Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Glad to see you haven't gone ballistic, T. B."

“I will if you continue to refer to me as an infectious disease.”

He ankled over to stand beside her in the mirror. "Why, Temple honey, I didn't know you cared." She elbowed him in the ribs.

“I'm done," he said, doubling over.

“Come on. I didn't hit you that hard."

“It's not that." He looked up from almost black eyes, large and accusing. "It's my emcee gig here tomorrow. I need my Priscilla."

“Maybe you can talk Merle into doing it."

“Merle? She's all wrong for the role."

“Oh, come on! Anyone can impersonate a Priscilla Barbie Bride. You could do it now that you've shaved off your stupid mustache."

“I'm hosting the competition, much as I care anymore." Without taking his arm from his midsection, he collapsed onto a dressing table chair. "You're right. None of it matters. The King is dead. My career is dead. Quincey will have to go to reform school; I won't have the dough to bail her out."

“Craw-ford! Since when were you going to lift a finger for Quincey anyway? You're always getting her into some gig no teenage girl should do. I'm glad her mother has finally shown some backbone and jerked Quin from the competition. How bad does it have to get before you start thinking of someone besides yourself?"

“About as bad as this." He looked up, his face stricken. Crawford Buchanan stricken looked like a Chihuahua with Montezuma's revenge. Small and obnoxious and big-eyed pathetic. "I really idolized the King. Wouldn't admit it to just anyone, but I did. I was thrilled to emcee this competition. I don't mind the impersonators. Maybe all together they only capture a tenth of what he had, but it's a tenth more than we'd know about today without them. Even lightning needs lightning rods, huh?"

“Maybe lightning bugs," she suggested pointedly. "I'm not sure I can go on," he sniveled.

Yes, Crawford Buchanan sniveled as well as sneered and leered. He belonged in a bad melodrama, as if there were any good ones.

“You'll live," she said shortly, moving toward the dressing room door.

“No, I don't mean I can't go 'on' on. I mean I don't know if I can go on stage tomorrow night. For the competition. It's not only too soon after Elvis's death"—Temple rolled her eyes and found herself exchanging exasperated glances with a big fat spider on the ceiling; how appropriate; even the insect world had no use for C. B—"but it's dangerous out there. Someone could kill me by mistake."

“Don't worry about it. I can't ever see it happening that someone would kill you by mistake."

“What if the Elvis-killer is another impersonator, mad to win? Or a deranged fan afraid a rediscovered King wouldn't live up to his old image? It could be anybody." "That's absolutely right." Temple folded her arms over her chest, which even in his extremity of emotion was attracting too much notice from Crawford Buchanan. "Okay. I can provide you with bodyguards, but that's all."

“I need a Priscilla to share the stage. It's a great part, T. B. —Temple."

“Oh, sure. Stand around in the background like an albino Christmas tree and then sling some humongous, heavy belt to the guy who wins, all the time wearing shredding organza and unraveling seed pearls. And maybe while I'm at it, a deranged fan/killer/maniac can rush out and strangle me with a guitar string. Bodyguards."

“Who can you get for that?"

“Experts. That's all you need to know."

“There are enough guys running around here in those funeral-director suits already. They haven't been able to stop a thing."

“Those aren't my bodyguards."

“Who are they then?"

“I can't tell you."

“Then how do I know if they exist and are doing their jobs?"

“You'll just have to take my word for it.”

He frowned and squinted, trying to squeeze out a fresh glaze of liquid to his eyes. Apparently he was done crying for the King. He only managed to look constipated, which was also appropriate.

Temple turned to leave.

“Please! I need a Priscilla tomorrow night."

“Rent a department store mannequin, then, and drape what's left of the wedding gown on it; I'm sure no one in the audience will notice. Now." She pointed a forefinger. "Out.”

He slunk away like a whipped weimaraner.

Temple sat on the vacated chair, feeling virtuous about heeding Matt's advice to take the sane and stable road of noninvolvement.

He had been right. How satisfying it was to turn C. B.

down cold, although it might have been fun to masquerade as Priscilla. If the dress hadn't been trashed, she might have tried it, but no dress, no Priscilla, and one less Presley persona to worry about.

She glanced again at the many accoutrements necessary for recreating a late sixties woman, including almost-white lipstick. Ick! How had they brainwashed women into these universal "looks" back then? Temple liked to skim a fashion magazine occasionally, and occasionally went after a way-out nail color or a certain article of clothing, but she was mostly immune to the color palette of the season or the next weird Hollywood hair thing.

The soft scrape of a shoe on cement made her look up.

A man in black's silhouette filled the doorway. As she watched, puzzled, he stepped into the room, drawing the door closed behind him.

Maybe the impenetrable sunglass lenses spooked her. They were as shiny and opaque as the bug-eyes on those shrimpy albino aliens who were the official poster beings of the UFO set.

Whatever, the visitor was a tall, impassive guy, born to be typecast as either a mob enforcer or an IRS agent. Temple theorized that they moonlighted as each other a lot more often than people realized.

Whatever his affiliation, government, crime, or out of this world, his presence radiated authority and force, and had Temple absolutely cornered.

She stood and backed up, nervously, feeling her throat tingle and her stomach tighten.

“Why do I get the impression," she asked, "that you're not hotel security?”

He pulled off the sunglasses by one ear bow. "Good instincts?" He smiled slightly, but she had already recognized him.

“You're ... Bucek. Matt's Father Frank." She didn't relax one bit. "You're FBI."

“Thanks for saving me digging out my ID. Now you can do me another favor."

“Favor?”

He nodded, pulled out the chair she had abandoned, turning it toward her.

“I' ll stand." Temple fanned her fingertips on the countertop for balance. Her knees were still knocking slightly from the adrenaline rush of finding herself alone with a strange—and strange looking—man.

Bucek shrugged and sat himself, holding his shades loosely in the hand he balanced on one knee.

“I heard you tell Buchanan that you wouldn't step in as Priscilla Presley in tomorrow's Elvis competition."

“That's right. Two men are dead, and the girl who played Priscilla has endured harassment and even personal attack. I have no business taking such risks because 'the show must go on.' I'm just an innocent bystander."

“Excellent decision. I'm sure Matt Devine would be very happy to hear that."

“How nice for him, but I came to this conclusion all by myself. So you don't have to worry about my 'meddling' in this case. I'm outa here.”

He smiled again, to himself.

“I am outa here, aren't I? You aren't going to arrest me, or anything sinister? I didn't do it, honest."

“No, I'm not going to detain you at all, but there is that favor . . ."

“I'm leaving, this very instant. I'll be out of your hair forever." Temple pushed herself away from the support of the countertop in demonstration of her imminent departure.

Bucek shook his head. "I'm afraid we're both about to disappoint Matt. I want you to stay."