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“Wait!” came Electra’s diminishing plea behind her. “You don’t know what you’re rushing into.”

But Temple did. Another nasty impractical joke had obviously been played on the piece’s much-abused Priscilla. She remembered the puffy, red, razor-etched “E” on Quincey’s neck that she had flashed like Elvis flaunting one of his cherished law-enforcement badges when pulling over a cute chick on wheels for a mock traffic citation in Memphis. That girl’s notion of self-esteem would have done a sword-swallower proud. And here Temple had promised her mother to watch over the kid.

Other people were rushing toward the sounds, but none of them knew the route as well as Temple.

She got there first.To find …

To find Quincey still in her civvies, with only the swollen brunette beehive on her head, her fingers pressing into her soft, teenage cheeks, screeching like a slasher-movie patron.

No violated jumpsuit lay on the dressing room floor. No blood dripped down Quincey’s neck or hands. Nothing was wrong.

Quincey pointed, hiccoughing with hysteria when she tried to speak.

“Hmmmph, hummmph,” she wheezed, a dagger-long fingernail pointing as if transfixing a killer in a stage play. “It’s a ruuu-uuu-uuu-ined. They mur-murmurdered it. My bee-bee-bee-eueueueu-ti-ful gown.”

Temple stared to the aluminum rod suspended across the mostly empty expanse of the dressing room clothes niche.

The white wedding gown hung there, shredded like a toilet-paper mannequin. Cut into ribbons, the gown hung, a tortured ghost. Glittering piles of severed beads mounded like decorative Christmas sugar at its jagged hemline.

Another costume had been expertly assassinated. Why?

“There, there. There, there.”

The 3-D wool poodle on Electra’s shoulder was soaking up Quincey’s tears. It was hard to tell which sparkled more: the rhinestones glinting on the poodle’s collar, or the salty teardrops falling to the fabric in cataracts of distress.

Temple would not have known Quincey had that much water in her.

In the hall, the crew and performers shuffled and commiserated. Even Awful Crawford paced and stewed, more worried about the show going on than Quin’s welfare. Preopening theatrical disasters were always exaggerated. Lost costumes were mourned like long-lost relatives.

Temple dared not admit that she was relieved that the cause of Quincey’s alarm was so minor. Not that you can tell a sixteen-year-old girl that her destroyed prom-queen wedding gown is a small price to pay for a whole skin and a whole mind.

Memphis Mafia were shouldering into the room to take charge, enough of them to staff a Strip hotel and the local office of the federal government too.

Temple exchanged eye contact with the string of Fontanas penned behind a wall of black wool sleeves in the hall with the other spectators, including the Crawf, thank God.

Best let the authorities, however many and however much in competition, fight for their turf without her.

She eased into the hall, missed by no one. Electra was upholding the distraught girl with a motherly fortitude far beyond Temple’s experience.

“What happened?” Oversized Elvis asked in real concern.

“The Priscilla wedding gown was trashed. Pretty completely.”

“What a shame. Miss Quincey really liked that costume.”

“Guess this sets the rehearsal back a bit.” Temple fought her way through a clucking group of sympathetic Elvi to the stairwell leading to the stage. “I don’t know what to think,” she told whatever Elvi followed her.

“We don’t blame you.” Karate, downcast, shook his full head of dark hair, reminding her of Elvis gearing up to render one of his more poignant ballads. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“Where?”

“Good question.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Temple told them. “You guys stay here and keep an eye on what the officials,and unofficials, are up to. I’m going upstairs to think in peace and quiet.”

“That’s it, Elvi! Back to the admiring throngs below.” Temple smiled faintly at Cape-and-Cane. She found his air of urbane authority soothing.

So she retraced her steps up to the stage. Theaters also had a soothing effect on her. The dark vortex of an empty stage, the mathematical repetition of rows of empty seats, the becomingness of it all, the silent potential, reminded her of well-designed churches.

She loved to hear her footsteps echo in an empty theater.

She walked onto the dark-painted boards, so different from the warm honey color of most theater floors. This was Vegas. You wanted drama, not hominess. You got Elvis on his knees, not ballet troupes in flying leaps.

She was surprised to see something walking toward her over the ebony boards, not making a sound.

She was completely astonished to recognize Midnight

Chapter 48

Tiger Man

(Sung in concert, usually in medley with “Mystery Train”)

I am always reluctant to be the bearer of bad tidings, and particularly on this occasion.

I can see that my Miss Temple is both weary and puzzled, and not looking around as alertly as she usually is.

Naturally, when I heard the screams from the belly of the beast I avoided doing the obvious. It is the nature of my breed to do whatever is opposite to what the common herd is doing.

So there I stay in my humble position of unseen observer behind the assemblage of drums onstage.

I do not like drums normally. They are needlessly noisy and are the original blunt instruments, bereft of finesse.

However, though the stage floor is black and excellent camouflage for me, I did feel the need of a better barrier, so established myself behind the percussion section.

The only reason I am here in the first place is to try tofigure out what this hillbilly cat has got that no one will let the poor dude rest in peace. This Elvis character is the only human dude I have ever seen—or not seen—to manage something approximating nine lives. Well, maybe five lives going on six. He is only human, after all.

Still, I had hoped to learn somewhat of the Elvis phenomenon from my onstage watching post. Would that I had thought to cram some cotton into my supersensitive ears. That Tutti Frutti guy could have raised the dead with his high Cs.

Even I did not realize at the time that what was going on was not raising the dead, but laying the living low.

So it is my sad duty to meet my Miss Temple and escort her to the unavoidable conclusion.

“Louie?” she says.

She always acts surprised to see me, when she should know by now that I am expert at being where I am least expected.

But I merely look wise and sad, a habit of my kind, and turn to lead her to the crux of the matter.

I am glad that we are alone. I would not want the world at large to know how much leading my Miss Temple requires in certain matters. Certainly, I do not need the credit. I am noted for being a primo predator by my own self. It is nothing new for me to be presenting a recently live prey to my charming roommate.

I only wish that it was something that might make her scream and faint, like a mouse or a lizard.

I am sorry that it is a guy this time, and one that she has met recently.

He is lying on the floor by the deserted instruments in a most undignified position. In fact, were he still upright, the position would not be unlike the late King’s more convoluted contortions on the balls of his feet, as we just saw demonstrated so recently by the newest Elvis candidate.

To put it shortly, the dead guy is twisted like a salted pretzel, and his face is growing red and dark and will soon blacken. I think it is due to the long white silk scarf twined around his throat.

He surely will not sing “Love Me Tender” now.