Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

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 ultra-modern 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."

“Forget it." Nicky waved his Rolex wrist. "You aren't consulting just on PR stuff, you dreamed up the whole recreational re-do."

“And," Van added, leaning across her clear glass desktop, "you inspired that international conceptual artist, Domingo, to design a very arty children's area for us. I've gotten inquiries about the project from Art Forum. We're reaching an entirely new and upscale audience, thanks to you and your eclectic friends. Nicky's right. If you feel this poor little Quincey needs a chaperone, you run right over to the Kingdome for as long as necessary. We wouldn't want a daughter of ours in such a high-stress environment at that tender age.”

Temple refrained from explaining that there was nothing tender about Quincey but her age.

“I've never really liked Elvis," she confessed in a last-ditch effort to stick to duty and sacrifice satisfying her always-insatiable curiosity.

“You're in good company," Van said, sitting back. "This is business," Nicky noted. " 'Like' has nothing to do with it.”

Putt-putting along the Strip in her aging aqua Storm, Temple drove like the legendary little old lady from Pasadena (even though she was cool for an old person; see what turning thirty does for you!), peering at all the "Kingdome is Coming" signs she'd ignored for so long. They were everywhere. Obviously, her head had been in the clouds, probably looking for the single billboard advertising Matt Devine's midnight radio advice show. Meanwhile, on ground level, Elvis had been stepping on everybody's blue suede shoes in an attempt to get a little attention for a dead guy.

Temple marveled that the Strip always offered enough empty acreage to support another monument to the Theme-of-the-Moment. The trend had been Euro lately: the suave Monte Carlo, Steve Wynn's artsy Bellagio, and the equally lavish Belladonna, which Temple had nicknamed the Beluga (after the small white whale) for its vast expanses of white marble, not to mention a collection of European masterwork paintings and sculptures, all of buxom, white-skinned naked ladies. Instead of the Naked Maja, Temple thought of the ambiance as the Naked Moby.

But she had never seen the Kingdome coming. How had she missed this Eighth Wonder of the World building? Blink in Las Vegas nowadays, and you missed the Second Coming. Come to think of it, an Elvis Presley hotel and casino in Las Vegas was a sort of Second Coming.