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“But who told you to do it?”

“No human tell Chatter to do anything.”

“A human tells you to put on your Elvis suit and strum the ukulele.”

The chimp shook its head. “Not same. That work. Other play. Chatter play.”

“When did you release the snake?”

“When Chatter did it, Chatter did it.”

I question the creature further, but it has no sense of time other than when it is performing “work.” Sometime before the anaconda was discovered doing the backstroke in the pool by my lovely roommate, this devious chimpanzee was on an illegal scouting expedition and released the snake from confinement. Chatter would have me believe that was merely a mischievous prank.

It does not have the brains to realize it might have been used. If its unknown owner did not encourage this stunt, perhaps Miss Quincey Conrad did, for reasons of her own.

I have never trusted dames who play the submissive sort, and the young Priscilla Quincey impersonates is certainly one of that ilk. Are alt these resurrected Elvises strolling around reviving old vendettas too? Maybe against Priscilla, as my roommate fears, and maybe against one particular Elvis, whoever or wherever he may be.

Chapter 41

Moody Blue

(Recorded in 1976 at Graceland, during a period in which Elvis could hardly be dragged into recording sessions, it made three charts, reaching number one on the country chart and number two on the easy-listening chart)

For the first time in her life, Temple ran nose-first into what it was like to be a fan, and, indirectly, what it was like to be a star.

The backstage area thronged with shouting, milling people, all bent on seeing the Elvis of the moment.

And these were not amateur fans; these were professional fans with a personal stake in other Elvis impersonators. Their presence here was flagrantly disloyal.

But they didn’t care. The entire object of the Elvis imitation exercise was to evoke the presence of the King, and this man evidently had.

Not only did his rehearsal hall performance and its rapt reception skew the very idea of a competition, it made every other Elvis impersonator into excess baggage. Who could hope to compete with this triumphal performance? Maybe not even the real Elvis.

“Having trouble, Miss Temple?”

She turned, looked up, smiled to see Oversized Elvis looming behind her. “I’d like to get into the dressing room to see that incredible Elvis impersonator,” she told him, “but everybody else seems to have the same idea.”

“No problem.” Aldo turned and whistled sharply once, as if hailing a cab.

In a couple of minutes eight tall Elvi converged on them both.

Then they made like the Memphis Mafia, surrounded her and wafted her through the mob, through even the narrow birth canal of the dressing room door, and into the room itself and the presence of the new King. She could get used to this.

Tuxedo Elvis handed her a tiny tape recorder.

“Miss Temple Barr,” he announced to a man sitting before the mirror. “She is doing a feature for, ah, Vanity Fair. The hotel would appreciate your cooperation.”

The brothers Fontana ebbed back to the door, serving as a phalanx to keep out the rest.

Temple felt a stab of guilt about standing between a man and his true believers, but she squashed it like a bug. She had finally become utterly fascinated by the Elvis legend then and now. She also still wondered why an Elvis apparition had visited the Crystal Phoenix excavation, and why a man seeming to be Elvis was calling Matt on the radio. Something was going on, and it was more than it seemed to be. She couldn’t resist a mystery, and Elvis was a double mystery. There was the man himself, and there was how someone could be using him, or his persona.

The performer seemed exhausted now, as well he should. He was oddly passive, going along with whatever promised an island of calm in the frenzy his performance had created.

Right now, that was a phalanx of Elvis Fontana brothers guarding the door, and the fraudulent notion that a major national magazine reporter was asking for an interview. Actually, Temple was thinking, having a tape recorder meant she could maybe write an article about this phenomenon and sell it to Vanity Fair. Well, perhaps some more modest magazine. She didn’t have the connections to sell to a major rag.

So by the time she asked her first question, Temple was actually feeling quite honest and justified. Amazing how easy it was to impersonate someone and, even more incredible, to be believable in that role.

“I know you’re exhausted,” Temple said. “Do you need anything? A glass of water? Something stronger? I can have one of the ersatz Elvises get it.”

He glanced to the door, and smiled wearily. “I’ve never seen a multiple Elvis act before, except for the Flying Elvises they concocted for that Honeymoon in Las Vegas film. No. I’m fine. Actually, I could use a quiet conversation to take me down.” He lifted the white terry cloth towel hanging around his neck and patted at his sweaty face, as actors will who don’t want to smear stage makeup.

A pro, Temple thought. What else? “Did you expect to make such a sensation here?”

“Not at the rehearsal.”

“You’re the ‘King of Kings’ Elvis, aren’t you? The other impersonators were wondering why you weren’t registered for the pageant, especially since you live in Las Vegas.”

He nodded. His eyes were dark blue. Temple tried to catch a glint of colored contact lens edges shifting on his eye whites. Of course, if they were soft contact lenses, they would be harder to spot.

“I . debated coming out for this. I’m basically retired. I’ve had my hour in the sun.”

“Ken … is that your name?”

Another weary smile. “Fleeting fame strikes again. My name is Lyle. Lyle Purvis. I’m from Alabama originally, ma’am. I don’t know where anybody got the idea my name was Ken. Guess Lyle’s a different name. Parents like different names for their kids, and then the kids spend the rest of their lives living it down. That’s what first made me feel for Elvis. That was even worse than Lyle. At least there was this actor, Lyle Talbot. There wasn’t no Elvis Talbot, that’s for sure. Now, of course, there’s Lyle Lovett, the country singer.”

“I know what you mean about names. Temple?” “It’s real fine for you.”

“Thanks. So is that what impersonation is all about, feeling for the person you’re evoking?”

He thought, dabbed sweat, drank from a half-empty bottled water container. “Maybe so, yes. Most of us started as Elvis fans, plain and simple. And, for me, it helps to have a Southern soul to understand Elvis.”

“When did you become an Elvis fan?”

“Well, now, ma’am, are you tryin’ to find out my age in a nice way here?”

“Maybe. We reporters like to pin down hard facts like age.”

“And name, rank, and serial number, right?” His laugh was loose and infectious. “Can’t help you there. Never served my country in the military. Not that way. Not that I wouldn’t have, if it had worked out. I’m a loyal American.”

“Does being an Elvis impersonator require being a loyal American?”

“Yes, it does. That boy, he was Mom and apple pie personified.”

“What about the rest of it? Babes and barbiturates?”

“Aw, now, Miss … Barr. The boy was under tremendous pressure. Sure he went overboard, but those girls were throwing themselves at him. He was young, he was breaking free from a very strict religious upbringing … you know, he didn’t touch a lot of those girls. Sometimes all he wanted was someone to sleep with, like those teddy bears he collected. In a lot of ways, he was just a scared seventeen-year-old country boy.”