Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Do you think he could pass as himself at that age?"

“I've seen dudes that old pass as Elvis at thirty-five.

I even saw a woman do a great Comeback Elvis." "Why would a woman want to imitate Elvis?" "Same reason we all do: loved the sound and the songs; loved the King.”

Kenny's voice had sunk to a reverential hush.

“What kind of work do you do, Kenny, when you're not doing Elvis?”

He hung his head a little. Maybe he was shy, or maybe the helmet of hair was too heavy a burden to carry. "Shoe salesman in the mall. And no, they don't make blue suede shoes anymore, least not for guys. Say, those are some sharp heels you got on there."

“That's the general idea," Temple said. A three-inch heel was a portable dagger.

Chapter 12

I Forget to Remember to Forget

(A catchy song Elvis recorded for RCA in 1956; record execs were much higher on it than his next recording, "Heartbreak Hotel")

He'd look at the old photos now and then.

Where had he gone, Young Elvis? And Middle Elvis—didn't those damn Egyptians have a Middle Kingdom or somethin'? He didn't count for much, Middle Elvis. A flash in the developing pan: for a few blinks of the camera's eye lean and mean in a black leather suit. Just a bridge over troubled waters. And then there was Jumpsuit Elvis, and he'd been pretty good almost to the end, except you could see it in his eyes, in the photos. Zonked on pharmaceuticals. So finally he became Ultimate Elvis. Fat and Forty Elvis. Even Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show took potshots at Fat Elvis. That had hurt. He watched TV a lot. And he didn't shoot out the screen, either. He was too weary by then to hit back.

Parade-blimp Elvis. Nothin' to hide behind but his own excesses. But were they ever his own? Ever'body owned him. Hismama and his daddy, his Colonel Parker and his Memphis Mafia, his playgirls and his maybe-real girls, who touched him just enough to make him not ever wanta get burned that way again.

When he was young, he could eat what he wanted, play wlth what he wanted, screw what he wanted. Or what wanted him.

And everythin' movin' did.

Oh, yeah.

That's all right, Mama.

The King frowned. It wasn't all right, Mama. Never had been.

No one had told him. He never knew he couldn't just keep on keepin' on. That there'd be consequences.

Consequences! Hell, that was the name of a town in New Mexico with "Truth or" in front of it. He'd never visited that tank town, though the Colonel had him traipsing through every whistle-stop in America. Never out of America, though. Turned out his whole career was driven by what Colonel Parker had to hide. Where were the tell-all books about that? How the Colonel was an illegal Dutch alien, so he kept turning down flat all of the million-dollar offers to play Europe or Japan or Australia, challenging moves that would have kept a performer interested in his own life and career, instead of getting bored to death. Or on the way the Colonel kissed the King off to Hollywood, for thirty-two quick-shoot movies that minimized his performing talent just to maximize everybody's profit. Or how he ran him ragged in Las Vegas with two shows a night because the Colonel owed millions in gambling debts to the International Hotel owner, even when it later became the Las Vegas Hilton. Colonel played and Elvis paid. And paid. And paid, until there was only one way to stop.

No use crying over spilt buttermilk, though.

The Colonel was finally dead now after living to the ripe old age of eighty-seven. And Elvis is still going strong, in one way or the other.

He bestirred himself to open one of the long row of mirrored closet doors.

Time to go out. To see and be seen. Let's see. What would he wear? His pale, beringed hand reached out for something white.

Chapter 13

All Shook Up (Elvis's 1957 all-time hit, thirty weeks on the charts; Elvis's "Yeah, Yeah" here inspired the trio of yeahs in Lennon and McCartney's "She Loves Me." Elvis had recorded a song named "Yeah, yeah, yeah" in 1954.)

Matt Devine was thirty-five minutes into his midnight radio show, but it felt like he had only spent about ten minutes at the microphone.

Maybe he was getting good at this.

Or maybe this had been an easy night.

He'd had the usual lovelorn listeners he inherited from Ambrosia's earlier "music for misery" three-hour show. "Music for misery" was Matt's name for it. Also "soft rock for hard times." To be fair, not everyone who called in was feeling blue; some wanted a sentimental song to celebrate a new love, or a dedicated parent or sibling. Still, it added up to a three-hour stint of with-it schmaltz.