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Sensing a dramatic tale was about to unfold, Panky snapped his fingers at the waiter and motioned for refills of our drinks. As I had told Elvis two years earlier, I began relaying my story of how I had met Dr. Regent and had taken a job that would change my life forever. I told Panky about meeting Elvis in Paris.
Enthusiastically, I recalled the brilliant performance I had seen at the now vacant Elvis Review Theater. Carefully, I recreated all the glamour of the trip to Monaco and the Orient Express, and the tragic deaths of Babette and Brigitte. The evening flew by. It was about midnight when I ended the story of how Elvis had given me the garnet stoned ring. I held out my finger and slipped it off. I then held the ring up to the restaurant’s dim light.
“Read the inscription.”
“Dr. St. John,” Panky began. He halted mid sentence and looked at me as if he were getting my permission to proceed. It was as if he was reading something sacred and special. Maybe he was. I nudged the ring closer to him.
“Go ahead, it’s okay.”
“Dr. St. John. Remember Paris and me. E.P.”
Panky then let out a low whistle to accentuate the nature of my story as well as the incredible nature of the inscription, “E.P.”
“Elvis Presley,” I explained, trying to dramatize the effect.
“Are you absolutely sure it was him? I mean after all…” Panky did not finish his statement.
“Absolutely, positively. Panky, after his coffin was opened and was empty, there is no doubt in my mind that Elvis is alive, and I met him two years ago in Paris. I had spent wonderful weeks with the man.”
Panky didn’t say anything for a good minute or so. Finally, he broke his silence by saying, “You know, that is an expensive ring.”
“I know,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Dr. St. John, I believe you. I want to help you find him... "Hi there! I’m a bike messenger by day, aspiring actor by night, and this is my blog. I live in Los Angeles, have a great dog named Jack, and I like piña coladas. (And gettin’ caught in the rain.)