Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“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.

“Let's see the inside," Keith urged.

Matt tried the key, surprised when it opened the passenger door.

Keith, tall and thin as a soda straw, jackknifed into the seat. "Wow. Cool. Look at this stuff."

“What stuff?" Matt asked.

Keith was caressing the upholstery like it was Sharon Stone. "I think it's suede." He leaned close to the driver's seat, sniffed and squinted. "Blue suede.”

Matt forced his mouth to stay shut and walked around to the car's sloping front, looking for a dealer name on the license plate holder.

There was none.

There was a license plate, though, It read: 281 ROCK Elvis had just given away his last—or maybe just latest—car.

Chapter 59

Tryin' to Get to You

(Recorded at Sun Records in 1955, probably with Elvis on the piano)

"I do not see what you need me for," Midnight Louise complained.

Since we are standing in the bright sunlight near Chef Song's fish pond, it is especially fitting that she is in her usual carping mood.

“I told you. As a witness. I do not lay the dead to rest every day. Especially a corpse as famous as this." "I do not like dark, enclosed places."

“Neither do I."

“So that is why you invited me along. You are scared stiff."