Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (9 page)

But . . . Elvis himself was ersatz culture, so in a sense,
this place was even truer to the King
than real life had
been.

Temple found that sad. All legends eventually become the
living sarcophagus in which their original inspiration
is
entombed.

Death Valley of the King.
Not a bad way to put it.

She
struck out across the valley floor (a custom carpet
littered with images of fifties guitars, cars, and 'cycles)
for
what lay under the dome.

The casino's slot machines chimed with the melodies from
a dozen Elvis hits, and Temple spotted blue suede
shoes
and pink Cadillac convertibles spinning past.

Nowhere, however, was the
face of Elvis visible.

While no one could copyright a person's life, or the
artifacts he had surrounded himself with, any represen
tation of a likeness that could be sold for a profit would
have to be authorized.

So here in the Kingdome, Elvis himself was like an
invisible, entombed pharaoh surrounded by all the pomp
and
circumstance of his life, except his own image.

While
Temple was mulling over the symbolism of the
Absent
Elvis effect, who should come walking toward
her but ... Elvis.

He was wearing a white jumpsuit punctuated with
gold metallic studs and gleaming gemstones of ruby,
sapphire,
and emerald.

Temple had seen a lot of extravagant, outré, bizarre,
and dazzling effects in Las Vegas. She had always seen
the man behind the curtain: the special-effects wizard
who
pulled the strings and set off the fireworks and who
murmured, constantly, "Pay no attention to the man be
hind the
curtain." Colonel Tom Parker, if you will.

But there was no curtain
here.

There
was only Elvis, finally, in the flesh-and-blood
form.

Walking toward her.

A movement to the side
caught her eye.

There was Elvis, sleek in
hair cream and black 'cycle leathers.

Walking toward her.

She blinked.

Another
Elvis at three o'clock high, this one attired in
a martial arts gi—white pjs,
really—banded here, there,
and everywhere in
red satin and sashed in black satin at
the waist.

On they came, like a mirror image trio of gunslingers:
three incarnations of Elvis, the hair and sideburns all
of
one piece, like a gleaming dark
helmet, the garb light
and
dark, like hero and villain in one and the same form.
Then
came the fourth Elvis.

He carried an ornate cane and a flashlight (of all
things). His belt and his cloak clasp were swagged in
chains of gold, his dress vaguely Regency style, the Em
peror
Elvis. I, Dracula meets the King of Rock 'n' Roll.
Temple had prided herself on never actually stopping
and gawking at anything or anybody in Las Vegas.
But
now she did both.

She suddenly understood the utter genius of the King-dome:
no image of the King himself was allowed, so the
place was crawling with imitators. If No One could be
Elvis,
Everybody Else was.

While
she stood there trying to absorb the existential implications of being, and not
being, Elvis, someone had approached her from behind and now spoke.

“
Awesome, isn't it, T.B.?”

She whirled. Facing her was someone far more fa
miliar, but a sad let-down from the high-camp presence
of
the Magnificent Four Elvi.

“
You
don't seem surprised to see me." Crawford
Buchanan sounded peeved.

Let-down could hardly describe the anticlimax that
Crawford Buchanan embodied. He was a short, slight
man, neat as some scavenger carnivore. His full head of
hair, last she had seen it, had been a silver waterfall that
curled into froth at his nape. Now it was dyed jet black
with moussey aspirations to a pompadour. Not to men
tion
sideburns.

His voice was the same
night-radio baritone, oily and suggestive.

His attitude was dyed to
match his hair, or maybe it
had always matched his current style: preening sexist
smirk.

Temple suddenly remembered why she had never
liked Elvis, impressive though his persona could be. She
also
realized why she felt obligated to help Merle with
Quincey. Crawford Buchanan wasn't warped enough to
molest a girl, but he wasn't above using Quincey as
a
nubile draw in his selfish schemes. What an unspeakable
pseudo-stepfather for a teenage girl!

“
So the place is thronging with ersatz Elvi,"
she said.
"Is that just for the
contest, or will they be a regular
feature?"

“Oh,
the contest is just the opening salvo. The imper
sonators will be fixtures, a doorman here, a croupier
there. That way the customers can get up close and
per
sonal with Elvis."

“
You actually think a Las Vegas hotel-casino can suc
ceed
without anything genuine to its real theme on the premises?”

Buchanan's shrug drew attention to his black mohair
suit,
white shirt, and narrow black sixties tie.

“Since
when did you start dressing like a Jehovah's Witness?" she asked.

“This
isn't that look! This is the Memphis Mafia look.
Maybe this will give you the right idea." He whipped a
pair of ultradark sunglasses with heavy black
plastic
frames from his breast pocket to his face.

“
You still look more like
Men in Black
than
Mafia
from Memphis."

“
And you still look like a million dollars, T.
B."
Crawford flipped up his
shades to leer. "What are you
doing over here anyway?”

Temple ignored the leer; it came with the territory
when one ventured into Crawford Buchanan Country.
"Just
checking out the new game in town."

“
Then stick around a few days. I'll be emceeing the
world's biggest Elvis Presley imitator
contest. Well,
some call themselves 'impressionists,' and some call
themselves impersonators, or even actors, but
imitators
seems the most honest description.”

Temple let her head swivel to survey various passing
Elvi from the rear. "Looks like you've got every
stage
of Elvis from debut to death around
here.”

Buchanan followed her glance with a sneer. That was
C.B.: always a leer for the ladies and a sneer for the
guys. She hadn't seen him for so long she'd forgotten
how
despicable he was.

“There
are only Three Stages of Elvis," he was saying—pontificating. "Young
Elvis, suits and guitars and pompadour hair; Comeback Elvis, the Man in the
Black
Leather Suit; and Touring Elvis,
otherwise known as Ve
gas Elvis, the
big galoot in the glitter jumpsuits and
hernia-truss belts. Nobody much cares about movie
Elvis, and neither did E.P. himself when he was
alive."
"That's
right." Temple frowned as she teased her
memory. "I've seen a lot of fifties Elvis, and a lot of
seventies Elvis, but what did he do during the
sixties?"
"Ran for cover like everybody else in American music
when the Beatles came over and usurped Ed
Sullivan
from our barefoot boy with cheek of sideburn. You know why he's
called Comeback Elvis?"

“
No, and the answer better not be a dirty
punchline."
"T.B.! Would I inflict blue material on a class
act like you?"

“
Any time you thought you could get away with
it."
That earned another leer, and an explanation.

“
See, the Colonel—Colonel Parker, Elvis's manager
and, some would say, Svengali—sold Elvis to the mov
ies
for that whole decade. No tours, no live music, just
rinky-dink rock 'n' roll romance movies. Travelogues,
Presley himself called 'em. Then Elvis went and
got
himself into the hands of a really good director for a TV
special in 1968 that was supposed to revive his
singing
career. He was poured into
this black leather biker suit
and
really poured on the performance power. That's
what launched all those
tours in the seventies. 'Course
the Colonel
soon squeezed the juice out of the comeback kid and got him on the treadmill of
a stock touring show
again. What a
guy! You could always count on the Col
onel
to give an audience as little as he could get away
with."

“
I'm impressed. How did you learn all this stuff
about
Elvis and the Colonel? You must
have boned up for the
emcee job."

“
Naw. I used to be a deejay back when music was on
vinyl
and only musicians were on drugs."

“A
disk jockey? That far back?"

“
Ah . . . I worked in small towns, behind the times.
Why, how old did you think I
was?" Buchanan's
crooked smile grew crookeder under his black-dyed
hair.
Merle Conrad hadn't mentioned Vanity as
a deadly sin,
but she should have.

“Gee.
I dunno. As old as Dick Clark?”

Buchanan
paled.

“
Isn't that a compliment?" Temple asked
innocently.
"Isn't he supposed
to be extraordinarily youthful-
looking?"

“
For the mummy of King Tut-tut!" Buchanan's
trade
mark snirk (what Temple called
his patented combination of sneer and smirk) was fighting not to become a
snarl. "That guy's generation and mine are not
even kiss
ing cousins. So don't worry,
T.B. I'm young enough for
y
ou."
 
He
leaned so close she could inhale the noxious scent
of whatever goop was making his hair look both
stiff
ened and greasy.

“
Well, I'm too old for you." Temple said in
farewell,
turning and hiking away
before he could offer one last
parting
snirk. Poor Quincey! Someone had to help that
girl, and her mother was too much of a victim herself to
do it.

She
was facing into another trio of oncoming Elvis imitators, and they were eyeing
her like she was a fifteen-year-old fan.

Better
to face dead men walking than Crawford Buch-
anan any day.

Chapter 8

Working on
the Building

(A rousing
gospel song Elvis recorded in 1960)

Temple finally decided that the Kingdome itself was a
cross between the Coliseum in Rome and an Opryland
Hotel.