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Once the novelty wore off, so would the ease.

“You might want to sign this on something solid.”

Matt had been so busy autographing his photos that he hadn’t noticed the quiet woman come up. She looked more businesslike than the average fan, and her tote bag still had shipping folds in it. Elvis’s face on the black background was drawn and quartered right through the Pepsi-Cola smile.

Matt took the thick fabric pen she offered—do their research, the FBI—to the newspaper vending machine, slipping the one set of tapes from his jacket pocket and into the bag.

He wrote “Sincerely, Mr. Midnight” in big loose letters across the rough surface.

Her mumbled “thank you” vanished into the pressing crowd, who weren’t many, but who all wanted to be in the first row of his admirers.

“Maybe if Elvis doesn’t call any more, you won’t have to sit out here at midnight listening to your car radios,” he joked, signing as fast as he could.

“Oh, no. We’ll still be here for you,” they promised in a ragged chorus.

They were fans. They would always be there. For somebody.

Chapter 51

It Wouldn’t Be the Same Without You

(A song Elvis recorded during an early Sun session, without much success)

Temple’s phone rang eight times before she answered it, and it was after noon.

Matt was too weary to have much imagination after a sleepless night haunted by Elvis clones, but he couldn’t help wondering if Max Kinsella was back in town, keeping Temple up late.

She sounded rushed when she finally picked up the phone.

“Hell-oo.”

“Matt. I wondered if you have a moment for career consultation.”

“Now?”

He felt like the ceiling had rained a bucket of ice-water. “No, of course not. Not now. Whenever—” “Matt, don’t be so darn eager to oblige. You sound alittle … worried. I’m sorry. It’s been wild. Why don’t we go to lunch, or something.”

“What would the ‘or something’ be?”

“Something fun. I know! We could drive out to Three O’Clock Louie’s at, ta-dum, Temple Bar. I’ve been wanting to patronize the old guys. This is as good an occasion as any.”

“But you’ll have to drive, as usual, and it’s me who wanted to get together. I’ve really got to find some free time to buy a car.”

“Agreed. I could go with you … except I’ve forgotten all the tips on car-buying, it’s been so long since I got the Storm.”

“Maybe I’ll just get a Saturn.”

“Sounds fine, but kind of … predictable.”

“Sony. Why don’t I be unpredictable now? Any reason we can’t take the Vampire out to the lake?”

“It’s just as far away as my leggings and fifties ankle boots. I can use Electra’s ‘Speed Queen’ helmet. I’ve been dying to.”

“Okay! Twenty minutes?”

“Make it fifteen. I’m hungry, and there’s nothing like a nice, cold, bouncy ride to enhance an appetite.” Yeah, Matt thought, hanging up.

Suddenly, it was an expedition.

He felt a little like Elvis going for a motorcycle thrill-ride, putting on his suede half-boots, his faux sheepskin jacket, and getting out his leather gloves. Picking up Temple, who was perky enough to pass as one of Elvis’s fifties starlets and even resembled a smaller, less sexy Ann-Margret, who had shared Elvis’s love for motorcycles and had apparently shared a deep love with Elvis before he had begun the final, slow spiral downward. Ann-Margret never opened a show from then on without a huge floral tribute in the shape of a guitar from Elvis … except for the show she opened the night of August 15, 1977. No floral guitar, no Elvis after August 16, in Memphis, or anywhere else … except here and there and everywhere, like that “demmed elusive Pimpernel” of Scarlet Pimpernel fame. The actress-singerdancer’s hair had been a heavier, sultrier red than Temple’s, which was even now being dampened by the sleek silver bubble of Electra’s helmet.

“Speed Queen” read the cursive letters above the dark visor. The play on words was a late-middle-aged woman’s jest and defiance to the world, but Elvis had been a Speed King in every worst connotation of the phrase. And that had not been a joke but a tragedy.

Why couldn’t he get a long-dead man out of his mind? Matt wondered. Maybe it wasn’t a dead man he was trying to exorcize.

“Did you bring gloves?” he asked Temple. “It gets icy at seventy miles an hour without heating.”

She pulled something that resembled wooly udders from her dressy white leather jacket pockets. “Courtesy of a Minnesota girlhood. Will they do?”

“Are you sure you can spare the time?”

“Stop being such a Guilty Gus!” Temple stomped a toy boot heel on the shed’s concrete floor. “I’ve been dying to travel on this thing. Let’s do it.”

“You had a ride once before.”

“But we didn’t go anywhere. For a purpose. Not a whole round trip.”

She was like a kid; her promised outing had to be the whole enchilada. Matt smiled, unlocked the shed, and rolled the massive machine into the clear winter sunlight. The flat, bright light ignited the Hesketh Vampire’s fluid silver lines, reminding him of the slanted, silver letters he scrawled on photographs nowadays.

“Awesome.” Temple waited for him to mount the cycle, then struggled to hop on behind him. The seat had been “cut down” for Electra, but Temple was a lot shorter than their landlady.

He felt her hands curl into the side seams of his jacket,donned his own, unlabeled helmet, revved up the lion’s-roar motor, and kicked off. They slid into smooth, chill motion.

Electra, being a solitary rider, had never invested in helmets with walkie-talkies built in. Silence was enforced. The bumpy side streets evened into the entry ramp to Highway 95; soon they were sweeping past the clogged lanes of the city onto the asphalt that slashed through the Nevada desert.

He couldn’t know if Temple was nervous, or cold, or having a ball.

He knew the machine enough to enjoy the ride now, though. And he was actually reluctant when they pulled onto the smaller access road to rattle up the deliberately rutted dirt road to Three O’Clock Louie’s.

Various vehicles were scattered like dice around the rough-hewn restaurant building: ersatz Wild West on the shores of a lake the brilliant color of a London blue topaz. He’d looked at those stones when buying a Christmas present for Temple, deciding on the black opal cat necklace instead. Opals and black cats had lived up to their unlucky reputation that time, Matt thought grimly; his gift came too late, after Temple’s Christmas reconciliation with Max Kinsella.

He felt the idling bike lighten as she jumped off, then he shut off the motor, kicked down the stand, and let it tilt into silence and stillness.

“Gosh. I’m still vibrating!” Temple shook her gloved hands. “I’ve never had my teeth chatter from motion before, not cold.”

“You didn’t like it.”

“I loved it. Like being in a blender. Makes me want to eat a hamburger with onions on it and a brown beer.” “A brown beer?”

“Yeah, you know. That manly stuff that comes in long-necked bottles. Let’s hustle inside.”

Matt shrugged and followed her in.

Two steps outside the door they picked up a big black cat with a gray muzzle.

“Hi, Three O’Clock!” Temple turned to Matt. “The critter the place is named after. Isn’t that a scream? A name like Louie’s and he looks like his grandfather!”

Three O’Clock humped his back, whether in anger or as the prelude to a leg-rubbing it was hard to tell.

“I don’t know if he’s allowed in,” Temple said, hesitating in the open wooden screen door.