Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

My blood chills. I hope the fellow inhabitants of this room are not parrots. They are not likely to eat me, but they can have nasty tempers and their beaks can do a lot of damage. But Quincey said "Bye-bye, Baby," not "Bye-bye, Birdie." And—by the way—was that not the title of the Broadway musical satirizing Elvis? I keep coming back to Elvis. Maybe Elvis just keeps coming back to me. Who could blame him? I cannot stand it. Ghosts are made to be banished. I am tired of having this specter hanging over my head, which it very well may be. I return to the door, guided by the hairline of light underlining it. Then I veer right and leap straight up, and repeat the maneuver, batting out a mitt on my descents. I am not fumbling for a doorknob in the dark, though I might be able to turn it if I got the right spin on my pinkies. I am going for a simpler feat, but the object of my gymnastics is like looking for a needle in a haystack, or a button in a Burlington Coat Factory. Or a single stud on an Elvis jumpsuit.

Then my mitt strikes something on my downward swing. There is a faint crackling above. Light winks on before I land. The naked flare of overhead fluorescents casts an eerie blue-white glow on the piled crates and concrete.

The scrabbling sound has stopped, and so has my heartbeat ... almost.

I scan the premises for my fellow inhabitant, who should now be visible, unless I frown. One crate is made of chicken wire or such, and it is as big as a doghouse, if the dog in question were a mastiff.

Dogs do not eat fruit. I slink over, reassured by the sight of a huge padlock through a sturdy hasp.

My pupils are still needle-sharp slits, thanks to the downpour of fluorescent light, but I make out a huge, shambling shape scrabbling inside the construction.

I have found the King, all right. King Kong. I mean, Elvis's face was furry in his heavy sideburn years, but this guy is wearing hairy all over his jumpsuit.

When he spots me he starts jumping up and down and screeching. He must weigh forty pounds. He bounces to the chicken wire and sticks his hairless fingers through, still chattering up a storm.

I cannot make out a word of it, but there is no doubt that I am facing an ancestor of Homo sapiens, the hairy little ape known as a chimpanzee. On the side of his cage, hanging off the top strut, I spy something shiny. A white jumpsuit, fit for a chimp.

Now I have seen everything.

Chapter 20

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

(Recorded during an Elvis show at the International Hotel, Las Vegas, 1970)

Temple leaned against the hallway wall.

“If I'd have known it was going to take this much hoofing to visit all of the Elvis impersonators, I'd have worn track shoes.”

Matt held up the wall beside her, even though it was painted institutional gray and liberally smudged with fingerprints, makeup, and the occasional billboard of graffiti. He glanced down at her feet in the begemmed J. Renee high heels she wore in honor of the jumpsuits, as she had informed him earlier.

“Haven't you got something to switch to in your tote bag?"

“Yes, but that's for really rough terrain. I refuse to get down and get sloppy when we're paying calls on men who are more lavishly attired than I."

“You have strange standards."

“So I've been told." Temple eyed him a little cautiously. He was really out of his element. "You did some pretty heads-up interviewing in there."

“Maybe I'm getting good at my new job. But . . . all these guys, they start looking like clones after a while. Can you tell one from another?"

“It's hard to see the person behind the persona. I bet that caused Elvis a lot of problems too.”

Matt nodded. He looked like someone who was tired of talking about Elvis, seeing Elvis, interviewing Elvis.

“Now he's giving me problems," Matt went on. "I'm obligated to take this caller seriously. Whatever else he is, he must be a very troubled man. Maybe he's as likely to overdose any day now as Elvis was back in seventy-seven."

“Yet," Temple pointed out with her usual insouciance, "if you take him too seriously, you could end up a laughingstock."

“Exactly. I don't know what to do. I know what Leticia wants me to do: ride the radio Elvis for all it's worth. But if the man is not just a joker, if he's really convinced he's Elvis, that could be dangerous.”

Temple pushed herself off the wall's welcome support. "Let's do this. Let's forget about interviewing Elvis imitators; let's cherchez le suit."

“It's true that these guys don't talk like Elvis until they're onstage, and then they use mikes, so my chances of recognizing a voice are nil. But no one so far has missed a jumpsuit."

“We've only hit a couple dressing rooms."

“Of forty guys."

“Tell you what. Let's find the girl's dressing room. I for one am eager to glimpse Velvet Elvis.”

They trekked back down to Quincey's dressing room, but it was empty.

“Too bad," Temple said. "She's the one most likely to know—"

“The girl most likely to know what?" a voice behind them asked.

They turned.