After I left the airport, I stopped back by the office to pick up some files. It's a good thing I did. There was a message on my desk from Trixie. It seems that a woman had dropped in to see me while I was out. She wouldn't say exactly what she wanted but if I was interested to meet her at the El Mocambo at nine.        At exactly 8:55 p.m., the worn radials of my Chevette slid to a stop in the gravel parking lot of the El Mocambo, one of Memphis' oldest night spots.        In the Forties and Fifties, the El Mocambo had been the place to be. It was the town's hottest nightclub, offering a steady stream of big-time entertainers. Now the place was pretty seedy. Oh, it still has a small group of regular customers from the club's heyday. They love to sit around and swap stories about the stars who used to play the club--like the time Desi Arnaz got a hernia when, as a practical joke, one of his band members put concrete in his conga drum. That kind of stuff.        But today the club mainly serves as a hangout for local gamblers. When business started to sag in the early Sixties, the owner, Benny Libido, installed a roulette wheel in the back room. It's illegal, of course, but Benny keeps it in operation by greasing the palms of the local flatfoots, a maneuver which takes no small amount of dexterity.        I rounded the corner and who should be at the front door but ole Benny himself, greeting incoming customers in his trademark rent-to-own tuxedo. As usual, he had a chesty blonde by his side.        Benny cut an odd figure. He wore his hair combed flat back on his head, greased down with so much pomade that it looked like he had one big hair. And he always sported a No. 2 pencil-thin mustache, the two sides of which had never matched in length or alignment in all the years I had known him.        "Well," he said, "if it isn't my old pal Jeff Parrish. How's the newspaper business treatin' you?"        "Can't complain, Benny. How's business?"        "If it was any better, I'd have to shut down," he said letting out a huge belly laugh. "Jeff, I want you to meet Candy. She's my main squeeze."        Every time I saw Benny he seemed to have a new "main squeeze."        "Candy here's a bit of a psychic," Benny said. "She has this uncanny knack for guessing people's sock brand preference."        "Well, Benny," I said, not quite sure how to respond, "you always could pick 'em."        "Go ahead, Candy, show him," Benny said.        Candy closed her eyes, touched her forehead, and after a few seconds, said "Gold Toe, right?"        "Uncanny," I said, ashamed that I was as impressed as I was.        "I guess you think I worked in a shoe store all my life, or something," she said. "But I swear I didn't. It's just a gift."        "Maybe it's not too late to exchange it for something else," I quipped.        "Always the kidder," said Benny, letting out another belly laugh.        "See you later, Benny--nice meeting you, Candy," I said, leaving the couple and heading through the El Mocambo's red shag doors.        "Remember," I heard Benny yell after me. "Your money's no good here."        "Yeah, but neither is your food," I shot back.        "Ya never change," I heard Benny say.        I looked around the dimly lit, smoke-filled room but didn't see anyone who matched Trixie's description of the "mystery woman," so I wandered over to the bar and ordered a double martini.        The El Mocambo had gotten even seedier than I remembered. It was sad to see a restaurant once famous for its elaborate presentations of exotic, flaming desserts, reduced to having a frumpy waitress named Shirley dispense Necco wafers from a coin changer.        I was about to give up on this whole enterprise when, all of a sudden, a sultry voice came from behind: "Penny for your thoughts, mister." Normally, I'd laugh out loud at a corny old line like that, but I actually needed the money. I turned around and found myself face to face with a beautiful brunette wearing a tight red dress.        "Well," I said. "My first thought would violate the Smoot-Hawley Act, but I'll tell you my second thought: I'm wondering if you're the woman who left a message with my secretary."        "Yes," she said with a slightly Southern accent. "Now, what's your third thought?"        "My third thought involves you and a can of Redi-Whip."        "And your fourth thought?"        "Okay, my fourth thought involves you, a can of Redi-Whip, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and Shirley with the Necco wafers. I think we'd better stop here because my fifth thought would probably require a parade permit."        Actually my fifth thought involved only Shirley with the Necco wafers, and my sixth thought just the Necco wafers; but I didn't tell her because I didn't want to hurt her feelings.        "Enough about my thoughts," I said. "What's on your mind?"        "Oh, there'll be plenty of time for that. The night's still young. Why don't you buy me a drink?"        "She was quite a beauty all right. But there was something strangely familiar about her. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.        "Have we ever met before?" I asked.        "No, but I think we have a lot in common," she said with a gleam in her eye.        I still didn't know what her game was but, if I was interpreting her signals right, this could turn into something more than idle chit-chat; it could turn into full contact chit-chat. I decided to make my move. Using my best Paul Henreid manner, I reached into my coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes. I figured I would impress her by lighting two cigarettes and handing her one. It suddenly hit me . . . I didn't smoke; all I had was a pack of gum. I thought for a second about chewing two pieces and giving her one but decided it just wouldn't have the same effect.        "Look, uh . . . I don't believe I caught your name," I stammered.        "Connie. Connie Ockleman."        "Connie. Why don't we leave this joint. Let's go somewhere quiet and you can tell me what's on your mind."        "What about my place?"        "Sounds great," I said.        As I followed Connie out of the El Mocambo, I passed by Shirley, who winked and handed me a strawberry Necco. I winked back, and slipped it into my coat pocket for safekeeping.        We hopped into my car, and she directed me downtown to the Belvedere, an old high-rise office building that had been converted into cheap apartments.        The tarnished brass arrow rested on the number "10" and Connie and I stepped out of the elevator, heading down the musty hall to her apartment. She unlocked the door and we went inside. It wasn't anything fancy, but seemed cozy enough.        She locked the door behind her, and then leaned over to switch on an old lamp. When she turned around, the light caught her face a certain way, and I was once again haunted by that feeling that I'd seen her before.        "Are you sure we haven't met? And you haven't told me why you wanted to see me in the first place."        "I didn't want to see you in the first place, I wanted to see you here. I'll be right back. I want to slip into something more comfortable. Then I'll tell you what I want."        "Fair enough," I said. I noticed a record player in the corner and decided to put on some music to set the mood. The best I could come up with was Harry Belafonte's Greatest Hits, which was okay, I guess, but "Come mista tally man, tally me banana," is not exactly an aphrodisiac.        After a few minutes, she came bounding into the room wearing a flimsy negligee. She proceeded to push me to the bed, tearing off my shirt in the process.        Maybe I wasn't giving Belafonte enough credit. I suddenly wondered what would've happened if I had gone with the Slim Whitman album.        Connie planted a big smooch right on my kisser and said, "Now, you've got to promise me one thing."        "What's that?" I asked, being in a particularly agreeable mood.        "That if you find the Elvis Diaries you'll let me see them."        "What?" I said, almost jumping through the roof.        "You see, I'm sure that Elvis is my father. And I've got to see those diaries. I'm certain they'll prove it."        "That's it!" I shouted leaping off the bed and covering myself with the sheet. "That's who you look like! My God! Say it's not true!"        "It is true. You see, my mama was from New Iberia, Louisiana. She was voted Miss Hot Pepper of 1968, and got to meet Elvis as part of the prize."        "And you think Elvis and your mother had an affair?"        "She told me Elvis said it came with being Miss Hot Pepper. Mama didn't know any better."        I sat on the couch clutching my sheet like a security blanket, and started to mumble: "The Diaries, they're starting to take over my life."        "Hey," she said, "That doesn't mean we can't . . . you know."        My mind was reeling. Elvis' daughter? I just didn't know. It didn't seem right somehow. Besides, it would violate one of my basic rules of social behavior: never get involved with any woman whose father had starred in a movie called "Tickle Me." Granted this was the first time that it had actually come up and hey, rules are made to be broken.        But I just couldn't bring myself to go through with it. What if she really was Elvis' illegitimate daughter and we ended up getting married, or something. That would make me Elvis' illegitimate son-in-law, and that was a frightening thought. Besides, I didn't particularly like being used like that. The blow to my ego left me feeling less like Casanova and more like Mr. Hot Pepper of 2001. I guess it cuts both ways though.        I apologized, gathered my clothes, and left, assuring Connie that I'd call if Elvis' Diaries had any mention of his romantic involvement with her mom.        As I drove home, I realized that I was glad that I hadn't slept with Connie.        It was because of Ginger. As much as I tried, I couldn't get her out of my mind. I wondered if somehow things could ever go back to the way they used to be. That maybe I could pretend that instead of walking out on me, she had just stepped out for a pack of Lucky Strikes. Yeah, but why the hell would it take someone three years to buy a pack of Lucky Strikes?        This was going to be harder than I thought. Illustration by Barry Willis