Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

But she puts her long, pointed French nose—leave ii to the English and the French to sport the biggest noses in the business, no wonder they do not get along with each other—to the ground and soon we are in sight of a huge glassed-in aquarium sort of setting, except it is all bushes and vines and only a little water.

Honey is making tiny circles all over the ground, calling out scents as she goes: “Jenny the Keeper. Carlos the Keeper. Stranger. Stranger. Getlo. Domino. Stranger. Jenny. Dennis the Keeper head. Stranger.”

“I make out four strangers. Just from yesterday?”

“Hmm. And that is all you can tell from the trail?”

“Unless I cross paths with any of these strangers again.”

“How do I, uh, break into this glass menagerie?” “That is your job.”

“And I do not see the resident.”

“That Trojan! He is very, how you say? Torpido. He is digesting somewhere behind all the leaves.”

“Seems like a snake that size should be more visible.”

“Oh, he curls up like the big ball of yarn. It is so cute.”

I am not convinced, but thank her politely for her help and check out the aquarium’s perimeter for possible entry.

The back wall is solid wood instead of glass, and soon I find a nice little doggie door through which the staff inserts Trojan’s lunch, which is probably South American rodents about my size and in my condition, alive.

Naturally, the doggie door is just my size, and it is not hard to shoulder my way through.

It is still and humid inside the minijungle that forms Trojan’s housing environment. Amazing how a few tropical plants can make the air so heavy it hurts to inhale. For one used to the sere Las Vegas atmosphere, as high and dry as a fine French champagne, this instant steam room is enough to dampen my fur and my spirits.

My first task will be to find my prey in this place so in need of a weed-whipping. My second task will be to convince my prey that I am not lunch, despite appearances. No, my second task will be to figure out a way to communicate with the prey so I can tell it I am not lunch.

A good thing I cannot sweat, because if I could this hothouse air and my perilous situation would have me dripping like a leaky faucet.

First thing I notice is that the vines, trunks, and foliage in this snake pit all have a lot in common with the resident-in-chief. The vines and trunks are as thick as the arm on a sumo wrestler, and the foliage is mostly green-brown and mottled.

I could be eaten by an errant leaf before I even know it.

Slinking around in this primordial feeding station is too dangerous. I decide on the bold approach, brushing my way past rubbery leaves toward the front display window.

On the other side I view the horses at their elevenses, and the topiary-trimmed form of little Honey watching me with bright, avid eyes.

Behind me is the heart of darkness, the jungle as even Elvis never knew it in his Jungle Room. There is a still, heavy silence holding Bast-knows-how-many-pounds of pulsating reptilian predator.

It is a good thing I do not have a snake phobia.

Positioned now, plainly visible, I begin a low croon not unlike the kind of blues us fellows like to improvise off the top of our fences during mating season.

It is halfway between a growl and a purr, or a hum and a howl. It is the blues like you hear it down every dark back alley in every big city from here to who-knowswhere. It is the St. Louie Blues, and the Las Vegas Blues and the Appalachia Blues and the Harlem Blues and the Globetrotter Blues.

My rear member begins to itch, then twitch, then beat back and forth like a metronome. Back/forth back/forth back/forth tick/tock tick/tock and undemeath it all I keep that eerie hum-croon going, with an occasional yowl for interest.

This Hillbilly Cat is cooking! I think Siamese and Burmese and Tonkinese and Balinese and Javanese, so there’s a little minor-key Asian wail to the tail-beat too. I envision cobra heads swaying in rhythm, rattle tails shaking up the maracas in the back section, asps etching figure esses like Olympic skaters. I envision Cleopatra and Little Egypt boogieing across the tropical wallpaper. They both look like Cher if her hair were a Medusa-do of funky snakes.

We are all percolating to the whine and the wail and the rhythm and the rock ‘n’ roll.

And then along comes Trojan, winding down from the big tropical what’s-it plant, his massive head nodding like it can’t stop, his thick coils pulsating to the beat.

In no time he has thumped to the floor of the case coil by coil, his eyes slitted to obsidian slivers, his body bobbing to the sound and the motion.

I let the wail wind down and keep the purr going strong. Then I slip in a significant question or two.

And it works like a charm.

Chapter 36

Little Sister

(Blues number Elvis recorded in Nashville in 1961)

“It is so creepy around here. I can’t believe I gave up singing in a grunge band for this.”

Quincey hunched over the long empty dressing table, her white go-go boots dispiritedly turned out at the ankles, her sleeveless A-line pink polyester dress seeming to hold her up by its severe architectural lines alone.

“I didn’t know you sang,” Temple said cheerily.

Quincey’s eyes gazed rebuke through her black holes of mascara. “I don’t. That’s why I would have been so perfect for the job. Are you sure Courtney Love started this way?”

Temple took in the outfit and the lonely ambiance of the deserted dressing room. Being the only peahen in a clutch of male peacocks couldn’t be described as fun. “I’m not sure anybody started this way, including Priscilla Presley. Have there been more threatening notes?““To me? No.” That fact seemed to further dispirit Quincey. “I am the forgotten woman at this thing,” she announced, “now that somebody has offed an Elvis.” “The death hasn’t been labeled a homicide yet.” “What else could it be?”

“An accident. A suicide.”

“Suicide. Now that I can buy. This whole gig is suicidal.” She threw a tube of Daddy Longlegs’s Centipede Sweetie mascara onto the scuffed tabletop. It rolled all the way to the other end, like a ball down a bowling lane, where it crashed into a bumper of scratched Formica. “I mean, I am bored to death! It’s all sitting around, waiting for the guys to get ready to run through their acts. Like, I’ve been forced to bring homework and even look at it here.”

Temple eyed a slim book with one lined sheet of notepaper stuck askew between its pages. This did not look like serious study.

“That’s show biz,” she said matter-of-factly. “Waiting for your time to come. In fact, Michael Caine once said he got paid nothing to act, but a very lot of money to sit around and wait.”

Quincey stared at her, as if riveted by this gem of theatrical wisdom. “Who’s Michael Caine?” she finally asked.

“Oh, nobody. The Brad Pitt of several generations back.”

“Brad Pitt. Yuck. Totally retro. He’s really let himself go.”

“Oh. I guess Elvis holds the record, then. He kept his fans for over twenty years, and even death did not them part.”

“But they’re all crazy.” Quincey sighed. “I guess crazy fans are better than no fans.”

“You could quit, you know. They can find another Priscilla.”

Quincey seemed to consider the idea. “It is a drag going to school during the mornings and then coming over here to sit around in case someone needs me to stand there while they rehearse the awards ceremony. Like anyone cares who wins best scarf-tosser and biggest belt buckle.” Her eyes grew suddenly calculating. “But if I quit, I wouldn’t have a chance to meet any cute Elvises.”