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The King eyed himself in the mirror.

His hair. Finally showing the bends from dyin’ all these years. Hair’s only human. You bend it enough, it’ll break. It’ll just die.

His eyebrows were refusing to grow, like a cotton crop that had been water-starved too often. Had to paint ‘em on now. Mascara on his baby-blond lashes, dye on his head and his eyebrows, and even on his chest hairs now that he was older and those born-waxed-smooth boyish pecs were growin’ moss. He’d gone white when they weren’t lookin’. When he wasn’t lookin’.

But he hadn’t been lookin’ for a long time. Too long.

The King blinked. At least his eyelashes weren’t fallin’ out, but they weren’t the thickets he was born with. Born blond. Blue-eyed blond. Wishy-washy. Momma’s boy.

Fixed that.

Black. Boot-black dyed hair, eyebrows, lashes. Black ‘cycle cap. Black like Brando. Wild Ones. Wild Thing. Wild in the Country. One of those damn movies when he’d tried to get serious about bein’ an actor.

The King frowned at his reflection. He was an actor now, by God. Actin’ like he was alive, still the King.

As long as he could animate this ole bod, he was.

The heart of rock ‘n’ roll wasn’t in no damn Cleveland. Or in Motown, and damn sure not in Nashville. Ever. lt was in Memphis. On Beale Street. Always had been, even before he got there. No kings in Memphis, though.

That’s why he’d always liked the Luxor Hotel, when they put that puppy up. Even downtown Memphis had its fake pyramid now, a big bow to the Egyptian forerunner.

He liked those Egyptians. Life after death and all that. Very mystical. Sometimes he suspected he was one of them. Death was just crossin’ that river. Over Jordan, over Nile. Let my people go. Did the Egyptians have music? Must have. You can’t have death or a civilization without music.

Book of the Dead. Hah! He was bigger than any ole Pharaoh. He had collected whole Books of the Dead, mystical books on eastern religions and numerology and all sorts of intriguing things, mountains and mountains of them. Whole pyramids. His entire friggin’ life had been a Book of the Dead. Only no one knew it.

Except maybe mama.

Mama.

Without her, nothin’. With her, nothin’ and everythin’ pulling back and forth until he was a piece of taffy. Blond taffy in a black wrapper; you know, the shiny little papers with the twisty ends. So tasty-sweet, like Krispy Kreme donuts, like young girls. Addictive. Gotta eat more and more of ‘em, until you burst.

Guess his end had been twisty enough. Twisted gut, damn near drove him nuts the last few years. Distending his stomach, making his throne room the bathroom, his crown of thorns a chronic case of constipation. His insides kinking up on him, just like his outsides had. And couldn’t say it, breathe it. Hewas the King. No weaknesses. Nothin’ snapped, ‘cept the halr on his head.

Nothin’ snapped in public at least, until two of his oldest friends and a new guy pulled the plug on his peace of mind with their tell-all book. Elvis, What Happened? they called it. The Memphis Mafia reveals everything but what really happened to start it all. What happened was that the weight of everyone on hls back had finally gotten too much.

Back can snap too, just like overworked hair.

Chapter 7

King of the Whole Wide World

(Elvis sang this over the credits of Kid Galahad, his 1962 film)

Before Temple would recruit even Boss Banana’s boys as bodyguards, she felt honor-bound to check out the scene of the forthcoming crime. Before she did that, she felt obligated to check in with her most gainful employer of the moment.

Being a freelance public relations person allowed Temple to handle a variety of special events, bouncing in and out of projects like a dancing ball on a slide-projection set of sing-along lyrics. She loved moving into whitewater-rafting mode for concentrated periods of time, followed by the lull of tranquil waters. It suited her employment background: TV news and repertory theater. Rush and then rest.

Now, though, for the first time she had a permanent, floating client. The Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino was “the classiest little hotel in Vegas,” and it behoovedher to alert the management that their maybe-Elvis sighting had eerie links to another Las Vegas hotel. Temple took the phrase “conflict of interest” very seriously. Aldo had phoned to report that the workmen were settling down now that they had decided their iridescent apparition had been only Elvis. Elvis, it seems, was the ghost most likely to be welcomed anywhere.

When Temple arrived at Van von Rhine’s ultramodern office, Nicky Fontana, the other half of the marriage and management team, was lounging in a massive leather executive chair that Van allowed to spoil her Euro-sleek decor because he liked it.

Nicky was as darkly delicious to behold as his suite of brothers, but was a hair shorter and much less laid back.

“What’s this about the King?” he asked the minute Temple arrived. “Has our underground Jersey Joe Jackson mine ride really got an unearthly infestation?” “I seriously doubt it.” Temple perched on a chromeand-leather chair. “But Elvis is in the air right now, with the imminent opening of the Kingdome.”

Nicky nodded sagaciously. That’` what one got to do when one ran a major Las Vegas resort destination. Temple squirmed in the hard-edged chair. “Odd things are happening at the Kingdome itself. An acquaintance of mine says her daughter, who’s playing Priscilla Presley for the Elvis impersonator opening competition, has been getting threats, possibly from Elvis-loving Priscilla-haters.”

“What can you do about it?” Van wanted to know. “Me, not much. But”—she glanced at Nicky—“I was hoping to borrow your brothers. Quincey is only sixteen, and her sort-of stepfather is that ‘Buchanan’s Broadside’ reporter for the Las Vegas Scoop. He’ll emcee the Elvis competition, and is the same creep who involved the girl as a pose-down model in the romance cover hunk competition last fall.”

“Sixteen? A ‘pose-down’ model? Sounds sleazy,” Van commented with the indignation of the relatively new mother of a baby girl.

“Quincey was actually just fifteen then—”

“Of course you can have Nicky’s brothers!” Van was bristling now.

Nicky just toyed with the Rolex watch that kept catching on his wrist hairs as he spun the band.

“Nicky?” Van asked.

“I’m sure they’ll be game.” He frowned. “And I don’t like an icon from their hotel showing up at our hotel just as things are getting hinky at the Kingdome.” He eyed Temple. “You could check out this hot new jumpsuit joint. See if there’s a reason an Elvis apparition is turning up in our basement.”

“That might be dangerous,” Van objected.

“Not with Fontana, Inc., on the job.” Nicky grinned.

“I do worry about Quincey,” Temple admitted. “I got to know her at that romance convention. Her sleazeball stepfather is always using her in his crazy schemes, and her mother isn’t the type to stand up to him.”

“I bet you are,” Nicky said. “We should study the competition anyway.”

“The opening Elvis competition isn’t for a couple weeks. This Elvis sighting at the Jersey Joe site reminded me that I need to keep an eye on things here now that the construction is underway.”

“Aldo said that now the workmen think their haunting is just Elvis, they’re flattered. They’re working up a storm to impress the King.”

Temple shook her head. “I doubt I can take the undiluted Elvis idolatry I’ll find at the Kingdome. Besides, I owe the Phoenix so much. That retainer you’ve put me on is my first steady salary in three years. I could get lazy.”