Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“I don't know whether your big ego or your small brain is more trouble to you, Kenny." Bucek joined Temple at the chickenwire barrier and shook his head. "Now that you mention it, Kenny left a clue the size of horse hockey."

“You mean burying the suit?"

“That, but what was on the suit is more telling." Bucek kept his eyes on Kenny, but he spoke to Temple. "Kenny has a nickname in the Mob. Most of them do. His is 'Kenny the Horse.' Comes from starting out as a mule for heroin deliveries, before he moved up to hit man. No matter how much he was into impersonating Elvis, he couldn't help letting some braggadocio about his Mob connections creep in. Now he gets to take his victim's place, and we get to hide him and protect him and call him our very own, until we can make a good case on the whole organization.”

Kenny listened, never taking his eyes off of Temple/ Priscilla.

“What happens to my suit?" he wanted to know. "Who gets custody of the suit?"

“What about the chimp?" Temple wondered indignantly. "Don't you care what happens to him?"

“That stupid animal! Blew my cover. He was good for a few laughs, but nobody better step on my jumpsuits."

“Don't worry," Bucek said. "That jumpsuit will be on display like the rest of them, as Exhibit A in court someday. You'll be reunited before a federal judge, but I doubt anyone will sentence a jumpsuit to the prison term you'll get.”

Kenny shrugged at this dire prediction of the future. "Jailhouse Rock. One of E's best films. He did real well in prison stripes.”

Bucek shook his head and took Temple's elbow again, escorting her to the door.

“That man has an unreal sense of values," she commented."That's what makes hit men tick."

“So ... how does this case get settled? Publicly?"

“For now, everything, of course, will be denied, lost, brushed under the rug. There was no one here but Memphis Mafia hotel security. One Elvis impersonator cracked and was ... institutionalized. A mysterious Elvis impersonator tried to steal the show. Life goes on, murders go unsolved, local police hate the outside agency's guts. We try to keep Kenny alive to testify and bring down the bigwigs behind it all. Are you happy, Miss Barr?"

“I'm happy to be alive," she said when they stood out in the hall again. The onlookers had thinned, bored by the lack of action. "And so, I imagine, is Elvis."

“Right." Bucek escorted her back to Quincey's dressing room so she could change back into herself. "By the way, there's one member of the press we haven't been able to muzzle. Luckily, no one would believe him in a million years. I'm sorry.”

He left the room, shouldered through the remaining spectators, and vanished.

The Fontana brothers made a daisy chain in front of the door, but a slight, agile figure dashed through, under their arms.

“T. B., are you all right?"

“Fine," she said.

“Tell me about it." He came close, crouched beside her chair.

“About what?"

“About Him! The Elvis who disappeared. I was wrong. Thank God I was wrong." Crawford trembled on the brink of tears. "Lyle wasn't Him. He didn't die. He came, and saved, and went again. Tell me about him, please."

“Well," said Temple. "The first thing I noticed was how blue his eyes were, and how they ... glowed. Like electricity. In fact, everything about him ... glowed.”

Crawford nodded, at peace. Not even taking notes.

Temple drew in another hit of caffeine from the big cup on the dressing table, even though the contents were stone cold, just like Elvis. She was riding on the high of survival and the joy of imagination. Elvis had saved her, yes, he had. In one form, or another.

Viva Las Vegas.

One-twelve A.M.

Matt was gliding away from the radio station on the Hesketh Vampire. Leticia was annoyed that the results of the Elvis competition at the Kingdome hadn't been available in time to announce at the end of the Midnight Hour.

He was relieved it was all over. Elvis had not called since Lyle Purvis had died, whatever one event had to do with the other. Only three women had been waiting for Matt after the show. Maybe his fans were all over at the Kingdome, cheering the ersatz Elvi on.

Even the Vampire seemed subdued tonight, its motor running smooth and relatively silent for a change. Leticia was busy preparing "Elvis tapes" for sale, but Dwight had raised the issue of the estate objecting to merchandising any unauthorized shred of Elvis.

Matt could see their point.

Matt could almost see Elvis, a distant, lonely figure riding a predestined track, a human being lost in the meteoric dazzle of his own contrail.

Could you ever reach deep into another human being and know him? Could you ever reach deep into yourself and know him? Matt glanced in his right side mirror.

Moon at twelve o'clock high.

Moon, or falling star? He was tired.

He might be tired of himself.

And then he saw that cyclops of dogging light, just like the other night, that phantom in the mirror, that mo-torcyclist's nightmare, that buzz at the farthest range of his hearing.