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Temple was unconvinced. “And if the fifties were such a sexually repressed time, how could all those girls line up outside his motel rooms? According to your own books, Elvis was hooked on adolescence, and adolescent girls, and he followed through. How’d he get away with it, and why were so many of those sweet little fifties girls so available?”

“Simple. The parents were uptight and repressed. The kids had the same hormones that propel rock groupies today, and they were really desperate to break out. Why do you think Brando and The Wild One and rebel-actors like James Dean were so popular?”

“Didn’t Elvis idolize those actors … or, actually, idolize those rebel roles they played?”

“Yeah. And Elvis brought that rebel persona off the screen and into the performance halls. Live. You could touch him if you got up close enough and rushed the stage. You could be invited into his motel room if you hung out by his door and got lucky.”

“Wasn’t anybody worried about venereal disease and unwed pregnancies then?”

Electra thought about it. “Oh, we worried, but we didn’t know much what to do about it, so we took our chances.” She smiled at Temple’s shudder of disbelief. “It was a superstitious era. You know, if the time of the month was right and you used a Coca-Cola douche rightafterward, nothing would happen. Besides, Elvis was into necking and snuggling more than the actual act.” “Must have burned off all his night moves on stage.” “In some ways he was an innocent teenager just like us. That’s what we saw in him. He was from the same uncertain, kept-dumb mold as we were, overprotected for our own good. So for us to get out there and rock, and drive all the adults crazy with the suggestion of sex … it was heaven.”

“It ended up being sheer hell for Elvis. Not even his most loyal fans could deny that.”

“No.” Electra settled into the sofa pillows, contemplative, her usually cheerful and plump sixty-something face sagging into seriousness. “In a way, Elvis paid the price for our innocence, and we were innocent, even when we thought we were being daring. People just didn’t know back in the fifties and sixties what sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll could do to you, performer and audience. But, good golly, Miss Molly, it was great to be there. And great to get out alive.”

“Elvis didn’t.”

Electra inhaled deeply, then held her breath. She spoke in a long, strong rush. “Temple, that’s why I want to go over to the Kingdome with you. I think I could really help. I’ve been listening to Matt’s program.”

“Every night?”

“Sure. Haven’t you?”

“I’m a working girl.”

“Or has Max been commandeering all of your time?” “If only. Max has been out of town.”

“O000h.”

“What does `Oooooh’ mean? Never mind. I still haven’t the time to stay up nights and listen to the radio.”

“Well, I don’t sleep as well as when I was a wildly innocent young thing, so I’ve been faithfully listening to the Midnight Hour. Matt’s doing very well, isn’t he?”

“You can’t argue with success.”

“Have you heard his anonymous caller?”

“You mean the undeclared Elvis? Yes. Matt brought me a tape.”

“You two whippersnappers are too young to realize this, but that’s a very credible Elvis on that phone line.”

“The town is packed with very credible Elvises who are gambling a lot of time and money on winning the title of best dead Elvis around.”

“Still . ..”—Electra picked a few stray Louie hairs off the sofa seat—“I was there from the beginning. I’ve seen the documentaries, the movies, the retrospectives.” Electra nodded. “That’s a very credible Elvis. Too credible to just write off and forget.”

“Electra! The story that Elvis is alive is the cheapest, most obvious tabloid news rag staple of the past two decades. Even Awful Crawford is using it in the Las Vegas Scoop. Even Awful Crawford is debunking the idea. He’s challenged listeners to call in and play Stump the Superstar with Matt’s midnight Elvis.”

“What a great idea!”

“Yeah, that’s what I told Matt.”

“I could come up with some great questions.”

“Call ‘em in, or slip them under Matt’s door.”

“But I still want to see the scene of the crime.”

“Electra, there’s no crime here but malicious mischief: violent trashing of an empty Elvis jumpsuit and the more serious act of etching an `E’ into Quincey’s neck. From what I read about Elvis and his redneck bully boys and flunkies, they perpetrated a lot of malicious mischief themselves on movie sets, in major hotels, and at Graceland.”

“Exactly.” Electra’s eyes narrowed, and that’s when Temple noticed that she was wearing violet-colored contact lenses. What a chameleon! “You’ve heard of mischievous spirits, haven’t you?”

“So now you’re resurrecting not only Elvis, but his whole band of merry men?”

“You said that the girl playing Priscilla was attacked, didn’t you?““Yes.”

“I rest my case. Priscilla and the Memphis Mafia had a major power struggle.”

“And she won, because Elvis is dead and she’s running Graceland.”

“Especially interesting when you realize that Elvis left her out of the will and left everything to Lisa Marie.” “Then how did she—?”

“Lisa Marie was a minor when Elvis died, that’s how. She gets nothing out of it, just builds an inheritance for Lisa Marie.”

“Who married Michael Jackson.” Temple shook her head. “Another victim of rock ‘n’ roll.”

“Lisa Marie or Michael?”

“One, or both. I don’t care!”

“It really makes sense that she married him, you know. He led the lifestyle her father did: the forced isolation from fans, turning his home into an eternal playground, renting amusement parks to entertain his family and friends.”

“Why did they both do that? Too much time and money?”

“Too much fame, and too many fans everywhere they went. They needed the entourage to beat off the fans. They couldn’t go to public places to enjoy themselves. They had to become isolated and make their own worlds. And everybody around them got hooked on the idea.”

“Sometimes being ordinary is a boon, isn’t it?”

“Being ordinary is always a good place to hide,” Electra said, nodding. “Now. Can I go along to see all the Elvi? Please, Mommy, puh-lease?”

Who could turn down a whining sixty-seven-yearold teenager? Not Temple.

“Sure,” she said. “Friends and relatives of the performers are always hanging around the dressing rooms and house during rehearsal. Welcome aboard, and consider yourself a preview audience.”

Chapter 27

Where Do I Go from Here

(Recorded in a 1972 session where producer Felton Jarvis fought Elvis’s depression and torpor)

The King was feeling restless.

He knew he should be out there, performing.

The times they were a-changing.

Other performers were catching up to him. In the early days, he had the whole stage to himself. No rivals.

But then he had to leave home, leave his family, go off to a far place, and prove himself all over again in a new role.

There, he was supposed to blend in. You’re in the army now. Be a regular guy. It would be dangerous to stand out. Just be the same, simple, polite country boy everyone from Ed Sullivan to the general press had taken a shine to when they weren’t blasting him for being a scandalous influence on the youth of America. An aw-shucks, apple-polishing country bumpkin.

He wasn’t as simple as they thought, never had been. First in his family to finish high school. That meant a lot to hismama. She hadn’t liked him striking out on his own after high school much, or some of the people he’d gotten mixed up with. Traveling people. Drinking people. Girl-chasing people. But that came with the lifestyle, and, heck, he’d enjoyed those first deep breaths of freedom. He wasn’t the high-school loner anymore. He was the man with the power. Every guy wanted to be his friend. Every girl wanted to be his girl. Man, those were the days. Nobody worried about AIDS or anything serious. Everybody just had fun, staying up all night.