Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (62 page)

“
I didn't."

“He's
like me: hard to spot unless he wants you to." "Hmmmph," Temple
said.

“
Anyway, I decided that being in the thick of
things
was the best way to give you backup."

“
Did you have to pull me into that too-too hokey
knee-slide?"

“The
audience loved it."

“
The audience loved you. I didn't know you could do
that.”

Max shrugged. "Neither did I. So who tried to kill
you,
and why?"

“
A Mob
hit man with an Elvis fetish. Priscilla's death
was just the icing
on the cake. The real target was a man
in the federal witness protection
program."

“
Elvis hitting Elvis.
Has a sordid sort of harmony,
doesn't it? Are you angry that I turned
up?"

“
Not at all, Max. I'm just really sorry that I
couldn't
give you that belt."

“I
bet you are!”

He leaned forward to reach for her. "Isn't it time
Elvis
and Priscilla had a
reconciliation?"

“Way
overdue," she agreed.

In
the kitchen, Midnight Louie howled his objections.

Chapter 58

Mystery Train

(Recorded
at Sun Records in 1955 and cowritten
by Sun founder Sam Phillips)

Matt
approached WCOO the next night like a surly tran
sient. He kept his
hands stuffed in his jacket pockets,
hoping no preshow fans would accost
him for auto
graphs. They'd started showing up before as well as after
his hourly
midnight stint now. A. E. After Elvis.

He -just
wanted to creep into the radio station unnoticed, and get on with whatever the
night would hold in
store. It certainly wouldn't be Elvis anymore. He hoped.
He had
served his time in Elvis's particular variety of
limbo and needed
to get on with his own life, as dull as
it was.

His
blood chilled when he saw people clustered near the station entrance. They all
seemed focused on some
thing. Maybe he was just jumpy after last night's post-
show
encounter, but he couldn't help thinking of the
body Molina had found outside the Blue
Dahlia.

Was it his turn to find a
corpse on his own turf?
His next thought was even wilder. Had his caller
ended the silence with a sudden plunge into
depression
and suicide on Matt's very doorstep?
His footsteps made them turn one by one. The stac
cato conversation of an agitated group trailed off
word
by word.

“
He's here!”

Faces focused on him, full of strange excitement.
Even
Keith who worked the switchboard was out on the parking lot asphalt, looking
dazed.

Matt stared past the strangers' faces to what had oc
cupied
their attention.

A parked car, that's all.

Keith had bought a new car, and Matt's fans were
admiring
it. Good, let them bug some guy their own age.

“
Nice wheels, Keith," he said in passing,
seeing little
more than a sleek silver fender. Silver. Keith had openly
lusted after the Vampire. "Sorry, I've got to
get on the
job," he told the
girls who were gravitating toward him
like mercury finding ground zero.

Matt waved in passing, smiling at the sincere flattery
of
imitation, and went into the station.

Ambrosia herself (Leticia in full radio diva persona)
was sitting on the deserted receptionist's desk like a
chocolate Buddha wearing the face of Shiva, gorgeous
goddess
of destruction.

“
You're pretty mellow, man.
Considering." "Considering what?”

She
hoisted a dangling plastic tag. "Considering your
new car."

“My new car."

“
That's what the tag
says. Glad to see an employee
doing
so well. Won't have to give you a raise for a
while."

“
My new car."

“Sure glad you're not so
repetitious on the air, honey.

You better hurry if you're gonna look at it, or before
Keith
kidnaps it.”

Matt took the tag from her hands. It was attached to
a set of car keys, all right. And his name was printed on
a
paper sandwiched between two slices of clear plastic.

Matt exploded out the door, not pausing to ease it shut
for once. The crowd of eight women parted like a cur
tain.

There it sat, illuminated by the nearest parking lot
light until it shone like a hologram: an aluminum-silver
puddle of metal in the shape of the redesigned Volk
swagen
beetle.

“Let's
see the inside," Keith urged.

Matt tried the key, surprised when it opened the pas
senger
door.

Keith, tall and thin as a soda straw, jackknifed into
the
seat. "Wow. Cool. Look at this stuff."

“What
stuff?" Matt asked.

Keith
was caressing the upholstery like it was Sharon
Stone. "I think it's suede." He leaned close to the
driver's
seat, sniffed and squinted. "Blue suede.”

Matt forced his mouth to stay shut and walked around
to the car's sloping front, looking for a dealer name on
the
license plate holder.

There
was none.

There
was a license plate, though, It read: 281 ROCK
Elvis had just
given away his last—or maybe just
latest—car.

Chapter 59
 

Tryin' to Get to You

(Recorded
at Sun Records in 1955, probably
with Elvis on the piano)

"I do not see what you
need me for," Midnight Louise complained.

Since
we are standing in the bright sunlight near Chef
Song's fish pond, it is especially fitting that she is in her
usual
carping mood.

“
I told
you. As a witness. I do not lay the dead to rest
every day.
Especially a corpse as famous as this."
"I do not like dark, enclosed
places."

“Neither do I."

“
So that is why you invited me along. You are scared
stiff."

“
What is to worry about
a bit of ectoplasm? I have al
ready
glimpsed Elvis in the non-flesh before, at the Hal
loween séance last fall. Or ... it could have been
a dear
departed Elvis impersonator. It
is so hard to tell the real
thing from the sham these days."

“
You ought to know about that. I suppose you had
something to do with that brouhaha at the Kingdome.
Your roommate was in the newspaper looking like a bride
of Dracula, cheek to cheek with an Elvis impersonator.
She was identified, but he was called 'a mystery man'
since he disappeared after his act, even though he was
the leading contender to win. This is sort of a Cinderella
story with dudes.
Maybe he left a lone blue suede shoe
on the
Kingdome steps.

“This
incident and the Mr. Midnight tapes have got the Elvis-sighting machine cranked
up to maximum. And your
friends and associates
are up to their sideburns in it. You
know
what I would do if we did indeed spot some form
of Elvis down in the mine attraction? I would do some
thing more pungent than step on his blue suede
shoes. I
am not impressed by these
dudes that cat around and
get away
with it. Clear? Are you sure you still want me
along?"

“
Of course, dear Louise." I refrain from
telling her of my
key but hidden role
in nailing the Elvis killer by loosing
the
chimp to find his master, in mid-murder, as it hap
pened. "If we do see something, you will make
an excel
lent supporting witness because you are so skeptical."

“Okay,
pops. Let us shove off, then.”

Unfortunately she is right. The only way to get down in
the mine attraction is to take the rickety crate that func
tions
as an elevator.

We wait until the workmen are on a lunch break, all
above ground and munching on enough tuna fish to feed
a cat colony. Then we dart from islands of shade and
finally
into the elevator.

Unfortunately, it is firmly anchored in the
"up" position,
so we must shimmy down the ropes, which are big and
rough.

I make a four-point landing from five feet above the
floor
of the tunnel.

Faint
work lights diminish into the dark distance. I
swear
I can hear the drip of subterranean water, even
though this is desert.

Miss Louise has knocked a yellow hard hat off its rack
on the way down; this is not the kit's usual clumsiness,
but
part of a plan, I discover.

“
If we are going ghost-busting," she says,
"I want to
throw some light on
any apparition with the nerve to take
us in."

“How
do we get it down the tunnel?"

“We
take turns pushing. All right by you?”

I privately think this a dim idea; a ghost is supposed to
glow in the dark. Who needs light? But
together we play
kick-the-hard-hat and soon
we are down where, I figure,
the workmen spotted what they thought was
Elvis before.

“
Will there not be hologram figures in this
exhibit?"
Miss Louise asks.

“
Yup. Of Jersey Joe Jackson, the founding father of
the Crystal Phoenix Hotel when it was the Joshua
Tree
back in the forties. And maybe of
some other noteworthy
dead people."

“Sometimes
I think all the noteworthy people are dead."
Louise sits down and looks around. "They already have
painted
glow-in-the-dark paint on some of the walls."

“
The workmen say that is not what they saw. Nor are
the holograms installed yet. They saw a figure in a
white
suit, shining down the dark tunnel."

“
That way?" Midnight Louise stands and begins
walk
ing farther down the passage. "Kick on the chapeau light,
Daddy, I am going to see Elvis.”

I do as she says. A beam shoots down the tunnel at
human ankle-height. I can see Louise's swaying hind
quarters,
tail high, sashaying away into the dark.

I do not think Elvis would hurt her, but I also do not
think she is aware what strange forces she flouts. I be
lieve she will soon have a rude awakening, which will be
very
good for her.

So I curl up around the hard hat—the built-in light pro
vides
a nice cozy warmth, and yawn. I expect her back
in
a sudden flurry of haloed hair and hiss and spit. If ever
anyone needed to see Elvis, Midnight Louise is it.
I yawn. I am getting sleepy, very sleepy.