That was as much of an explanation as she needed, and she let me go.

“Dumb as a bag of hammers,” Marino mumbled as we walked.

“She’s just doing her job,” I replied.

“Look,” he said. “We don’t fly back until tomorrow morning, meaning unless you spend the whole damn day looking at bones, we should have some time.”

“You can go to Graceland by yourself. I’ve got plenty of work to do in my room. I’m also sitting in nonsmoking.” I chose a seat at our gate. “So if you want to smoke, you’ll have to go over there.” I pointed.

He scanned other passengers waiting, like us, to board. Then he looked at me.

“You know what, Doc?” he said. “The problem is you hate to have fun.”

I got the morning paper out of my briefcase, shook it open.

He sat next to me. “I’ll bet you’ve never even listened to Elvis.”

“How could I not listen to Elvis? He’s on the radio, on TV, in elevators.”

“He’s the king.”

I eyed Marino over the top of the paper.

“His voice, everything about him. There’s never been anyone like him,” Marino went on as if he had a crush. “I mean, it’s like classical music and those painters you like so much. I think people like that only come along every couple hundred years.”

“So now you’re comparing him with Mozart and Monet.” I turned a page, bored with local politics and business.

“Sometimes you’re a friggin’ snob.” He got up, grumpy. “And maybe just once in your life you might think of going some place I want to go. You ever seen me bowl?” He glared down at me, getting out his cigarettes. “You ever said anything nice about my truck? You ever gone fishing with me? You ever eat at my house? No, I gotta go to yours because you live in the right part of town.”

“You cook for me, I’ll come over,” I said as I read.

He angrily stalked off, and I could feel the eyes of strangers on us. I supposed they assumed that Marino and I were an item, and had not gotten along in years. Smiling to myself, I turned a page. Not only would I go to Graceland with him, I planned to buy him barbecue tonight.

Since it seemed that one could not fly direct from Richmond to anywhere except Charlotte, we were routed to Cincinnati first, where we changed planes. We arrived in Memphis by noon and checked into the Peabody Hotel. I had gotten us a government rate of seventy-three dollars per night, and Marino looked around, gawking at a grand lobby of stained glass and a fountain of mallard ducks.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I’ve never seen a joint that has live ducks. They’re everywhere.”

We were walking into the restaurant, which was appropriately named Mallards, and displayed behind glass were duck objets d’art. There were paintings of ducks on walls, and ducks were on the staff’s green vests and ties.