Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Discreetly, but most of his male relatives weren't in the least discreet. Overdrinking and early death were family traits. Elvis was down on alcohol, forbid having it around, though he tried it out a few times in later years. His instincts were right about booze; his family obviously had a genetic predisposition for the disease, but no one then realized that that kind of thing is genetic, and that drugs are the same bad ticket to ride. Elvis was pretty astute, but he had an odd habit of deferring to people too much. He could have been predisposed to depression, partly because of the loss of his twin, which made him likelier to take drugs.”

Temple studied the industrious rows of Elvis clones. "Do you think any of these guys abuse drugs?" "That'd be taking imitation too far."

“I'd think so, but you never know. Let's check 'em out."

“This isn't a grocery store," he commented.

Insouciant, she grinned back at him while wading into the narrow, gym-bag cluttered passage between big guys in bulky suits spraying their hair and fluffing their sideburns with hair dryers.

“Media coming through," Temple caroled, making them a head-turning attraction. "No cameras yet, don't panic. Preliminary interviews while you primp.”

Matt remained bemused by the sheer wholesale scale of Elvis imitation as an avocation, and perhaps an art form, for all he knew. He was reserving judgment until he saw some of the acts.

Was any of these men his soft-spoken midnight caller? Some shouted back and forth, exchanging tips and valued accessories such as safety pins. Most were grimly confronting their other selves in the mirrors, touching up pale roots with dye-wands, struggling to balance unevenly glued-on sideburns.

A few wives or girlfriends acted as dressers. Everybody seemed to be frowning in concentration, or shouting for an essential something that was inexplicably missing. It reminded Matt of the fevered concentration in dressing rooms before the grade-school Christmas pageant.

“Anybody missing a jumpsuit?" Temple added her voice to the hubbub. It carried like a trumpet when she wanted it to, and she did now.

That shut them all up., Faces snapped from the mirrors to focus on her red hair. And to focus on Matt standing behind her, suddenly wishing he weren't. He still wasn't used to being in the spotlight.

“Seriously, folks." Now that she had their attention, Temple pressed her advantage. "Who would mutilate an expensive costume like that? Any ideas? And whose suit was it?"

“You media," one Elvis finally said, his voice nothing like the real Elvis's. "Always looking for the bad news.”

Temple shrugged. "Maybe it was a publicity stunt.”

That got them going. A half dozen voices chimed in. No legitimate Elvis, was the consensus, would deface the King's image in any form. And anyway, the impersonators all knew how much money went into the Suit. They'd have to be "lower than Red West" to trash one.

“So where is the ruined suit now?" Matt asked, nonplussed when all those blue-suede eyes focused on him. Apparently colored contact lenses were part of the costume.

“That's a good question," a significant other piped up. "Maybe it was salvageable."

“Someone should ask hotel security," another woman said.

“Maybe the police have it," Temple suggested.

Their glaring eyes returned to her. Matt realized that Temple didn't mind stirring things up one little bit, in fact, she reveled in it, smiling impishly as their voices turned on her as one.

“Why would the police have anything to do with it?" "Nobody got hurt."

“It was just some Priscilla-hater fan, trying to throw a scare into Quincey to get her out of the show.”

Matt found himself with a need to know too. "Why would anyone want Quincey out of the show?" A pause. He had hit a nerve.

“A lot of us feel she doesn't belong here," began a portly Elvis who wore an outfit Matt recognized from photos: the American eagle jumpsuit created for the Elvis: Aloha from Hawaii satellite TV special in 1973.

“Why not?" Temple asked indignantly. Matt could tell she was in her defense-of-the-helpless-and-innocent mode, although Quincey Conrad was neither. "She was the only woman out of gadzillions he actually married."

“Elvis was forced into that," a tall, thin Elvis objected. "Her father and Colonel Parker put the pressure on."

“And look at her now, turned everybody on the staff out like horses too old to pull their weight, snubbed the long-time fans, and turned Graceland into a tourist attraction. She even redecorated the place before it went public. Elvis's Red Period was too tacky for her. Nobody understood that Elvis kept his roots and his tastes; he didn't go Hollywood like Miss Priss. That woman was all bottom-line from the very beginning."

“How 'bottom-line' could a fourteen-year-old be?”