Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (8 page)

Nothin'
snapped in public at least, until two of his oldest friends and a new guy
pulled the plug on his peace of mind with their tell-all book.
Elvis,
What Happened?
they
called it.
The Memphis Mafia reveals
everything but what really hap
pened to start it all. What happened was
that the weight of everyone on hls back had finally gotten too much.

Back can snap too, just like
overworked hair.

Chapter 7

King
of
the Whole Wide
World

(Elvis sang this over the credits of
Kid Galahad,
his 1962
film)

Before Temple would recruit even Boss Banana's boys
as bodyguards, she felt honor-bound to check out the
scene of the forthcoming crime. Before she did that, she
felt obligated to check in with her most gainful employer
of
the moment.

Being a freelance public relations person allowed
Temple to handle a variety of special events, bouncing
in and out of projects like a dancing ball on a slide-
projection set of sing-along lyrics. She loved moving
into
whitewater-rafting mode for concentrated periods of
time, followed by the lull of tranquil waters. It suited
her employment background: TV news and repertory
theater.
Rush and then rest.

Now,
though, for the first time she had a permanent,
floating client. The Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino
was
"the classiest little hotel in Vegas," and it behooved
her to alert the management that their maybe-Elvis
sight
ing had eerie links to another
Las Vegas hotel. Temple
took the
phrase "conflict of interest" very seriously.
Aldo had phoned to report that the workmen were
settling
down now that they had decided their iridescent
apparition had been only Elvis. Elvis, it seems, was the
ghost
most likely to be welcomed anywhere.

When
Temple arrived at Van von Rhine's ultra-modern office, Nicky Fontana, the other
half of the marriage and management team, was lounging in a massive leather ex
ecutive chair that Van allowed to spoil her
Euro-sleek de
cor because he liked it.

Nicky was as darkly delicious to behold as his suite
of brothers, but was a hair shorter and much less laid
back.

“
What's this about the King?" he asked the
minute
Temple arrived. "Has our
underground Jersey Joe Jack
son mine
ride really got an unearthly infestation?"
"I seriously doubt
it." Temple perched on a chrome
and-leather
chair. "But Elvis is in the air right now, with
the imminent
opening of the Kingdome.”

Nicky nodded sagaciously. That'` what one got to do
when
one ran a major Las Vegas resort destination.
Temple
squirmed in the hard-edged chair. "Odd things
are happening at the Kingdome itself. An
acquaintance of mine says her daughter, who's playing Priscilla Pres
ley for the Elvis impersonator opening competition,
has
been getting threats, possibly from Elvis-loving
Priscilla-haters."

“
What can you do about it?" Van wanted to know.
"Me, not much. But"—she
glanced at Nicky—"I was
hoping to
borrow your brothers. Quincey is only sixteen,
and her sort-of
stepfather is that 'Buchanan's Broadside' reporter for the
Las Vegas Scoop.
He'll
emcee the Elvis
competition, and is the same
creep who involved the girl
as a
pose-down model in the romance cover hunk com
petition last fall."

“Sixteen?
A 'pose-down' model? Sounds sleazy," Van
commented
with the indignation of the relatively new
mother of a baby girl.

“
Quincey was actually just
fifteen then—"

“
Of course you can have Nicky's brothers!" Van was
bristling now.

Nicky just toyed with the Rolex watch that kept catch
ing
on his wrist hairs as he spun the band.

“Nicky?"
Van asked.

“
I'm sure they'll be game." He frowned. "And
I don't
like an icon from their hotel
showing up at our hotel just
as
things are getting hinky at the Kingdome." He eyed
Temple. "You could check out this hot new
jumpsuit
joint. See if there's a
reason an Elvis apparition is turn
ing up in our basement."

“That
might be dangerous," Van objected.

“Not
with Fontana, Inc., on the job." Nicky grinned.

“
I do worry about Quincey," Temple admitted.
"I got
to know her at that romance convention. Her sleazeball
stepfather is always using her in his crazy
schemes, and
her mother isn't the type to stand up to him."

“I
bet you are," Nicky said. "We should study the competition
anyway."

“
The opening Elvis competition isn't for a couple
weeks. This Elvis sighting at the Jersey Joe site
re
minded me that I need to keep an eye
on things here
now that the construction is underway."

“
Aldo said that now the workmen think their
haunting
is just Elvis, they're
flattered. They're working up a
storm to impress the King.”

Temple shook her head. "I doubt I can take the un
diluted Elvis idolatry I'll find at the Kingdome.
Besides,
I owe the Phoenix
so much. That retainer you've put me
on is my
first steady salary in three years. I could get
lazy."

“Forget
it." Nicky waved his Rolex wrist. "You aren't consulting just on PR
stuff, you dreamed up the whole recreational re-do."

“And,"
Van added, leaning across her clear glass
desktop,
"you inspired that international conceptual art
ist, Domingo, to design a very arty children's area
for
us. I've gotten inquiries about
the project from
Art Forum.
We're reaching an entirely new and upscale
audi
ence, thanks to you and your
eclectic friends. Nicky's
right. If
you feel this poor little Quincey needs a chap
erone, you run right over to the Kingdome for as long
as necessary. We wouldn't want a daughter of ours
in
such a high-stress environment at that tender age.”

Temple refrained from explaining that there was noth
ing
tender about Quincey but her age.

“
I've never really liked Elvis," she confessed
in a last-
ditch effort to stick to duty and sacrifice satisfying her
always-insatiable curiosity.

“
You're in good company," Van said, sitting
back. "This is business," Nicky noted. " 'Like' has nothing
to
do with it.”

Putt-putting along the Strip in her aging aqua Storm,
Temple
drove like the legendary little old lady from Pas
adena (even though she was cool for an old person; see
what turning thirty does for you!), peering at all
the
"Kingdome is Coming"
signs she'd ignored for so long.
They
were everywhere. Obviously, her head had been
in the clouds, probably
looking for the single billboard advertising Matt Devine's midnight radio
advice show. Meanwhile, on ground level, Elvis had been stepping on everybody's
blue suede shoes in an attempt to get a little attention for a dead guy.

Temple
marveled that the Strip always offered enough empty acreage to support another
monument to the
Theme-of-the-Moment. The
trend had been Euro lately:
the suave
Monte Carlo, Steve Wynn's artsy Bellagio,
and the equally lavish
Belladonna, which Temple had
nicknamed the
Beluga (after the small white whale) for
its vast expanses of white marble, not to mention a col
lection of European masterwork paintings and sculp
tures,
all of buxom, white-skinned naked ladies. Instead
of the Naked Maja, Temple thought of the ambiance as
the Naked
Moby.

But she had never seen the Kingdome coming. How
had she missed this Eighth Wonder of the World build
ing? Blink in Las Vegas nowadays, and you missed the
Second Coming. Come to think of it, an Elvis Presley
hotel and casino in Las Vegas
was
a sort of Second
Coming.

Temple pulled into the Kingdome's parking lot and
let the Storm throb on idle. Appropriately. This was now
the home of rock 'n' roll, wasn't it? Feel the beat? She
felt
an involuntary frisson of excitement.

Whoever had designed this place, or palace, had not
been gun-shy. The Kingdome was a slick, pompadour-
sculpted swoop of architecture, mindful of the low, long
lines of fifties and sixties cars, and the kinky excesses
of seventies fashion. The titular dome squatted like an
alien vessel from which Michael Rennie would soon
emerge, wearing an industrial-strength silver jumpsuit.
Then
he would turn into a guitar-licking, foot-stomping, pelvis-swiveling Elvis.

Don't step on my
silver-Mylar space boots.

Still,
the all-white compound also radiated an air of antebellum gentility that
brought Graceland—and partic
ularly dignified
funeral parlors—to mind. How appro
priately
Elvis. Temple remembered reading that he had
visited morgues with his entourage, as fascinated by
still-life death as he was by death-defying sports
like fast
cars, 'cycles, go-carts, and hot-and-cold-running girls.

She was amazed, sitting here gawking past her windshield
visor, liberated nineties woman that she was, by
how
much she had unconsciously absorbed of the Elvis legend.

The Kingdome itself implied the wide-legged stance
of
the King, its nervous pulsing neon reminiscent of his
hyperactive left leg. The dazzling white structure even
seemed to
sweat in the wintery Las Vegas sun and togain an otherworldly aura from that
very human failing. Blood, sweat, and tears.

Like the birth of the blues, the King had suffered them
all.

Oh,
come on!
She didn't even like his music. Or
his looks. Or his
lifestyle. Or his legend.

Still.
They'd built a hell of a hotel in his name.
The King is dead. Long live the King.

Viva
Las Vegas.

I guess now,
Temple
thought,
they can call it
the
Valley
of
the King.

Naturally, you had to pass through the pearly gates to
get
in.

The huge gates that split in the middle were covered
in pearlescent paint, with notes and staffs written in
wrought
iron.

Walking in as a PR person, Temple was immediately
struck by the immense obstacles to such an enterprise.
EPE (Elvis Presley Enterprises, aka "the
estate") must
control the
commercial marketing of every item and im
age connected to the late, much lamented King. No won
der no one had dared to do the obvious and create an
Elvisland in Las Vegas. Graceland had a corner on the
market.

That was why, she discovered, nodding sagely to her
self, an interior attraction was called "Raceland,"
featur
ing bumper car
rides and exhibits of the kind of cycles
and cars the King had collected. The real things re
mained on display at Graceland in Memphis. Everything
here
was ersatz Elvis.