Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (35 page)

Not while anyone was alive to don a jeweled jumpsuit
and
another man's dream, anyway. Another man's dream-turned-nightmare.

“
Hey, Miss Temple, don't look sad. I got some news
that
will perk you right up."

“
What is that?" she asked. They answered
serially.
"The scuttlebutt."

“Around
here."

“Snake's
off the hook."

“Didn't
do it."

“
Naw, the guy was throttled, all right, but the
snake
would have crushed his chest, not his throat."

“So
the snake is as innocent as a lamb."

“Who's
guilty then?" Temple asked.

“We
don't know."

“
We do know that the so-called Memphis Mafia is
crawling
all over this place."

“Hotel
security." Temple nodded.

The
Fontana boys shook their heads until Elvis fore
locks drew cocky,
dark commas on every brow. They
gathered even closer, lowered their voices to a softer,
conspiratorial level.

“
See, we know a bit about Mafia guys."

“Just
comes with the territory."

“What
territory is that?" Temple wondered.

“Being
Italian, of course."

“So
what do you know?" she persisted.

“
There's
Mafia here, all right. The real thing. Blend
ing right in."

“
Since the death?”

Their
weirdly inappropriate blue eyes exchanged fur-
live glances.

“
Since before. It's a good thing we're undercover.
Otherwise, some wise guys would be giving us
guff."
"And we'd have to give it right back."

“
Guff, that is."

“
Guff."
Why did Temple think that "guff" came with
a caliber?

“
The way it is, we're in a perfect position to watch
them watching
everyone else."

“
You're saying these are heavy players," Temple tried
to
clarify.

“Yeah. Not any of Boss
Banana's local muscle-heads. These are outa-town dudes. Guys from the garbage
and cement-mixing business. Old school."

“
Bet they could dig up Jimmy Hoffa in two minutes
flat if they wanted to, and dump him on the main
stage
of the MGM-Grand to do a soft shoe."

“
Oooh." Temple's active imagination was about to
make her
sick.

But the
brothers Fontana pressed so close they held
her up, stiffened
her spine, and maybe her upper lip,
which had never been known to sneer.

“
We also think—"

“Some
of the suits—""Are passing as hotel security—"

“But
are into security in a lot bigger way."

“Like
for the whole U.S. of A.”

Temple
blinked. She thought. She thought like a gang
ster, which was a
stretch a custom limousine would as
pire to.

“
Feds?" she whispered in disbelief.

Six blue-black helmets of Elvis hair nodded. "She's
fast
for an amateur," one said.

“
What
kind of feds? ATF? Alcohol, Tobacco, and
Firearms?"
Elvis had drunk occasionally, had always
smoked little cigars, and was a major
gun collector, and
carrier, during his later
years. "DEA? Drugs were really
his
Waterloo. IRS?" He had overpaid his taxes, to a ridiculous point.
"Urn, what else is there?" Or maybe it
had nothing to do with
Elvis at all.

Their
faces were impassive.

“
We don't
know exactly. We just can smell shills on
both sides of the
law among the usual dopey hotel mus
cle. You know, you put on one of those
uptight black
suits, a white shirt and shades, and you could pass for a
Blues
Brother or a presidential bodyguard or an enforcer
out of any northern city like
Chicago."

“
Used to be a big
Chicago connection to Vegas. Who
do you think did in Bugsy Siegel?"

“
But that was really decades ago. Way back beyond
Elvis,"
Temple objected.

“
The Mob has a long memory," Blues Brother
Elvis
said, his eyes hidden behind his shades.

“
And so do we." There was nothing hidden about
Oversized
Elvis's expression.

Chapter 35

Animal Instinct

(This song was cut from 1965's
Harum Scarum
and never
heard or seen again)

When a really heinous crook is characterized as too evil
to
live, usually all and sundry describe him as "an animal.”

That is human nature for you, always looking for some
other
part of nature to take the blame for the bad stuff.

Sometimes they will call the offender "an
insect," but
that is usually for
piss-ant, penny-ante stuff.

I have long taken exception to the human tendency to
attach their own kind's worst actions to the animal world. It implies that we
of the furred and haired and hided sort
have no morals. And we do not. Morals are a cross that
humans give themselves to bear. We merely have "be
havior"
and "instinct.”

And more brains and nicety than we are given credit
for.

So I realize early on that the unfortunate serpent who
was
dunked into the pool with the corpus delecti is now
a suspect du jour. I also realize that the usually tongue-
tied
snake (and it has the forked tongue to tie) might have
something relevant to say, and that I am the very one—
the only one—ready, willing, and able to unlatch
this
snake's two-way tongue.

Now this is no easy assignment. I have not conversed
with serpents before, although I have had words with a
lizard or two. Snakes are notoriously tight-lipped, as
well
as
being a clannish sort. I can only imagine what a lone tropical snake imported
to the concrete-and-neon jungle
of Las Vegas
might wish to keep to itself.

There
is no good way to cozy up to a snake.

But I thrive on challenge, and Chatter has lived up to
his
name and been full of palaver but not much solid in
formation, so I hie myself off to the Animal Elvis exhibition
area behind the Medication Garden that proved so
un
happy an experience for the two
little dolls from the Circle
Ritz, and for some benighted Elvis wannabe
before them.

My little dolls need my usual stalwart assistance,
though they do not know it, which is also usual. Besides,
I am catching Elvis fever just like everybody else. En
quiring minds want to know who is messing with the
King's
new playground.

I am not sure what I should expect besides dogs,
horses,
and. the serpent. I have never interrogated a zoo
before. With horses I am on good, if somewhat distant,
terms. I am a city lad and more inclined to
hitching a ride
on a passing pickup than on a horsehair hammock.

Dogs are always touchy. I have been chased for my
very life too many times in my early days as a gentleman
of
the road. Although my species is adept at bullying the
bully-boys, when we are young we are often not aware
of our powers and may be intimidated. I am sorry
to say
that my forays with canines
have left me with an under
standable
disdain for the breed. I will have to proceed
delicately with the dogs, so as not to betray my natural
dislike.

Luckily,
the attraction—although I cannot see how a
compound of animals not including any felines could pos
sibly be termed an "attraction"—is not open for
business
yet.

I
should have free run of the place.

I decide to hie up top to interview the noble equine
first.
I
have never known a horse not to talk sense, and find it
outrageous that such a mild and useful breed has been
so
badly misused by humans. Although I have been
known
to dream that I am the size and incisor-level of the awesome saber-tooth tiger
so faint in my ancestry, I have
never
regretted being too small to ride or to bear or to drag burdens. It is one
supreme advantage the domes
ticated branch of my species has.

The animals are kept, of course, in an outdoor park
that
I imagine evokes Graceland's rolling acres.

I find Rising Sun, a handsome honey-blond stallion of
the type called palomino, munching oats at an outdoor
drive-up stand. I hop atop the feeding station. Poor
crit
ters
are cursed with these big, square teeth and hence
are condemned to chew leaves of grass until their enamel
turns green. I do not understand how they can keep those
huge bodies going
without any good red meat in their diet.

“
You are new," the horse notes succinctly between
mashing
vegetation.

“
But not green," I add quickly, just in case
he mistakes
me for a hank of rye
grass or something. With their eyes
on
the sides of their heads, sometimes horses cannot see
every little thing
clearly. Like me.

I
explain my mission, during which Sun nods and munches judiciously.

At least I assume it is judiciously. Horses have that
considering air about them, like trial judges. They may
be
contemplating deep
matters, or they may simply be chew
ing every
bite one hundred times, as advised by the health books.

I look around the meadow. "I can see dogs racing
over
yonder
hill, but I find it hard to picture an anaconda in
these
happy fields.”

The horse stops chewing to regard me with a brown
eye as velvety as whipped chocolate. Miss Temple may
be a wimp for brown-eyed blonds, but not me. There are
no brown-eyed cats, obviously another clear sign of su
periority.

I
decide I need to shave off a little erudition. 'The snake," I repeat
pointedly.

Sun whinnies and shakes his head until his platinum
blond mane shimmies. I am beginning to think that in the
brain department, he would be similar to an actor found
on
Baywatch.
This boyo is all muscle and sun-bleached
locks.
And health food.

But he snuffles out a sigh and resumes our fitful con
versation. "If you meant the snake, why did you not
say
so?
When you said 'Anna Conda,' I thought you were
referring
to an attendant I do not know."

“I
mean the snake."

“
I am not much afraid of that snake," he
boasts.
"It is one of the biggest in the
world."

“
But it is not poisonous. I can take care of it with my
hooves. No, the kind of snake I avoid like a briar patch
is the small, poisonous sort that could strike my hock be
fore I knew it. This Anna Conda snake is too big to miss,
and no
danger to me."