Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Black leather.

A motorcycle policeman advanced in Matt's left side mirror.

A mythic figure, really. Boots, pants, jacket creaking. Hips expanded with a holster of accessories: gun, gloves, baton, walkie-talkie, whatever.

Paper in a notepad shifted like dry bones. "Whoa, son. You were goin' pretty fast."

“Sorry. My shift is over. I'm anxious to get home." "Home's not worth rushin' to so fast. Let's see here. Ninety miles an hour."

“Guess I didn't look. I'm sorry."

“What this thing do?"

“The bike?"

“Never seen one like it." Boots creaking at each step around the Hesketh.

“It's English."

“English bike? Usually they're those real light bicycles. This is a heavy machine."

“Custom."

“Custom. I like custom. Got to give you a ticket, though."

“I understand, officer. I'm a little nervous. Been working late a lot. And, I thought, someone was following me—"

“Someone following you. That's a nasty feeling." "Yeah. You get it sometimes?"

“All the time, son. All the time. Comes with the territory." He walked around the Vampire again. "Nice bike. So what'll it do?"

“I don't know."

“Don't know?"

“Never took it up to maximum. It's ... well, against the law."

“Against the law. We don't wanta be against the law."The cop leaned close, peered at the dash. "What does it say it'll do?"

“Uh, the speedometer goes to one-twenty."

“You tried it?"

“No."

“Maybe you should."

“I can't. It's against the law."

“Against the law. See this?"

“It's a badge."

“Yes, sir. Now that's not against the law."

“I guess not."

“So I'm not going to give you a ticket tonight, son, on one condition."

“Yes?"

“That you take this thing to the maximum."

“But—"

“Now, go on. I don't want to have to get mean, but if I can catch your taillight, you're not doing as I say." "No, sir. I mean, yes, sir."

“Go on, then. I want to see you flying.”

Matt went.

Into the desert on empty roads, timeless flight. The moon couldn't keep up.

The motorcycle policeman couldn't keep up.

Finally, finally, the voices in his head couldn't keep up.

He got a ticket anyway. A ticket to ride.

Temple turned the key in her door, then tiptoed into her own place like a thief. It felt so great to have the weight of Priscilla, actual and metaphorical, off her.

“Meroww," said Midnight Louie, writhing against her ankles and stalking over to his bowl to stand and stare resentfully.

She had thought ... who knew what she had thought tonight?

“We had some monkey business at the Kingdome to- night, Louie. Good thing you weren't there." "Merrrr0000w!" said Louie. He almost sounded like he was scolding her.

“I know I've been gone a lot lately," she said meekly. "Got caught up in Elvis fever. This whole town did. But it's all over now. Here, have some ocean flounder on your Free-to-Be-Feline.”

Louie dug in and Temple tiptoed away before he could scold her further, to the bedroom.

“Meow," said Midnight Max, who was reclining on the comforter, sans Elvis accoutrements.

The stereo was softly playing something Elvis, though.

“You would have won if you'd stuck around," Temple said.

“Couldn't afford to.”

She sat at the foot of the bed. "Okay. How? Why? When?”

Max smiled. "I got back in town and couldn't reach you at home, so I finally appealed to Electra for news. She informed me you'd become Elvis's greatest fan and told me all about the dirty tricks going on at the King-dome. I figured you couldn't resist the greatest mystery of the twentieth century, so I slipped over there to sniff around—apparently Midnight Louie had similar notions, because I kept seeing him around—"

“I didn't."

“He's like me: hard to spot unless he wants you to." "Hmmmph," Temple said.

“Anyway, I decided that being in the thick of things was the best way to give you backup."

“Did you have to pull me into that too-too hokey knee-slide?"

“The audience loved it."

“The audience loved you. I didn't know you could do that.”

Max shrugged. "Neither did I. So who tried to kill you, and why?"

“A Mob hit man with an Elvis fetish. Priscilla's death was just the icing on the cake. The real target was a man in the federal witness protection program."

“Elvis hitting Elvis. Has a sordid sort of harmony, doesn't it? Are you angry that I turned up?"

“Not at all, Max. I'm just really sorry that I couldn't give you that belt."

“I bet you are!”

He leaned forward to reach for her. "Isn't it time Elvis and Priscilla had a reconciliation?"

“Way overdue," she agreed.

In the kitchen, Midnight Louie howled his objections.

Chapter 58

Mystery Train

(Recorded at Sun Records in 1955 and cowritten by Sun founder Sam Phillips)

Matt approached WCOO the next night like a surly transient. He kept his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, hoping no preshow fans would accost him for autographs. They'd started showing up before as well as after his hourly midnight stint now. A. E. After Elvis.

He -just wanted to creep into the radio station unnoticed, and get on with whatever the night would hold in store. It certainly wouldn't be Elvis anymore. He hoped. He had served his time in Elvis's particular variety of limbo and needed to get on with his own life, as dull as it was.

His blood chilled when he saw people clustered near the station entrance. They all seemed focused on something. Maybe he was just jumpy after last night's post-show encounter, but he couldn't help thinking of the body Molina had found outside the Blue Dahlia.

Was it his turn to find a corpse on his own turf? His next thought was even wilder. Had his caller ended the silence with a sudden plunge into depression and suicide on Matt's very doorstep? His footsteps made them turn one by one. The staccato conversation of an agitated group trailed off word by word.

“He's here!”

Faces focused on him, full of strange excitement. Even Keith who worked the switchboard was out on the parking lot asphalt, looking dazed.

Matt stared past the strangers' faces to what had occupied their attention.

A parked car, that's all.

Keith had bought a new car, and Matt's fans were admiring it. Good, let them bug some guy their own age.

“Nice wheels, Keith," he said in passing, seeing little more than a sleek silver fender. Silver. Keith had openly lusted after the Vampire. "Sorry, I've got to get on the job," he told the girls who were gravitating toward him like mercury finding ground zero.

Matt waved in passing, smiling at the sincere flattery of imitation, and went into the station.

Ambrosia herself (Leticia in full radio diva persona) was sitting on the deserted receptionist's desk like a chocolate Buddha wearing the face of Shiva, gorgeous goddess of destruction.

“You're pretty mellow, man. Considering." "Considering what?”

She hoisted a dangling plastic tag. "Considering your new car."

“My new car."

“That's what the tag says. Glad to see an employee doing so well. Won't have to give you a raise for a while."

“My new car."

“Sure glad you're not so repetitious on the air, honey.

You better hurry if you're gonna look at it, or before Keith kidnaps it.”

Matt took the tag from her hands. It was attached to a set of car keys, all right. And his name was printed on a paper sandwiched between two slices of clear plastic.

Matt exploded out the door, not pausing to ease it shut for once. The crowd of eight women parted like a curtain.

There it sat, illuminated by the nearest parking lot light until it shone like a hologram: an aluminum-silver puddle of metal in the shape of the redesigned Volkswagen beetle.