Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Temple couldn't picture it, but perhaps originality counted. Then again, she thought—waving good-bye to the guys and hustling offstage and through the empty house, gazing at Elvis to the umpteenth power—maybe when it came to Elvis impersonation, originality did not count.

Chapter 54

Double Trouble

(The title song from Elvis's 1967 film)

Temple sat staring at the morning paper.

An illo on the top front above the masthead showed a pseudo-Elvis in full writhe. "Night of 100 Elvises,”

read the teaser head.

The Kingdome should be happy for this plug for its imminent six-hour opening extravaganza of Elvis, Elvis, Elvis.

But the local highlight of the day wasn't what had riveted Temple's eyes to 9.3-point Roman type.

What had done that was the one-column crime story below the front-page fold that announced "Elvis imitator iced.”

The headline was crude and would drive advocates of the term "impersonator," and even "tribute performer" nuts.

But that wasn't what had Temple staring like a zombie at the tiny type.

No, it was Lyle Purvis's name, right there in blackand-white. She was sure the reporter had gotten it right. "Lyle Pervisse." It was too odd to be a misspelling.

A rollerball pen drooped from her nerveless fingers.

She wasn't sure she had done her task right, so tried again: The "le" from Lyle, and the "vis" from Pervisse equaled Elvis. That left the "Ly" from Lyle and the "e" from isse for "Ley. That mean the "Pers" from Pervisse, combined with the Ly and the e, added up to PresLey.

Oh, my.

Lyle Pervisse's name was an anagram for Elvis Presley. Elvis ("lives") Presley had loved anagrams. Of course, everyone who heard the name "Pervisse" thought of the more common, phonetic spelling, Purvis.

Could the unthinkable be? Had the Crawf been right? Had Lyle Pervisse really been Elvis? No.

He had been an Elvis fanatic. As a protected witness, he could take any name he chose. He chose an anagram of Elvis Presley. If anybody noticed, he was certified as an Elvis nut, not a rat fink on the run.

And he had to have been a rat fink on the run from the Mob to need the witness protection program. Simple.

Even a crook could have an Elvis obsession. Maybe especially a crook.

Temple looked up at her computer screen. She was in her second-bedroom-cum-office. One of dozens of Web pages on Elvis was frozen on the screen.

It described a seventeen-million-dollar armored-car heist in North Carolina. The crooks were caught, and their ill-gotten gains were seized and sold at auction. There were more than a thousand items, including fifteen vehicles from minivans to a BMW convertible. There were rows of tanning beds and big-screen TVs.

But the lone star of the auction was a velvet painting of Elvis.

The loot went to prove, said one bidder, that you can steal millions of dollars, but you still can't buy taste. Still . . .

The item that attracted the most interest, that everyone wanted his or her picture taken with, that made it into the single photo used to illustrate this cornucopia of ill-gotten gain up for sale, was . . . the velvet painting of Elvis.

It went for $1600 to a pawnshop owner who intended to display it with a plaque describing where it came from.

Because that was the point. Elvis did one extraordinary thing with his life of fame and fortune and talent and lost opportunities: he never left his roots. He never stopped being a poor boy from Memphis. He never went Hollywood or St. Tropez, and never reinvented himself as a banner boy of Taste.

An Elvis is an Elvis is an Elvis, as the poet said about the singular and lovely rose.

He was a King even a crook could aspire to. And maybe more than one had.

Chapter 557

Scratch My Back (Then I'll Scratch Yours)

(In 1966's Paradise, Hawaiian Style, Elvis sang this seductive number with pussycat Marianna Hill)

I am still on self-assigned duty in the Kingdome.

It seems that guys in black suits do the security detail around here, so I figure I might as well stick around too until I see my little doll through her descent into Elvis-mania and back onto solid ground again.

Despite the overpopulation of Elvi, I have tumbled to some other suspicious overpopulations too. Like three times as many Memphis Mafia members as there should be. Given my unique position in undercover work, I am soon eavesdropping on everybody.

You would be amazed how dudes on both sides of the law are willing to unburden themselves of information that should be kept hush-hush in front of a least-likely suspect like myself. They should be ashamed! But their indiscretion is my information highway, so I do what I do best: creep around, look innocent as well asdeaf, blind, and dumb, and soak up the situation.