Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“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.