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“Believe it or not,” Matt answered wryly, “Elvis grew up in a house—several houses, because the family was so poor they kept losing places—that was full of problems like bills and yelling parents, just like everybody else.”

“Yeah, but he ended up with money to burn. That’s sure not like everybody else.”

“He ended up with dozens of people—family and friends who worked for him—to support, including the federal government, which is all of us, because he never took business deductions. For most of his career, he was in the ninety percent tax bracket. And he paid it, without complaint.”

That floored this caller. Matt blessed Electra’s supply of Elvis tomes.

“I love Elvis,” came a faded, female voice next. “I’ll take every chance I can get to see or hear him again, even if he’s not real. You keep talking to that man, Mr.

Midnight. He seems like he could use a friend. Elvis always had more friends than he knew.”

“Oh, I think he knew. That’s why he was able to perform when he was really ill. He kept going despite a lot of physical problems, and enough psychotropic drugs to stop an elephant.”

“Psycho-what?”

“Heavy mood-altering medications.”

“They all came from doctor’s prescriptions, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but Elvis manipulated the prescriptions. He had feel-good doctors in L.A. who would write him what he wanted.”

“Elvis wasn’t the first one. Look at Judy Garland. I took diet pills when I was in high school, back in the … well, back when Elvis was doing it. Our family doctor gave ‘em to me, these pink-and-white capsules. Made my mind race, made me think so much, think about all the things I was going to do. And I never wanted to eat. ‘Course, I couldn’t sleep a wink for the first month I was on them. And, then, after I lost ten pounds, I could sleep better, but they didn’t work to stop my appetite anymore.”

“What did you do then?”

“Nothing. Stopped taking them.”

“That’ s the difference. Elvis and his entourage never let the party stop; they just increased the dosage.” “But the pills were legal.”

“They aren’t anymore.”

“Why did Elvis do it? Why didn’t he just stop when they wore off, like I did?”

“He came from a family with a tendency to chemical addiction. He led an upside-down lifestyle as a performer that was hard to maintain without artificial energy. He thought they were harmless if a doctor prescribed them.”

“So did we. Then. We all thought Doctor Knows Rest “

“Doctors didn’t understand the many faces of addiction. Oh, they knew morphine and heroin were bad, but other stuff … And Elvis was coming into the sixties and seventies, when a lot of people started experimenting with all kinds of drugs. He was a man of his time.”

“You know, that’s what really bothers me. It was the drugs. I don’t understand why nobody stopped it.”

Matt shook his head, even though his caller couldn’t see gestures. “You can’t stop a person who’s addicted to drugs. It’s truly the hardest thing in life to overcome. It’s the last thing in life that person has, and so often the only exit from addiction is death. Elvis may have been a superstar, but when it came to drugs, he had no edge over anybody else. And that’s sad, no matter who it happens to.”

“I’m just so glad I was smart enough to quit taking diet pills all those years ago.” Her voice paused. A deep, trembling sigh. “I’m still fat, though.”

“You’re still here,” he said gently.

The commercial break gave Matt time to contemplate his unexpected—unwanted—new role as an Elvis apologist. From a lifestyle point of view, the man had been everything he wasn’t.

Leticia’s orange-painted lips were mouthing “poor baby” at him through the glass. Matt took a swig of lukewarm spring water. He felt as if he’d been wrung out and then hung out to dry. And this hadn’t even been the main event: the night’s Elvis appearance.

At least the phone lines were jumping, and in talk radio, that was the name of the game.

Chapter 29

Return to Sender

(Otis Blackwell’s song was the only quality number on the soundtrack of Girls, Girls, Girls, a 1962 film)

Temple hated to admit it, but Electra’s notion that the spirit haunting the Kingdome backstage area was more likely a vengeful Memphis Mafia member than the King himself made sense.

Of course, she didn’t for a moment believe in spirit manifestations. In the two incidents, flesh and blood had been attacked in actuality, or in simulation. As if the whole thing were a show. A production number.

It was possible that some Elvis advocate was so caught up in the past that he, or she, needed to protest the presence of an ersatz Priscilla.

Temple found the razor attack the most disturbing. Despite Quincey’s tough teen bravado, the act had been cruel and personal. If whoever did it had an opportunity to approach the real Priscilla … but that was the point. He didn’t, or he wouldn’t have bothered Quincey. And anybody that could do that to a sixteen-year-old girl—! Temple had paused under the soaring dome, which played endless footage of Elvis in concert. Evidently, running pre-existing film was estate-approved. Most of it was in blackand-white, so the effect was eerily like storm clouds clashing above, a pre-Technicolor twilight of the god.

Electra had temporarily abandoned Temple to make a round of the domed chamber’s vast perimeter, admiring each designer Elvis in its niche.

Around Temple, gawking tourists thronged, often bumping into her, the lone stationary object, as they gazed up at Elvis in 3-D surround.

Somebody bumped her and didn’t back off.

A half-second later she shook off her thoughts enough to become annoyed. “Hey!”

“Hey, hey, hey! You ticklish, T. B.?”

“Get your hands off my ribs, or you will be corned beef hash.”

Crawford Buchanan backed away just enough so that she could focus on his abhorable face. It was grinning.

“What is that dreadful smell?” Temple demanded.

“My cigar.” Buchanan swaggered the small brown cylinder to the side of his mouth. “A Tampa Jewel, like Elvis used to smoke,” he said through his cigar-clenching teeth, just like a melodrama villain. “Got it in the gift shop.”

“He smoked cigars, too? Not my type.”

“All of us big shots smoke cigars. It’s a guy thing.” “That’s what I mean.”

“So what are you doing here alone?”

“I’m not alone. Just because I look alone doesn’t mean I am.”

“Oh, come on, T. B. You don’t have to pretend with me. You haven’t always got some guy on a string, like you want me to think. Afraid to admit you could use an escort? I don’t see any rings.”

“You would have, but I lost it.““That ‘lost ring’ excuse is as old as Elvis.”

“It happens to be true in my case.” Temple felt a justifiable stab of self-pity. Not every woman lost her engagement ring to a traveling magician’s sleight-of-hand. She’d barely had it for two weeks, and, presto! Gone forever.

“Now, don’t pout. Crawford’s here to turn every saltwater tear to pure cane sugar.”

“Yuck!” Temple said.

He leaned close. The more she expressed her distaste, the more he felt compelled to force himself on her. She wondered for a wild moment what would happen if she actually encouraged him … but she couldn’t count on an equal and opposite effect.

“You’d cheer up if you were sitting on what I’m sitting on,” he whispered in sing-song, taunting tone.

Temple didn’t want to know what he was sitting on. “I doubt it.” She scanned the crowd, looking for the loud beacon of Electra’s muumuu—chartreuse, black, and orange today.