Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (15 page)

“I
mean the man is stone dead. Been that way since nineteen seventy-seven."

“Is
that when he died? That long ago?"

“
Yes. Don't tell me you don't remember? I thought it
was a Crucial Twentieth-Century Date, like when Ken-
nedy was assassinated, or Martin Luther
King, or Bobby Kennedy, or when Marilyn Monroe died."

“
We're too young to have lived through or remember
much
about those other deaths, but I was around for
Elvis's death and I don't remember it. I do remember
when Pope
John Paul the First died."

“Not
exactly the same thing, Matt.”

He grinned. "That's why I need expert advice. Was
that
a credible Elvis?"

“
I don't know. I'm not an Elvis expert. I can tell
you
that Las Vegas happens to be crawling with Elvis im-
personators at the moment, and I bet a lot
of them sound pretty credible."

“Elvis
imitators, really? Why?"

“
Ever heard that the Kingdome
is coming?" "Kingdom—?”

Temple
loved teasing people with the name. "Not the Kingdom, the Kingdome, and
not the athletic facility in
Seattle that's
just been torn down, either. It's the new
Elvis Presley-themed
hotel-casino."

“
How could I have missed that? And you say that a
host of Elvis imitators is in town for the opening?
So
my guy is just some Elvis imitator?"

“That's
the best guess."

“But
why?"

“Good
publicity?”

Matt sighed. "Leticia is really jazzed on that call.
Says
it'll skyrocket the show's
ratings."

“
Probably will. And since
when have you used a verb
like 'jazzed'? Is working for that radio station corrupting
you?”

Matt shook off her gentle
jibe, still concentrating on
what bothered him.
"You don't think the radio station, Leticia—?"

“
Would arrange for Elvis to 'phone home' without
telling
you? No." Temple glanced at him, measuring his
mood. "But the thing about you, Matt, is you're such a
sincere, natural radio personality. If they did
want to
encourage more sensational news, like that call from the
unwed mother a couple weeks ago, they might be
tempted
not to tell you it was a set up deal."

“I
would never approve of a deception like that."

“
Of course not, and I'm sure they know that.
Besides,
if it was a setup, you'd be
a whole lot more believable
if you really bought it."

“They'd
do that? Trick me? Use me?"

“You
ever hear the story how some mean director got
Jackie Cooper to cry as a child actor? He lied and told
him his
dog was dead, then shot the scene."

“
Well, nobody's telling me Elvis isn't dead. And I
wouldn't cry for him anyway. I mean, I know nothing
about the man, except for his scandalous lifestyle."

“
Right, you were listening to old Bob Dylan instead
of early Elvis. Talk about far-spectrum opposites. It is
kind of amazing how it all came together in the
late
fifties and early sixties: Elvis
making hard-edged rock
'n'
roll out
of the rockabilly and rhythm and blues closet,
Bob
Dylan leaving the Minnesota Iron Range to troll for
authentic folk music in the South, then the Beatles bor
rowing from both and blowing in from England and
blowing
away both folk and rock for a while."

“
Huh? That all sounds like Sanskrit to me. You do
know
a heck of a lot more about this than I do, Temple."

“
No, just the rough outlines. I always had to know a
little about a lot in my various jobs."

“That's
why you're so invaluable."

“Right."

“
So how can I avoid being taken to the cleaners—on
the
air, yet—by this phony Elvis?"

“
Know thy antagonist." Temple bit her lower
lip.
"There's the library,"
she said, smiling at the vision of
Quincey Conrad being forced to apply
for a library card because of her Priscilla assignment. "Tons of books on
the subject. And videos too, I'll bet. You could
check
the voice against your own recording.”

Matt
frowned. "I don't have a VCR."

“
Yet. One more improvement of modern life to invest
in,
son," she added in a relaxed baritone drawl.

Matt looked at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"That
was pretty good for a girl who's no Elvis freak.

If you can do Elvis that well, how good would a real
Elvis
imitator sound?"

“
Like the real thing. Especially if he had a facial
struc
ture that actually resembled the King's. The shape of the
facial mask affects how the voice is produced.
Ever no
tice how lookalikes usually sound alike?"

“No."

“Well,
they do."

“Come
to think of it, there was a priest in Arizona we
always used to say looked and sounded like Gig Young,
the actor.”

Temple
giggled.

“Why
are you laughing?"

“
If
you knew Gig Young's wicked, womanizing
ways
. . . well, him as a priest is pretty funny. Plus, he committed suicide."

“
Poor man. But no way would he have been priest
material.
So I'm still in a pickle: how do I keep from
looking
like a complete fool the next time the guy calls,
if he does?"

“
Oh, he probably will. Even if he's just a nut with
no
motive but exposure, kind of like a psychic flasher, he'll want more
attention. Say, I wonder—? May I use your phone?"

“
I can't resist anyone who says 'may' instead of
`can'."

“
Only every other Tuesday." Temple picked up
the
heavy receiver. Matt, parsimonious former priest, had
ordered the least fancy model. She dialed a number
she
knew by heart.

“
It's not . . . him," Matt mouthed suddenly,
glowering
as
much as one with his sunny blond looks could. He referred
to Temple's significant but often missing-in
action other, Max Kinsella. Temple shook her head, un
willing
to get into personal differences.

“
Hi!" she greeted whoever answered, her PR
person's
voice set on High-energy
Percussion. "What do you
know
about Elvis? Oh, really? No kidding. Can you get
some to Matt's place?
Right now? Good."

“Temple,
what have you done?" he asked the minute she hung up.

“
I've brought in an expert witness: a fairy
godmother
with a heavy Elvish fetish, it turns out."

“Who?"

“Oh,
a music lover of our acquaintance."

“Not
Lieutenant Molina." Matt sounded shocked.

Temple couldn't talk for laughing. "Holy Half-note!
Not Molina. I wouldn't sic her on you for anything. She
not only is convinced Max should be on the Ten Most
Wanted List for
something,
but she thinks I'm a
pest
who couldn't figure
out what's in the mystery meat for
dinner,
much less decode a recipe for murder. Besides,
she's into oldies older than Elvis. Can you imagine her
and Elvis together? Ugh! Joan Crawford and James
Dean. No way. You'll like your friendly neighborhood
Elvis expert. I guarantee it." The doorbell rang.
"And
here comes—”

Temple pranced to the door on her mid-heel pumps
to
flourish it open.

Behind
it stood Electra Lark, wearing a subdued
black-and-pink
muumuu and carrying two canvas bags bulging with books. She assumed the
wide-legged and
-armed stance of an entertainer as she belted out:

“If
your baby done left you, You've found the right place to dwell.

The bellhop is a black cat, The
landlady's dressed in black,
Down Las Vegas's
own Lonely Street,
At Huh-Huh-Heartbreak Huh-Huh-Hotel.”

Chapter 16

Send
in the Clones

(Elvis
never sang or recorded the schmaltzy ballad "Send in the Clowns," but
he should
have)

"I
feel like a fraud," Matt said, examining the vast white
elephantine bulk of the Kingdome complex shining
in
the thin winter sunlight.

“You
do have a radio show," Temple pointed out. She
locked the Storm and they started walking into King-
dome World.

“
But not the kind of radio show that would ever wel
come
an Elvis imitator."

“
Not knowingly anyway,"
Temple agreed.

“
And what makes you
think I could recognize a voice I heard only once among this horde of burning
hunks of
love.”

Temple paused to eye him. " 'This horde of burning
hunks of love.' That's good. Very hip. You must have
absorbed
a lot from Electra's Elvis books last night."

“
A lot and not enough. I've
never glimpsed a more
promising or a more
poisoned life story before, not even
in
confession. These tell-all books do tell it all, don't
they?"

“I don't know. I never read
them."

“
Virtuously indifferent
to other people's dirt, or just
too busy?"

“
A bit of both, I imagine. So Elvis's private life
was
as spectacular as his public success, huh?"

“
Both seem to have gone up and down. I can see why
the mysteries of Elvis are so tantalizing.... What
is
that?”

Matt had stopped to stare at the four-story-tall tilted
guitar in the Kingdome's massive atrium. Heads could
be seen zipping along the handle and strings while mu
sical
riffs boomed out from everywhere.

“
It's a slide. A guitar
slide, get it? Popular with kids."

“
I guess making noise
always is," Matt shouted over the hullabaloo. "Are you sure I can use
my radio show
as a pretext to listening to various Elvis voices?"

“
Who's to challenge you? Publicity-hungry Elvis im
itators would cozy up to a scrofulous porcupine if
they
thought it meant airtime. Speaking of which, Crawford
Buchanan will suck up any attention this circus
can get
him. You are Media now, Matt.
You can go anywhere
and ask anything and people will trip over their own
toes trying to catch your attention."

“
I'll believe it when I see it. But at least I
might get
to see your major crown of
thorns in a brand-new
hairdo."

“
Oh, the
Crawf's Elvis pompadour does nothing for
him, not that anything would. Try not
to laugh out loud." "The Crawf?"

“
His unofficial
stepdaughter's term. I had stereotyped
her
as a rather vacant sleazehead, but it turns out that's
just the façade of a typical teenager nowadays.
Quincey
may not be a happy camper,
but she's not such a dim
Coleman lantern, after all."