Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

Being Elvis seemed to be an unhappy vocation all around. What was the attraction? Did they all hope to do Elvis better than Elvis had? No, it was something else. They all wanted to save Elvis.

Turn back the clock, step on their blue suede shoes. If they could change something in the Elvis legend, they could change Elvis himself. Save him. Even Priscilla was still engaged in that very mission, through Elvis Presley Enterprises. Redeem the past by preserving it in plastic for the present and future King.

Beam me up, mama.

The stage was sprouting new Elvi like legendary dragon’s teeth sowed soldiers.

But the routine—Crawford’ s slightly lugubrious emceeing, sudden entrance, hard-chord intro, quick and dirty rendering, fast exit—was becoming routine. Repetitive drudgery, as it had been for Elvis, in the end.

Temple heard the numbers work their way to the inevitable countdown.

Sixty-seven. Eighty-three. Ninety-four. She yawned. Gosh, she hadn’t seen Electra’s new boyfriend, Today Elvis, perform yet. A shock of white hair would be anice change from all the black. Funny guy. Israel what? Feinberg. Not a likely Elvis impersonator name. Unless … wasn’t Israel an anagram for Is real? Could it be? Where was he? The watch she wore under Priscilla’s long, dainty Cinderella-gown sleeves read almost midnight. A rat-a-tat of bass guitar chords preceded a rebel yell. An Early Elvis in black leather came sliding across the dark stage floor on bended knees, a guitar cocked at his leading hip like an ax.

“(You’re the) Devil in Disguise” was the song, and a madman incarnate delivered it straight from Beelzebub’s mail room.

Temple straightened up, blinked, and only then noticed a pale satin rope looping down from the heights above her misty headdress.

Every eye in the place fixed on the magnetic Elvis on stage. Tutti Frutti Elvis from rehearsals, Temple realized belatedly. Why did he change his number … ? Her hand lifted to bat at the encroaching stage line. Wait! There were no white ropes backstage, only black—The dangling bridal rope was looping around her neck.

She twisted her head away, but the pouf of veiling over her exaggerated hairdo made it hard to see. Holy Hound Dog! Someone was trying to strangle her! Bucek had been right.

Her arms flailed so sharply Minnie’s shoulder seams ripped like pressed wood in a table saw.

Beads rained past her veiling, bleached poppy seeds falling to the stage floor, but Temple couldn’t hear their brittle landing. Everything was pulsing to the song’s driving beat; the stage floor was heaving, her throat was tightening and her eyes were losing focus in a pale, many-layered haze.

The corner of her eye caught a compact black form launching at her head, launching beyond her head.

Something was screaming, screeching. Not her, her voice was silenced.

The white satin snake at her neck loosened and fell away just as the onstage Elvis charged into her vision like a rocket.

He grabbed her elbow.

His grip forced her to duck and run forward. By center stage she had been dragged to her knees beside him, skidding on yards of beaded organza.

They were sliding together like suicidal skiers toward the stage’s far corner rim, a satin garrote trailing over Temple’s left shoulder like an aviator’s scarf, like the scarf that had caught in Isadora Duncan’s car wheels and killed her. What a way to go! Elvis and Priscilla skidded to a dead stop at the very brink of the stage, cheek to cheek, right where a phalanx of photographers in the pit were posed to snap their picture.

Temple coughed discreetly. “Nice timing,” she complimented her unknown savior. One of Bucek’s ersatz Memphis Mafia men? She never would have credited the FBI man with such flair.

“Rotten planning,” he muttered through her smile and his into her almost-kissed lips.

The voice was as unmistakable as Elvis’s. “Max!?” “May I call you Cilla?”

“Oh … fudge.”

Chapter 57

Won’t You Wear My Ring

(Entered Billboard’s list at number seven, the highest opening position of any Elvis single; advance orders exceeded one million)

Frank Bucek offered Temple a huge Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“I’ll never get to sleep tonight if I drink this.” “Maybe that’s not a bad idea. No dreams. I heard Elvis had a lot of nightmares.”

She was back in Quincey’s dressing room with what was left of Minnie’s instant wedding gown.

Bucek tossed an ivory satin rope in a plastic bag on the dressing table top. “You had a close call.”

“More like a close curtain call.”

He shook his head.

People still clustered in the hall, but they were alone for the moment.

“I’m a little fuzzy on what happened,” Temple admitted.

“We’re still a lot fuzzy on what happened. The Fontana Elvi tell me you told them to guard that Buchanan guy? Why? For God’s sake, why?”

“I was afraid no one would try anything with that much Elvis-power around. Those guys can be pretty pervasive.”

“Yeah, like garlic. You’re lucky that monkey escaped.”

“Monkey? I thought … wasn’t it a cat that jumped up when I was being attacked?”

She was thinking of Midnight Louie, of course, her knight in shining fur.

“Chimpan-zee.” Bucek had the nondescript, chiseled features of an astronaut or a military man or a monk. Hearing him intone the name of the beast that had saved her was too funny for words, but Temple didn’t have the energy to laugh. “Named ‘Chatter.’ Ring a bell?”

“Elvis had a pet chimp named Scatter. He trained it to play all sorts of vulgar tricks. And it came to a bad end, didn’t it? It got hooked on straight scotch and bourbon and turned violent. Everybody lost interest and it was caged at. Graceland until it died of cirrhosis of the liver. What’s gonna happen to this one?”

“Hey, he fingered a hitman for the Mob. We’ll have to put him in protective custody. Probably here at the hotel Animal Elvis exhibition. In a big chimp suite. Lots of interaction with the clientele. He should be fine.”

“You have a sense of humor,” she accused.

“Don’t tell Matt. It would destroy him.”

“And you too, probably. So … somehow the chimp, who belonged to the hit man, got out. So he happened to find his master right when the guy was homing in for the kill. Then the killer was an Elvis addict, right?”

“Right.” Bucek still looked amused, like Temple was a trained chimp he was watching. “You’re so smart, how come you didn’t finger the killer before he laid a finger on you?”

“With so darn many Elvis impersonators here? I’m not totally stupid. I had a leading candidate, but he nevercame near me all night and I didn’t figure he could kill me long distance.”

“Then you got a little distracted.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“That next-to-last Elvis really got to you, didn’t he?” “He was good.”

“He was great. Distracted you from the fact that you were a potential victim. Maybe even made the killer so jealous he decided to interrupt the act with murder. Almost was the death of you, that Elvis. You remember him?”

Temple tried to look vague and helpless. It was hard. “Yeah, but … it all mashes together.”

“He got you out of harm’s way, though, in the end. Amazing how he swept you into that photo opportunity at the last moment. The Sun photographer says he’s got a shot that looks just like Elvis and Priscilla at their wedding. Yep. That ninety-ninth Elvis made a big impression on the judges. They were going to give him the top award.”

“Going to?”

“Couldn’t find him after all the excitement.” “Really?”

“Couldn’t find him entered in the competition.” “Really.”