

Russo was a friend of mine. I’ll miss the funeral.

You mean the service, don’t you? He glanced into his office. The crime scene investigators were gathered around the open windows, dusting for prints. In any case, you needn’t worry. I’m picking up the tab for the funeral. I’ll make sure they keep him on ice for a while.

There was a moment of strained silence, and then a look of surprise came across Gold’s face. You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?

McKenna walked around the table and put a hand on Gold’s shoulder. A two million dollar payment is bound to raise a few eyebrows. Somebody on the board of directors might question my decision. Find me a plausible reason to pay for the tape. Any connection to Elvis Presley will do. Understand?

Is this about CYA?

You got it, kiddo.

I’ll give it my best shot.

I know you will. You always do. He looked at Gold with a sober, almost forlorn expression. You know, I’ve always thought about you as a son.

Gold stared at him, caught by surprise, as if he were unsure how to react to the comment. Well, that’s nice to hear. How about increasing my allowance?

Bring me what I need and we’ll talk.

Fair enough.

Detective Lieutenant Feretti stepped into the conference room, taking inventory of the furnishings. Do you mind if we collect some DNA evidence?

Do I have a choice? McKenna asked.

A court order or search warrant is normally required—unless the samples are given voluntarily.

What do you need?

Something on the windowsill. Probably a bug.

Knock yourself out.

Feretti smiled, but there was no humor in it. Mind if we poke around Russo’s office?

Be my guest.

I’d also like to take a look at his employment record.

No problem.

Feretti tossed his card on the table. If you gentlemen think of anything useful, give me a call.

After he was gone, Gold said, I need some equipment.

For what?

Tupelo.

Surveillance equipment?

Just a couple of items.

I’ll call our friend in Chinatown. He straightened Gold’s tie, then gave him the once over. Don’t tell Inspector Gadget about the tape. Nobody needs to know but us.

Gold managed a weak smile. Whatever you say, boss.

Better safe than sorry.

Gold did not like the sound of that, but it appeared that he was going to break some rules on this one. Just like it finally sank in that he was headed into unchartered territory. McKenna’s single-minded determination to pay for the tape had thrown him for a loop, and now he would have to match wits with a man who was blackmailing his boss. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to sell the tape to the highest bidder, even if it meant destroying an entire company.

CHAPTER TWO

I nspector Gadget’s real name was Victor Wong, and when you called his store, you got a recording that said, Hello, you have reached the Wong person at the Wong number, but do not hang up. Leave a message and I will call you back. That Wong had a strange sense of humor went without saying, but he must have been doing something right. He came to America with fifty dollars in his pocket, and now he owned the largest electronics store in Chinatown.

Some folks believed that Wong was kicked out of China for standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square, but being the cagey sort, he never confirmed or denied the story. Better for sales, he liked to say.

When he saw Gold, he stopped reading the racing form and smiled. Did you lose your way?

I had to walk. Thirteen thousand cabs and not one of them has a brake.

Very sad.

How’s business?

I can’t complain. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper. I made a fortuitous connection with Homeland Security.

I think that might be an oxymoron.

A what?

Never mind. Did you get my list?

Wong nodded. I’ve got everything in stock.

Excellent.

By the way, he began haltingly, I was sorry to hear about the death of Mr. Russo. He was a very nice man. Highly amusing. He shook his head sadly. He knew many jokes.

You don’t say.

He thought of one. Why don’t Polish people eat dill pickles?

I give up.

They cannot get their heads in the jar! He laughed out loud. Funny, eh?

A real knee-slapper. He looked at Wong and at the same time through him. Did Russo shop here?

Occasionally.

That’s odd.

Why?

He never did surveillance. He was more of a paper-pusher.

"Maybe somebody was pushing him around. Wong paused, watching Gold’s reaction. Would you like some tea?"

No thanks.

He poured himself a cup. If you ask me, I think there was trouble brewing.

Gold raised his brows in a politely quizzical expression. Why do you say that?

Three reasons. First, he stopped telling jokes. Second, he purchased some of the items on your list. Third, he bought body armor.

Gold was reasonably stunned. When was this?

Two weeks ago. Wong reached under the counter and pulled out a crumpled invoice. He smoothed the paper flat with his hand. Sure enough, Russo had recently purchased an attaché case with a built-in recorder, a 35mm camera with a telephoto lens, a pair of binoculars, and a ballistic liner. You know what’s strange? Wong said. He didn’t charge these items to the company. In fact, he didn’t charge the items at all. He paid cash. He took a long sip of tea and studied Gold over the rim of his cup. Don’t you think that’s strange?

Yeah, I do. How much was the bill?

Three grand.

Gold whistled between his teeth.

Wong took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed beside his nose and forehead. Warm today. Too hot for the racetrack.

After a long five seconds, Gold said, Why do you think he paid cash?

Only one reason. No paper trail.

Exactly. He rested his forehead in the palm of his hand as if the weight had become too much for him. He was trying to cover his tracks. But why? He studied the invoice. Why the hell did he need a bullet-proof vest?

Not a vest, a coat liner. Lightweight Kevlar. Easy to install. Very effective.

Against what? A BB gun?

Mine are top shelf, he gushed. They will stop .357, 9mm, and .45 caliber bullets. I give five-year money-back guarantee.

Ever get a return?

Never.

I didn’t think so. Gold smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Did you ask Russo why he was buying surveillance equipment?

It’s not wise to ask too many questions. Bad for business. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "He