Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (25 page)

None
of Matt's autograph hounds (hound dogs?) were
ready
to leave, but stood shifting from foot to foot, grin
ning.

Matt looked up for some reason, beyond their impris
oning
semicircle.

A fourth figure stood silhouetted in the light of a dis
tant
lamp.

Its wide-legged stance made clear that it wore bell
bottom pants. The night was chilly, maybe fifty-five de
grees. Matt assumed the bulky but truncated outline of
a classic 'cycle jacket. The outline of the figure's hair
made
its gender murky.

Disturbed, he stared, trying to read recognition into
what
was little more than a cardboard cutout. For an
instant he wondered if a fan had brought along one of those lifesized
standup celebrity cutouts. He had seen
them
in various models: Marilyn Monroe, Captain Kirk
and ... Elvis Presley.

Someone tugged on his sheepskin jacket sleeve for
attention. "Could you autograph a photo for my
friend
Karen who couldn't come?"

“For
Karen-who-couldn't-be-here," he wrote, already showing the cautious
sensitivity to double-meanings of
someone who
thought his least act might return to haunt
him.

Return
to haunt him.

He glanced up again to the inadvertent spotlight cast
by the street light. The pool of light was vacant. Elvis
has
left the parking lot.

Matt
shook off the eerie speculation and his own su
perstition.
The only ghost he recognized came and went
with the adjective
"holy.”

As he
was signing the Mr. Midnight name, he heard
a motorcycle cough into life and roar
away. Fast.

Chapter 24

Tutti Frutti

(Raucous rock
'n'
roll number Elvis sang on
the
Dorsey
Brothers TV show, 1956)

"You're
as bad as my mother!" Quincey complained. "I
don't want my big chance ruined."

“
Being a harassment victim is a 'big chance'?"
"Show
business can be rough.”

Quincey turned back to the mirror to fluff up her al
ready high hairdo. Instead of wearing half of the hair up
and the other half down her back—with
one coy lock
flipped forward
over her shoulder—Quincey had teased
the hairpieces into a mound
as high as her face was long.

Her face was especially long now with teenage angst.
"I don't need 'bodyguards.' I'll look like a kid or
some
thing."

“Or
something," Temple agreed, surveying the bizarre
child/whore façade Quincey had perfected, just as Elvis had ordered it
done more than thirty years ago, partly to
make his teenage houseguest
look old enough to avoid dangerous gossip. "Frankly, bodyguards will only
add to
the illusion that you're the real
Priscilla. Besides, these aren't the usual type of bodyguards. Believe me,
they'll
blend right in."

“
Oh. 'Blend in' how? Are they the reincarnation of
the Memphis Mafia? Fat old guys in dark suits and
hats
and sunglasses. Gross.”

Temple
sighed. She knew everybody over twenty was
ancient
to a teen angel-vixen like Quincey. Still, she had
gone to some trouble to provide low-profile
protectors
for the kid, and would
have liked a smidgeon of credit
for being cool for an old person.
Apparently, having con
cerns for someone's
safety had cost her the "cool" cre
dentials.

“
Shall I ask them in to meet
you?" Temple said.
"Them?
I'm
gonna be trailed by
two
fat old
guys in
glasses?
Double gross."

“
Not exactly."
Temple pushed herself out of the chair,
her high heels clicking concrete all the way to the ajar
door, and sounding just a tad miffed. "Fellas,
you can
come in now.”

Come
in they did, two by two, just as the animals had
entered the ark. Two, and then four, and then six, and
then eight,
and then the company's lone last member.

They filled up the mirrors and the dressing room, six
feet tall and nine strong. They loomed. They glittered.
They were all Elvis, Elvis to the ninth power. They were,
in
a word that Quincey would respect, awesome.

She had almost knocked over her chair as she jumped
to her feet to take in this manifestation. "What is this?
Who are they?"

“
Meet Full-spectrum Elvis, a new and original act
for
the competition.”

After a long pause, during which Quincey scanned
every
incarnation of Elvis: the raw fifties kid in the pink-and-black pants and
shirt, Gold-Lame-Suit-with
Rhinestone Lapels
Elvis, Tuxedo Elvis, Motorcycle
Elvis, Blues Brothers Elvis, Karate
Elvis, Cape-and-
Cane
Elvis, Jumpsuit Elvis, and, last but definitely not
least, Oversized Elvis.

Seen in this historical perspective, it was obvious that
the many overweight Elvises on the imitators' circuit
portrayed a minority version of the superstar. Only the
last Elvis, Oversized Elvis, could be described as
"gross." Temple credited this man with a true
actor's
devotion to a role
for donning the required fat-suit be
neath the jeweled jumpsuit.

The rest of them were trim, foxy-looking dudes with their
naturally dark hair moussed, fluffed, and tousled,
wearing their blue suede shoes or miniboots, and their
various intensity of sideburns, from eyelash-thin to
Bigfoot-sized
radiator brush.

“
How are more Elvis imitators going to do anything
to guard me?" Quincey asked a bit less
sullenly. She
was the age when
somewhat older men were intriguing.
In
fact, at sixteen, she was already a bit old for the real
Elvis.

“
That's easy," Motorcycle Elvis said, stepping
for
ward so his neck-to-ankle black
leather suit squeaked.
"We are muscle first and musicians
second."

“
And," Cape-and-Cane Elvis added, sweeping
aside the cape with his cane to reveal a sidearm, "we follow
Elvis's sterling example in accessories. Or perhaps
I
should say 'steel-blue' example.”

Quincey's pale hazel eyes widened enough to push back the
raccoon rings of eyeliner surrounding them.
"Elvis was a gun nut. You guys could get into
trouble
for carrying concealed weapons."

“
Only if you tell on us, little lady," Fifties
Elvis said
with an off-center smirk.

“
Now." Gold Lamé Elvis made a
fingernail-buffing
gesture on his
rhinestone lapels that must have scratched his knuckles. Maybe they itched.
"At least one of us will
be with
you at all times. The others will blend among
other Elvis types and see
what they can learn about who-
ever
might have gone after your lovely neck with a razor blade."

“
I guess that's all right," Quincey allowed.
"You guys
don't drag down my Priscilla outfit. Some of these Elvis
costumes are so cheap and cheesy." Then a girlish storm
threatened. "Except him." She pointed a
perfectly man
icured pale pink
fingernail at Oversized Elvis. There was
an awkward pause. "Really, Priscilla was out of the pic
ture by the time Elvis got so gross. I'm only
pointing this out for reasons of historical accuracy." She eyed
every one of them except Oversized Elvis.
"It's not like
I have anything against Old Elvis.”

Of course she did, Temple thought. And so had the
millions of people who voted a few years ago for the
Young
Elvis postage-stamp image, not the Mature Elvis likeness.

Oversized Elvis ebbed diplomatically to the back of
the
entourage. He also serves who only stands and waits.

After some discussion, it was decided that Fifties El
vis and Motorcycle Elvis should share the first-shift du
ties
of shadowing Priscilla.

Temple
retreated into the hallway with the remaining
seven Elvi.

“
You look terrific,
guys!" she told them. "How did
you rustle up such high-class King duds so fast?" She
hadn't a prayer of telling who was who behind the
as
sorted Elvis facades and decided to refer to them as their costumes
dictated.

“No
problem," said Tuxedo Elvis, his curly shirtfront
ruffles matching the boyish wave in the locks that
brushed his forehead. "We had the hair
already, Super-
glue provided the sideburns."

“
Hair is easy to duplicate.
What about the costumes?" There was much blue-suede shoe shuffling.

Fifties Elvis bashfully tapped his shoe-toe on the con
crete, then shrugged. "The hotel has this 'see
yourself
as Elvis' photo
booth. They have everything but the suit
he
was buried in."

“
That
would be tasteless," Oversized Elvis said.
"Even Elvis
wouldn't have liked that pale suit with the
blue shirt and white tie.”

Temple
was not assuaged. "Wait a minute! A photo
booth does not
explain how you all got duded up in
period so fast.”

Karate
Elvis launched himself into a fighting pose.
"It's like
this, Miss Temple. We know the operator and
know how to encourage
cooperation."

“
Moolah." Cape-and-Cane Elvis nodded knowingly.
"And then
we got Minnie the Miracle-worker to fit everything and gussy up the
outfits—"

“The theatrical seamstress,
Minnie Mabel Oliver. I remember her! I met her during the Darren Cooke
case."

“
Was that a case?" Gold Lamé Elvis asked. "Or was
it an
accident?"

“The jury's still out,"
Temple said grimly.

“Just like it's still out on
Elvis's death." Karate Elvis executed a leap that landed him nearly on top
of Temple.

“
I don't think so, boys. Besides, we don't have to
worry about a dead Elvis on the premises. It's
'Priscilla'
I'm concerned about.
Apparently everybody around El
vis disliked her."

“Well, she wasn't one of the
boys, was she?”

Temple
stared at Blues Brothers Elvis, whichever
Fontana brother he
was. "That's very true. It was a pri
mal battle for
control of Elvis: would his shy, sensitive
private side win, or the adolescent bad
boy that the world idolized?”

Motorcycle
Elvis executed a pelvis move that left no
doubt which side of Elvis he was voting
for.

“
Either way, I guess he was charming as a prince."
"You got that right," Cape-and-Cane Elvis
said. "A
Prince of Darkness."

“
Well, you guys are all princes for taking on this
bodyguard detail. You're not actually competing, I
hope.”

Motorcycle Elvis managed a
devilish grin that lifted his upper lip, left side, just like the original's.
"Why not?
Where else can we learn who
might be pestering our
little Priscilla? Elvis wouldn't like that."

“
He was very protective of her."

“
She was his bird in a gilded cage, and that chick
was
not gonna fly away on him."