Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Temple pulled into the Kingdome's parking lot and let the Storm throb on idle. Appropriately. This was now the home of rock 'n' roll, wasn't it? Feel the beat? She felt an involuntary frisson of excitement.

Whoever had designed this place, or palace, had not been gun-shy. The Kingdome was a slick, pompadour-sculpted swoop of architecture, mindful of the low, long lines of fifties and sixties cars, and the kinky excesses of seventies fashion. The titular dome squatted like an alien vessel from which Michael Rennie would soon emerge, wearing an industrial-strength silver jumpsuit. Then he would turn into a guitar-licking, foot-stomping, pelvis-swiveling Elvis.

Don't step on my silver-Mylar space boots.

Still, the all-white compound also radiated an air of antebellum gentility that brought Graceland—and particularly dignified funeral parlors—to mind. How appropriately Elvis. Temple remembered reading that he had visited morgues with his entourage, as fascinated by still-life death as he was by death-defying sports like fast cars, 'cycles, go-carts, and hot-and-cold-running girls.

She was amazed, sitting here gawking past her windshield visor, liberated nineties woman that she was, by how much she had unconsciously absorbed of the Elvis legend.

The Kingdome itself implied the wide-legged stance of the King, its nervous pulsing neon reminiscent of his hyperactive left leg. The dazzling white structure even seemed to sweat in the wintery Las Vegas sun and togain an otherworldly aura from that very human failing. Blood, sweat, and tears.

Like the birth of the blues, the King had suffered them all.

Oh, come on! She didn't even like his music. Or his looks. Or his lifestyle. Or his legend.

Still. They'd built a hell of a hotel in his name. The King is dead. Long live the King.

Viva Las Vegas.

I guess now, Temple thought, they can call it the Valley of the King.

Naturally, you had to pass through the pearly gates to get in.

The huge gates that split in the middle were covered in pearlescent paint, with notes and staffs written in wrought iron.

Walking in as a PR person, Temple was immediately struck by the immense obstacles to such an enterprise. EPE (Elvis Presley Enterprises, aka "the estate") must control the commercial marketing of every item and image connected to the late, much lamented King. No wonder no one had dared to do the obvious and create an Elvisland in Las Vegas. Graceland had a corner on the market.

That was why, she discovered, nodding sagely to herself, an interior attraction was called "Raceland," featuring bumper car rides and exhibits of the kind of cycles and cars the King had collected. The real things remained on display at Graceland in Memphis. Everything here was ersatz Elvis.

But . . . Elvis himself was ersatz culture, so in a sense, this place was even truer to the King than real life had been.

Temple found that sad. All legends eventually become the living sarcophagus in which their original inspiration is entombed.

Death Valley of the King. Not a bad way to put it.

She struck out across the valley floor (a custom carpet littered with images of fifties guitars, cars, and 'cycles) for what lay under the dome.

The casino's slot machines chimed with the melodies from a dozen Elvis hits, and Temple spotted blue suede shoes and pink Cadillac convertibles spinning past.

Nowhere, however, was the face of Elvis visible.

While no one could copyright a person's life, or the artifacts he had surrounded himself with, any representation of a likeness that could be sold for a profit would have to be authorized.

So here in the Kingdome, Elvis himself was like an invisible, entombed pharaoh surrounded by all the pomp and circumstance of his life, except his own image.

While Temple was mulling over the symbolism of the Absent Elvis effect, who should come walking toward her but ... Elvis.

He was wearing a white jumpsuit punctuated with gold metallic studs and gleaming gemstones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald.

Temple had seen a lot of extravagant, outré, bizarre, and dazzling effects in Las Vegas. She had always seen the man behind the curtain: the special-effects wizard who pulled the strings and set off the fireworks and who murmured, constantly, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain." Colonel Tom Parker, if you will.

But there was no curtain here.

There was only Elvis, finally, in the flesh-and-blood form.

Walking toward her.

A movement to the side caught her eye.

There was Elvis, sleek in hair cream and black 'cycle leathers.

Walking toward her.

She blinked.

Another Elvis at three o'clock high, this one attired in a martial arts gi—white pjs, really—banded here, there,and everywhere in red satin and sashed in black satin at the waist.

On they came, like a mirror image trio of gunslingers: three incarnations of Elvis, the hair and sideburns all of one piece, like a gleaming dark helmet, the garb light and dark, like hero and villain in one and the same form. Then came the fourth Elvis.

He carried an ornate cane and a flashlight (of all things). His belt and his cloak clasp were swagged in chains of gold, his dress vaguely Regency style, the Emperor Elvis. I, Dracula meets the King of Rock 'n' Roll. Temple had prided herself on never actually stopping and gawking at anything or anybody in Las Vegas. But now she did both.

She suddenly understood the utter genius of the King-dome: no image of the King himself was allowed, so the place was crawling with imitators. If No One could be Elvis, Everybody Else was.

While she stood there trying to absorb the existential implications of being, and not being, Elvis, someone had approached her from behind and now spoke.

“Awesome, isn't it, T.B.?”

She whirled. Facing her was someone far more familiar, but a sad let-down from the high-camp presence of the Magnificent Four Elvi.

“You don't seem surprised to see me." Crawford Buchanan sounded peeved.

Let-down could hardly describe the anticlimax that Crawford Buchanan embodied. He was a short, slight man, neat as some scavenger carnivore. His full head of hair, last she had seen it, had been a silver waterfall that curled into froth at his nape. Now it was dyed jet black with moussey aspirations to a pompadour. Not to mention sideburns.

His voice was the same night-radio baritone, oily and suggestive.

His attitude was dyed to match his hair, or maybe it had always matched his current style: preening sexist smirk.

Temple suddenly remembered why she had never liked Elvis, impressive though his persona could be. She also realized why she felt obligated to help Merle with Quincey. Crawford Buchanan wasn't warped enough to molest a girl, but he wasn't above using Quincey as a nubile draw in his selfish schemes. What an unspeakable pseudo-stepfather for a teenage girl!

“So the place is thronging with ersatz Elvi," she said. "Is that just for the contest, or will they be a regular feature?"

“Oh, the contest is just the opening salvo. The impersonators will be fixtures, a doorman here, a croupier there. That way the customers can get up close and personal with Elvis."

“You actually think a Las Vegas hotel-casino can succeed without anything genuine to its real theme on the premises?”

Buchanan's shrug drew attention to his black mohair suit, white shirt, and narrow black sixties tie.

“Since when did you start dressing like a Jehovah's Witness?" she asked.

“This isn't that look! This is the Memphis Mafia look. Maybe this will give you the right idea." He whipped a pair of ultradark sunglasses with heavy black plastic frames from his breast pocket to his face.

“You still look more like Men in Black than Mafia from Memphis."