Jesse Garon

By Brett Wallach

Private Investigator Phil Allman is in pursuit of Jesse Garon Presley, the heretofore thought stillborn twin brother of Elvis Presley. Along the way, Allman also seeks wealth, family stability, and love, not to mention the perpetrator(s) of three murders as he travels from his hometown of Philadelphia to New York City to the New Jersey shore, and ultimately to Memphis. What Allman finds makes for an entertaining and suspenseful read.

Jesse Garon is a noir detective novel, and the first in a series featuring Allman, a P.I. with a hard-boiled yet modern sensibility, sensitivity, and sense of humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Wallach
• Release date: Mar 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463663387

Brett Wallach

My name is Brett Wallach, and I'm a father of two daughters from the Philadelphia area. The protagonist in my Phil Allman, P.I. series of mysteries is a misanthropic, sentimental, bitter, funny, romantic, lustful, tough, sometimes amoral, slightly (?) insane divorced father of two daughters from Philadelphia. Any resemblance to myself is highly coincidental. I've tried to create a character who often says and does the wrong things, after reading so many books in this genre where the main character, despite quirks, is usually unrealistically virtuous. Think Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, only funnier. My favorite authors are John Steinbeck, Graham Greene, Raymond Chandler, Elmore Leonard, Dennis Lehane, and many others. I have no delusions that my novels are on that level, but as my reviews (please see them on Goodreads) show, most people seem to find them entertaining. After my former publisher recently went out of business, I decided to self-publish, and my six books (so far) in the series (Jesse Garon, And I Love Her, Young Blood, Freeze Out, Susceptible, and Torment) are all available on Amazon, and candid, objective reviews are always welcome. My seventh book, The Last MAN On Earth, is a sci-fi/social and sexual satire, and I hope you like that as well. My email address is [e-mail], and feedback is welcome.

Book preview

A Phil Allman P.I. Novel

JESSE GARON

The Search for Elvis Presley’s Twin

Book 1

2nd Edition

by

Brett Wallach

Copyright © 2009 by Brett Wallach

SmashWords Edition

* * * *

To Valerie and Alison,

And I Love You So

* * * *

TABLE OF 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

Back to Top

* * * *

Chapter One

"In the beginning…he created a sound. ‘That’s All Right, Mama’ and his other early Sun sides weren’t only the first guitar-driven rock ‘n’ roll records, but after over fifty years, you’d be hard-pressed to find better ones.

"At the end…he created a feeling. If his unrelenting release of unrequited love records, culminating with his breathless, breathtaking cover of ‘Unchained Melody’, doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, you’d better call 911, because your heart’s probably stopped.

He was an uncommonly talented singer and performer who unhappily squandered much of his talent. He was from another era, yet he was timeless. He was from another part of the country, yet he was boundless. He was of the people, by the people and for the people; yet he was peerless.

My little speech, the last – and shortest – delivered that Saturday afternoon, drew especially warm applause from the nine middle-aged women, two middle-aged men, one pimple-faced kid and one nattily-dressed guy about my age – thirty-five – seated on various lawn and parlor chairs in Shirley Marino’s basement. Mrs. Marino reigned as President of the Philadelphia chapter of the Elvis Forever fan club; she hosted these semi-annual meetings in her cellar amid the sights of 1950’s movie posters and smells of just-finished laundry.

Punch and snack time! Shirley announced, and the crowd meandered upstairs to Shirley’s kitchen for Kool-Aid, chips and dip. I was headed out to my car when the guy in the dark blue suit grabbed my elbow.

Nice speech, Mr. Allman.

Thanks. Do I know you? I’ve never seen you at one of these before.

New member. Here’s my card. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a business card. Marc H. Downes, Esquire, of Snyder and Dorfman, one of the city’s most prestigious law firms. Offering me this mini-billboard of himself, I noticed he was a hairy-handed gent. In fact, he was a hairy little guy. At three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, he already had a full day’s beard going. His dark brown hairline began smack in the middle of his forehead, as if to hide the thoughts therein, and his nose spread across his face like an over easy egg.

Downes wore those old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses somehow back in style now.

He barely reached my shoulder and seemed as stringy and malleable as a piece of overcooked linguine.

Markdowns, I chuckled.

Yes. Mother had a sense of humor.

You don’t fit the profile of an Elvis fan, Mr. Downes.

Nor do you, Mr. Allman. Actually, I’m not much of a fan. My tastes veer more toward modern jazz.

Unless they try to play it too darn fast? I joked. No Sale signs registered across his eyeballs.

I’m really here to see you, Mr. Allman. Would you allow me to buy you a drink?

It was a Philadelphia Saturday afternoon in early October. My daughter Jessica was staying with her mom that weekend. Only a couple of piss-poor college football games on TV. Sure. The day was bright, sunny and unseasonably warm–gorgeous – so at Mr. Downes’s suggestion, we walked the couple of blocks from Shirley Marino’s row house to a sports bar over on Castor Avenue, in the heart of Northeast Philadelphia. We sat at a dirty wooden table near the back, out of earshot of the half-dozen or so patrons slumped over the dimly lit bar and the two at the brightly lit pool table. I ordered a twenty-two ounce draught of Guinness from our frowsy waitress; Mr. Downes asked for an iced tea.

Mr. Allman, I am about to tell you the most remarkable tale that you’ve ever heard. But every word of it is true. I nodded as a sign for him to get on with it and smirked with Philadelphia cynicism. In late 1934, Gladys Presley went to see her family physician in Tupelo, Mississippi for a routine prenatal checkup. Her doctor then told her for the first time that she was to give birth to twins in early January.

Elvis and his stillborn brother, Jesse Garon?

He looked at me with admiration. Very good, Mr. Allman. Not everyone knows about Jesse Garon Presley. Anyway, as I am sure you also know, Vernon and Gladys Presley were, to say the least, very poor, and the country still struggled in the midst of The Great Depression.

I nodded again.

When Gladys Presley learned she was due to have twins, it seems that she panicked. The Presleys could barely afford one more mouth to feed, let alone two. She cried to her young physician, a Dr. Milton Josephs, and told him of their financial predicament. The good doctor was neither displeased nor surprised at her reaction. He informed Mrs. Presley that the black market for white babies remained strong despite the hard economic times.

Our waitress brought our drinks. Mr. Downes ignored his, but I savored mine. Downes drew a breath, clearly trying to read my still impassive countenance before he continued. "When Mrs. Presley betrayed her disgust with the very notion, Dr. Josephs commiserated with her, suggesting that it might just be better for the Presleys to have one child, with a nice nest egg to boot, than attempt raising two children born into poverty. He began to win her over. When Mrs. Presley expressed her concern for Vernon’s reaction to all this, not to mention that of the law and the community, Dr. J insisted that only the two of them would ever know about it. He’d contrive a foolproof story of a stillborn birth, and that would be that.

Dr. Josephs had done his legwork even before Gladys came into his office that day. He informed Mrs. Presley that a trust fund of five thousand dollars would be set aside for the baby she chose to keep. Mrs. Presley expressed concern about her other baby’s future, but the doctor assured her that a well-off, educated and very nice couple from Philadelphia would be raising the child.

My jaw had already hit the battered bar. So Jesse Garon Presley didn’t die on January 8th, 1935?

No, Mr. Allman. And we strongly believe that he is still alive, probably still in the Philadelphia area.

Wow. Wow. How do you know all this?

Dr. Josephs, now deceased, recounted it to one of my clients several years ago.

Does this Jesse Garon, or whatever he calls himself, know that he’s Elvis’s brother?

Um, we don’t think so. He was a fraternal twin, and having grown up in Philadelphia, he would never even suspect it.

Who is ‘we’?

Downes squirmed a bit in his seat. My clients’ identities are to remain anonymous for the time being, Mr. Allman. I have been retained to find the best private investigator that money can buy to find the man who would have been Jesse Garon Presley. He gave me an admiring look.

I’m not a modest guy, Mr. Downes, but why me?

The lawyer drew a deep breath. "Phil Allman, working class kid from the tough Tacony section of Philadelphia. His family moved up, figuratively and literally, to the Great Northeast the year before his entrance into high school.

After a nondescript early adulthood, got his act together and graduated second in his class from the Philadelphia Police Academy in 1997. Earned a reputation as an exceptionally effective, tough and honest beat cop over a nearly ten-year career, but eschewed any promotion opportunities along the way. Voluntarily resigned as an officer in January of 2007 when mandated by the upper echelons of police brass to inform on his colleagues, who were not quite so virtuous. Has been practicing as a licensed private investigator on and off for a couple of years, eking out a small and unsteady income, primarily stalking unfaithful spouses.

Recently separated from his wife, but maintains a strong relationship with his eleven-year-old daughter. He gave me the cocky look of a kid who’d done his homework. Oh, and happens to worship Elvis Aron Presley."

Not exactly worship—

"Admire then. Is that better? As to your paltry income, Mr. Allman, your 2009 tax return should show a great increase, that is, if you declare everything."

Downes gave me the guilty look of one who doesn’t. We are prepared to offer you ten thousand dollars simply to accept this assignment, which will include all necessary expenses. We will pay you another fifty thousand when and if you find Jesse Garon", no matter how long or short a time span that takes. Our only condition of employment is that you not tell anyone, anyone, about Jesse Garon and his lineage. The publicity would be detrimental for everyone if this somehow got out."

The blood completely left my head and must have traveled to my feet because I could not move them. We have some leads to get you started, Mr. Allman. But not many. ‘Jesse’ has left the building, he laughed, or more accurately, has disappeared from our radar. We want him back on the screen.

O brother, where art thou?

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* * * *

Chapter Two

Mr. Downes left me with a sparse, though interesting, file containing a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars, as well as my copy of the five-page contract of barely decipherable non-disclosure legalese that I was mandated to sign.

Jesse Garon was actually brought up as Robert Zimmerman – ironic since that is Bob Dylan’s given name. His adoptive parents were Harold and Esther Zimmerman of the middle-class Overbrook section of Philadelphia. Harold Zimmerman was a salesman in a haberdashery, and Esther Zimmerman the ubiquitous housewife. The Zimmermans had no other children.

Robert Zimmerman graduated from Overbrook High several years ahead of Wilt Chamberlain, serving in the army for two years, reaching the rank of sergeant, remaining stateside the entire time. In the fall of 1955, he got a job selling advertising space for a local weekly newspaper called the Main Line News, located appropriately in Philadelphia’s famous suburb, the Main Line. He toiled there for the next forty-eight years, eventually promoted to Advertising Director in 1968, demoted back to Sales Rep in 1977. Married in June of 1967 to Cynthia Nussbaum, they had a daughter, Rhonda, born in December of 1973.

I didn’t know if Mr. Downes knew it, but Rhonda Zimmerman and I went to high school together, and ironically, I had a huge crush on her throughout.

Cynthia Zimmerman died of a brain hemorrhage in January of 2003. Robert Zimmerman retired from his job the following month. He hadn’t been seen nor heard from since March of that year.

In addition to this written material were photos of Zimmerman taken throughout his life. Robert at ten: light blonde, straight hair, strong chin. A thinner nose than Elvis, but the same sensuous mouth and cocky expression. He looked more like Vernon than his brother. Robert at nineteen in his army uniform: handsome, well-built, the hair a bit darker and curlier, same impudent visage. Robert at forty-three, with his wife – a pretty redhead – and their three year-old daughter – an adorable girl already, her wavy red