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The King sounded confused for the first time. His words slurred slightly. “Until I-I I just wore out, and, and I I… I took some time off.”

“Nothing happened, did it? Nothing bad?”

“Well … I got kinda sick there. Real sick. Collapsed, you might say. It’s pretty … fuzzy. I was takin’ these sleepin’ pills, see, could never sleep. Had too much energy when I was a kid and it carried over. And I’d sleepwalk, you know. People had to be there to watch me. That’s why I needed ‘em there for me, once Mama was gone. I’d just stroll out the door of the house and walk on down the road and Mama and Daddy would get all upset. That’s why I had to sleep with Mama all those years, so I wouldn’t wander outa the house, get run over or something.”

Matt hesitated. Here was an opening, should he take it? What was he, a counselor or a coward?

“You had a special relationship with your mother, didn’t you, Elvis?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I didn’t know it at the time, I guess. It just seemed natural. But we were real close. Never had no one close as her again. She was my best girl. Not that she was perfect. Kinda tried to hold me back when I got out on the road and ran into all those pretty girls. But mamas are like that. They want you be upright and clean, and, man, that’s hard with all those pretty little things screamin’ and carrying on. She liked some of my early girlfriends, though. June. And Anita. Just warned me about the blue-eyed ones. She had real dark eyes, my mama. Dark eyes. Dark hair.”

A pause lasted so long Matt thought they had lost him. He made a shrugging gesture at Leticia, who shook her head in mystification.

“ ‘Course my mama’s hair was dark later on because I got her to dye it black like mine. I figured we should match, you know. Like me and Cilia. My mama’s eyes got real dark towards the end there. She had these black circles around her eyes. Like bull’s-eyes. Poor little Mama, it like to have killed her when I was drafted and sent off to Germany. I think she died before I went so’s she wouldn’t have to see it.”

“But she would have gone with you. Your father did, and your grandmother, and Red.”

“Yeah, but … she hadn’t been well, my little Satnin’. To tell you the truth, though she wanted my success more than anybody and was tellin’ me I could do anything, she hadn’t figured on me bein’ gone so much. I’d never slept away from home until I had to go on the road with Scotty and Bill. And then I could afford to get a car or two, even my first Cadillac .. .man, was that a charge! And then I could take out girls, and Mama, she’d never figured on all that screaming stuff and girls tearin’ off my clothes and rioting and comin’ to my motel room doors. So she kinda felt she lost me, I guess. And I guess I was like any young guy, everythin’ was tumbling my way like apples off a tree, and I was gonna pick up a few and bite ‘em, you know what I mean? Mamas don’t like to think of things like that. They’re on a higher plane.”

“You mean in heaven?”

“Oh, yeah, my mama’s in heaven. If I hadn’ta believed that, I could never have gone on without her as long as I did.”

“And how long was that?”

“Well, my whole life.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Uh, oh, I don’t like to think about them things. When you’re a performer, you’re supposed to stay the same as you always were forever. Forever Young. It’s the name of a song. Just not my song, I guess. Never recorded it. Never sang it in concert. By that Dylan guy. Did a few of his. Pretty good songwriter. Couldn’t sing worth a rat’s ass, though. Nobody can nowadays. Elvis, What Happened? shit! What happened to the music world, huh? I had almost a three-octave range, and I used it. I did all those ballads. I sang good, like Lanza. And all of us guys who could sing, we’re history. These so-called singers today, they rasp, they screech, they shout, but they don’t sing, man. That’s the book they should have written: Elvis, What Happened to Good Singers? Makes you want to … well, that’s the problem these days. Isn’t anything much I want to do. I was getting that way before I, um, retired.”

“And what made you come out of retirement?” “Huh? What’s that you said? Mr., uh, Midnight, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Mr. Midnight. And I asked why you came out of retirement.”

The laughter came then, long and trailing off into weary, high-pitched sounds, like he’d laughed until he’d cried.

“I dunno. I just can’t sleep. Never could. It gets old. And the pills don’t help anymore. Finally, the pills don’t help. I don’t know why, Mr. Midnight. I don’t know if I ever really retired, or if I’m coming out of it. I’m just all alone in this hotel room and it’s dark so I can’t tell if it’s day or night, and no one’s out in the other room, I guess, but there’s a phone in here, and a radio and an alarm clock, and I heard you talkin’ and thought I’d call. That’s all right, isn’t it? You got the time to talk to me, don’t you? They’re finally all gone, Mr. Midnight. You’re the only one I can reach anymore. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s all right, Elvis.”

But the line was also, finally, dead.

Chapter 23

Stranger in the Crowd

(Winfield Scott wrote this for Elvis, who recorded it in 1970 and was seen rehearsing the song in the documentary Elvis—That’s the Way It Is)

Pools of lamplight lay on the pavement like the spotlights Hercule Poirot walks through during the opening credits for his series on PBS’s Mystery! Matt enjoyed the various characters, particularly Miss Lemon, Poirot’s tart spinsterish assistant, who reminded him of many an efficient parish secretary.

The opening sequence always stirred memories of a cane-carrying Charlie Chaplin jerk-stepping out of the frame of some blackand-white silent film.

Matt felt he was moving under the stop-motion influence of a strobe light too. He always felt stiff and tired leaving the radio station, as if he’d been doing physical, instead of psychic work.

When someone appeared from the dark in front of him like a ghost, he stopped, alarmed.

“Mr. Midnight?”

She was young enough that his first instinct was to ask what she was doing out alone at this hour.

But she wasn’t alone. Another figure edged into the puddle of light ahead of him. Another young girl.

“Can we have your autograph?” the second curfew-violator asked.

“On what? And I haven’t got a pen.”

The first girl mutely extended a rectangular sheet.

Matt was shocked to gaze at his own image, a blackand-white version of the color photograph used for the single billboard the station had mounted in his honor.

“Where’d you get this?

“We called here earlier today to ask about autographs, and they said they were having some photos made up.” Oh, they did, did they? Since when? But here was a rollerball pen extended by fan number one. Matt looked around, finally spotting a newspaper vending machine. He went over and placed the photo on its slightly corroded metal top. Barely enough light spilled from the parking lot to show where the photo was pale enough to write on.

And what would he say? He looked up, smiling uneasily at the sober-faced girls … they had become three.

He felt surrounded, as if they were the brides of Dracula and he had stumbled into their grim, encompassing midst.

What would he say? Write, rather. Uh … best wishes. Dull. Ah … good listening, regards … ah, Mr. Midnight? Or Matt Devine. No, Matt Devine wanted nothing to do with this charade. The pen took over for his vacillating mind. “Good Listening, Mr. Midnight.” What did that mean? Who knew?