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“Could he pass as himself? Could he still be out here? Somewhere? What would he really look like?

“You tried one of those police department computer imagining things?”

“No, and I don’t have access. I only have access to speculation. To you, Today Elvis.”

“You’re serious. You think Elvis could be out there. You … have a notion.”

“I have a wild idea.”

Electra, who had sat back to luxuriate in Temple’s learning to appreciate Izzy, stared dreamily at the grille of a fifty-eight Oldsmobile embedded into the soda fountain. “I’m getting the weirdest feeling. Like Elvis is everywhere, just like Mojo Nixon said. Just … open your mind’s eye, and see for yourself.”

Temple’s mind’s eye saw senior citizens, even if they used to rock ‘n’ roll. But who could channel Elvis better?

“Izzy, is there anybody in this competition who could really be Elvis?”

He shook his head. “No contest. I’m probably the closest thing to reality, and I’m a far cry. A far cry. Hey. Young lady. You just reminded an old man how inadequate he is.”

“No. I just reminded you how close you are. No one else?”

“Well … I’ve seen most of the acts rehearsing.” He shook his frosty head. “Naw. Maybe … that guy they call the King of Kings. Maybe him. Maybe. Heck, lil’ darling shiksa. He looks too young, but then you kinda hope Elvis would be Forever Young. He’s got the power. Part of it, anyway.”

“Do you think he could still be out there?”

“Sheesh! Where’d this kid learn to ask questions? No. Elvis is dead. He killed himself after everybody around him let him down, after he let everybody around him down. He’s better off dead. He had too much pain. He had too much … too much. The man makes me cry. That’s why I ‘do’ him. He makes me feel. That’s a luxury at my age.”

Electra took his hand.

“I’da saved him if I could,” Izzy said, “but no one could. And especially not you, kid. Especially not you.”

Temple, chastened, thought. She thought, rebelliously. Elvis was out there somewhere, or all of this wouldn’t be happening.

Elvis was out there somewhere.

Chapter 47

There Goes My Everything

(Elvis recorded this song about a broken marriage in June of 1970; it did well on three charts)

“Isn’t Izzy something?”

Electra had scrunched down in her theater seat to stare at the dark stage of the Kingdome showroom.

“You sound like the teenager you’re dressed as. He’s an interesting man—”

“And were you really serious with all those Elvis questions? Do you think the real King might be around?”

“I don’t know what I think, but when you figure in that Matt is getting very credible calls from a possible Elvis … and that Quincey was seriously harassed, something sinister besides murder is going on, but it seems so scattershot.”

Electra’s eyes were still only for her new beau. “Izzy doesn’t really expect to win,” she explained. “He just does this to have some fun. Who’s gonna let a realistic-looking Elvis win? Everybody wants Elvis at his peak, even on stamps.”

“I guess he was something in his prime, to go by the Fontana brothers.” Temple eyed the awesome clot of mostly early Elvi at stage left, near the band.

“They are so cute! I don’t know if the judges would let a whole litter win, but I’d vote for those boys any day.”

Temple scanned the seats in front of them in the house’s raked tier. Shiny black helmet heads pockmarked the burgundy velvet seats like beetle backs.

She spotted Mike and Jerry fussing with their jumpsuits in the wings, and the King of Kings watching from the shadows of the flies. Probably sizing up the competition. From what the guys had said, dark horse Elvi were always showing up at competitions, ready to dazzle the jaded Elvis world.

“Even the contestants who’ve already rehearsed can’t stay away,” Temple mused. “Guess they want to the see the competition strut their stuff. Look! That’s the King of Kings guy down behind the Fontanas. What’s he doing talking to the band? He’s had his time on stage.”

“He sounded like a perfectionist,” Electra said. “Elvis was. You think he could really be … our boy?”

“No! But he is uncannily good. Twenty years too young. Although, if Elvis had cleaned up his act, dumped the drugs, got some medical attention for his ills, lived clean, maybe he could look a couple decades younger. Sixty-four isn’t so old nowadays.”

“Glad to hear you say it, dearie!”

Before Temple could congratulate herself on her new maturity about advancing age, the onstage band members geared up with the squawk and stutter of tuning strings and instruments.

Crawford stepped up to the center-stage mike. “Number ninety-nine.”

Entry forms rustled in the echoing house, but Templeand Electra were not among those granted official documents.

A guitar screamed, then twanged. The drums beat their way in and then everything was cooking in the manner of overdone rock ‘n’ roll, a vaguely dissonant, deliciously anarchist stew of sound.

A dark figure in the wings rushed forward, then slid into a long knee-slide onto center stage: Young Elvis in his fifties suit—loose pants, tight jacket, and energy incarnate.

He rose by pushing his knees together until he was balanced on the balls of his straddled feet, part acrobat, part spastic. The musicians ground down into their instruments as their music mimicked his gravity-defying gyrations. “Tutti Frutti,” the newest Elvis was howling like a madman, or a mad dog, or maybe only like a dislocated Englishman in the noonday southern sun.

“Wow.” Temple sat up, Electra taking notice with her.

Elvis heads throughout the auditorium and in the wings snapped to attention.

Tutti Frutti Elvis had the right stuff, all right, Mama. His suit shook, he shook, everything had to shake ‘n’ bake, and rock, rattle, and roll along with him.

When the number ended, a ragged chorus of claps hailed a rehearsal that had been performance-perfect, but already the lacquered Elvis heads were consulting.

Temple could almost hear their judgments from where she sat: too raw, not enough variety; a shot of adrenaline, soul but no subtlety.

She wasn’t sure Elvis was about subtlety.

“That young man has drive,” Electra said, fanning herself. “Whew.”

“But he couldn’t really be Elvis.”

“Him? Heavens, no! Way too young. Way too … well, Elvis.”

Still, Temple could tell from the checkerboard of chatter and silence all over the theater that this Elvis was a new force to reckon with. Acts were being modified even now to meet the challenge.

The next Elvis to rehearse was Jerry. She recognized him as he walked up to give the director his stat sheet and nervously eyed the musicians. She could guess that he wanted to give them special instructions so his set would match the dynamic difference offered by the unexpected Elvis ahead of him.

While Jerry negotiated, the audience fidgeted.

Temple searched the wings for Tutti Frutti Elvis. She hadn’t seen his like around this place before. Even the King of Kings must be checking his crown.

Then the sound of an out-of-tune electric guitar shrilled up onto the stage and into the sparsely occupied seats like a dentist’s drill hitting a nerve.

The place had terrific acoustics.

Temple realized that she had heard this instrument before, and it was a set of human vocal cords pressed into their worst extremity.

Quincey! Her latest aria in terror lofted to the distant ceiling like a solo from The Phantom of the Opera.

Temple bolted from her seat. “Now what?” Luckily, she had her running shoes on, and she put them to good use.