Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Temple lifted a swath of empire skirt. "Priscilla picked this style herself, off a rack. So much had been decided for her. I think the simple act of buying something ready-made was a statement. After she left Elvis, she ran a boutique with a friend. Picking and choosing,she who had so much picked and chosen for her."

“Elvis could be a little overbearing," Tuxedo admitted, clearing his throat. "Especially with women."

“Elvis could be a lot overcontrolling," Temple said. "Just like his mother. To them, it was a sign of caring."

“I haven't seen Miss Quincey about today," Motorcycle put in.

“She's coming along later. I'll help her get dressed. Now you guys, shoo! You've got wardrobes and makeup and lyrics and moves to tend to. I'll help Quincey.”

They scattered, excited despite themselves. Elvis had a way of doing that to people.

Temple confronted herself in the mirror. It awaited her, the impersonation of a career that never was. She went to shut the door, then dragged an ice cream chair from the dressing table and tucked its upper rung under the doorknob.

“Give a girl a little privacy on her wedding night," she whispered to the empty hall.

She went back to the mirror and began assembling her weapons: false eyelashes, false nails, white lipstick, black wig. She couldn't totally say why she was doing this, except that she agreed with Velvet Elvis: someone owed it to Elvis, or to Lyle Pervisse, or even to whoever had so hated to stop the music, but had to do it anyway, despite himself.

There's something about a show just about to go on. You can feel it in the air, all around.

You can sense it in your lonely dressing room, the thumps and stutters of preparations on the stage above, like a dead body being dragged out of a trunk and into the center spotlight.

The audience is sifting into their seats, chattering in the soft illumination of the house lights, deciding whether their location is good or bad, eyeing the other audience members' position and clothes, glancing at the naked, empty stage, almost afraid of catching some lowly set technician doing something overt.

They are listening for the first sounds of the low-profile backup musicians creeping into place one by one. Picking up and adjusting their instruments even though no one is supposed to notice them, these Rumplestiltskins of the gold about to be woven by the main attraction.

Elvis to the hundreth power.

Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.

Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.

Poor man, rich man, beggared by a thief.

Doctored and lawyered, and left to grief.

Victim, hit man, bridegroom, bride.

Singer, survivor, sweetheart, suicide.

Temple finished installing the fountain of illusion veiling over the high, illusory helmet of hair beneath it. Steel within smoke.

She looked as much like Priscilla as Quincey had, as any woman would who erected the same cage of artifice around herself.

Poor Priscilla, who could only free Elvis once she had freed herself from the gilded cage he had made her; only when he was dead, and none of it mattered but the trademarks.

Temple's fingertips trembled as she adjusted the veiling. This was a foolhardy thing to do. She had even deceived her stalwart defenders, but they had their own stage roles to play, and she feared their presence would intimidate the killer. Besides, she had Bucek's professionals looking out for her, promise.

The hair pick so essential to an evenly balanced beehive was clenched in her hand: six inches of pointed metal. Not much of a weapon, but easily concealed.

Bucek was out there.

And the Fontana boys.

And maybe even Agent Mulder, this being a natural X-Files case, but Temple didn't believe in that last notion as much as she believed in Elvis.

Because he, the original dead man, had driven every incident that had haunted this hotel opening, and had even impinged on the grounds of the Crystal Phoenix.

He meant something different to every person who thought he or she knew him, or loved him, or betrayed him. Sometimes a legend is so large he cannot be counted out.

This Priscilla outfit was made for entangling. Temple stood, arranged the folds, and floated to the door like a gorgeous ghost.

She was so totally retro. In the spirit, so to speak. Ready to meet a ghost on a parapet.

Ready to exact revenge. Extract justice.

Hopefully, the villain of the piece would cooperate. A knock sounded on her door.

She unjammed the chair, swept it aside, threw open the door.

“Quincey! Hey, kid, I'm glad you escaped the JD types to come back to do your part."

“Forget it, Crawf," Temple said, sneering delicately. "I didn't want to waste the neck tattoo for nothing.”

She swept past him, heading for the stairs to the stage. "You gonna help me galumph up these stairs in this too-dead outfit? You owe me for this one. I hope you break a leg," she added nastily.

Nothing like family solidarity, right, Elvis? The heavy hair, the cataracts of veiling, dulled the sounds pounding off the stage. The show was underway.

As Crawford trumpeted the impersonators' names between acts, Elvis after Elvis attacked the ebony wood with his feet and voice and soul.

Temple watched from the wings, impressed, but not moved. All were mostly good. None shook the world.

Then Velvet Elvis came on, her holographic black jumpsuit crawling with phosphorescent constellations as the special lighting gels kicked in. Her voice was high, but clear, her angular moves impeccable.

The crowd roared as she finished her three-minute set and eeled off, tensile as a guitar string tuned to high E.

All the performers nodded to Temple waiting alone in the wings as they exited. She was the prize. The High Princess who would award the Sacred Belt.

It lay near her in an open box long enough to hold roses: a five-inch-wide length of inscribed metal that would look heavy even around Mr. T's 24-karat neck.

Temple felt cultural confusion. In a way the artifact was the Sword in the Stone. In a way it was the National Wrestling Federation trophy belt. It was Platinum Records and Latinum bars, a cross-cultural mélange of trophies both fictional and factual.

It meant nothing and everything, just as Elvis had. It meant life and death, just as Elvis had.

She was Priscilla, she was Guinevere. Both had feet of clay while they wielded belts of gold.

She was mortal, she was eternal.

The sword was in the lake, the sword was buried in a bejeweled back.

She was a symbol, she was a solver of symbols. She was nuts to be here.

Then the nine Fontana boys bounced onstage, each to a twanging guitar chord, each in a pose that reflected his version of Elvis.

“Lawdy Miss Clawdy," wailed the first.

“You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog," whined the second.

“Running Scared," howled the third.

“Farther Along," crooned the fourth.

“Find Out What's Happening," urged the fifth. "Any Day Now," moaned the sixth.

“Love Me Tender," whispered the seventh.

“Crying in the Chapel," blazed the eighth.

“Amen," intoned the ninth.

They got a standing ovation.

Temple was among the clappers who blistered the heels of their hands.

Then someone else was gyrating on stage. Kenny! Looking much larger than himself, larger than life.

“Do You Know Who I Am?" he wailed with savage passion, hips swiveling like a stopped-up pepper shaker on a humid, Gulf-coast restaurant table.

Temple jumped up and down in the wings. "Go, Kenny, go!" An exiting Elvis glowered at her. She wasn't supposed to show favoritism.

Temple settled down to look around. No one much noticed her. She really wouldn't come into play until she awarded the winner's belt.

If the killer was an Elvis freak, and if "Priscilla" was his next target, it didn't make sense to kill her until all the shouting was over.