Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Merle, this is a job for the police!"

“They think it's just some Elvis nut."

“Nuts are called nuts because they're dangerous. What do you think I can do?"

“The police are 'keeping an eye on things,' and hotel security swears it's going to be all over the place, but there are so many people in costume and weird getups ... anybody could get around all that officialdom. I thought it'd be natural for a PR woman to be on the site, and you could, you know, snoop."

“This doesn't sound like a snooping job. This sounds like a body-guarding job." Temple's eyes opened wide. Merle leaned forward, hopeful at last. "And that I might be able to arrange."

“Thank you so much. You're such a good example for Quincey."

“I am?"

“Oh, yes. She said you really got down and boogied at that romance cover-hunk pageant. She thinks you're way cool for an old person.”

Chapter 6

Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain

(Recorded at Graceland in 1976, the last song Elvis ever sang the day he died, August 16, 1977)

The King eyed himself in the mirror.

His hair. Finally showing the bends from dyin' all these years. Hair's only human. You bend it enough, it'll break. It'll just die.

His eyebrows were refusing to grow, like a cotton crop that had been water-starved too often. Had to paint 'em on now. Mascara on his baby-blond lashes, dye on his head and his eyebrows, and even on his chest hairs now that he was older and those born-waxed-smooth boyish pecs were growin' moss. He'd gone white when they weren't lookin'. When he wasn't lookin'.

But he hadn't been lookin' for a long time. Too long.

The King blinked. At least his eyelashes weren't fallin' out, but they weren't the thickets he was born with. Born blond. Blue-eyed blond. Wishy-washy. Momma's boy.

Fixed that.

Black. Boot-black dyed hair, eyebrows, lashes. Black 'cycle cap. Black like Brando. Wild Ones. Wild Thing. Wild in the Country. One of those damn movies when he'd tried to get serious about bein' an actor.

The King frowned at his reflection. He was an actor now, by God. Actin' like he was alive, still the King.

As long as he could animate this ole bod, he was.

The heart of rock 'n' roll wasn't in no damn Cleveland. Or in Motown, and damn sure not in Nashville. Ever. lt was in Memphis. On Beale Street. Always had been, even before he got there. No kings in Memphis, though.

That's why he'd always liked the Luxor Hotel, when they put that puppy up. Even downtown Memphis had its fake pyramid now, a big bow to the Egyptian forerunner.

He liked those Egyptians. Life after death and all that. Very mystical. Sometimes he suspected he was one of them. Death was just crossin' that river. Over Jordan, over Nile. Let my people go. Did the Egyptians have music? Must have. You can't have death or a civilization without music.

Book of the Dead. Hah! He was bigger than any ole Pharaoh. He had collected whole Books of the Dead, mystical books on eastern religions and numerology and all sorts of intriguing things, mountains and mountains of them. Whole pyramids. His entire friggin' life had been a Book of the Dead. Only no one knew it.

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.