Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Shana rotated the dial of a padlock, then cracked it open. The interior was lined in black felt, but something else black took up the space.

Temple and Matt came over to see better.

It was a black velvet jumpsuit. Heavenly bodies—constellations, planets, nebulae—decorated the flared bell-bottom pants, the wide sleeve-bottoms and the front.

A dazzling asteroid belt six inches wide hung at the hips. Rather than being gemstones or studs, the celestial landmarks were laid out in something Temple, the glitz freak, had never seen before: aurora borealis rhinestones, only in chalky neon colors of lime green, hot pink, turquoise, and yellow.

“I've got special gels for the stage lights, kind of like black-light gels."

“Oh," Temple blurted, "like the strippers use."

“Right on." Shana eyed Temple with new respect, as if she had grown a half foot in her estimation. "It casts this white-purple glow and then this thing comes alive like a landing strip in Oz. Unbelievable.”

Matt nodded. "So they know you're 'Velvet Elvis,' but they don't know yet just how spectacular you are."

“Right. Not until dress rehearsal. The thing is, the jumpsuit is everybody's secret weapon. Some of the veterans don't care, but the rest of us keep our outfits under wraps until we have to show them off."

“So any number of you could have a costume no one's ever seen before?" Temple speculated. That might explain why no one had claimed the mutilated jumpsuit.

Shana nodded.

“And that's why us asking about jumpsuits might get the cold shoulder.”

Shana nodded again.

“Isn't it hard," Temple asked, "being the only woman?”

Shana shook her head. "No. And, after all, I've got a pal in Priscilla, right?"

“You and Quincey get along?"

“She's an okay kid. Notice I did not say 'good.' That girl's got a lot to prove and no one to show her the right way to go about it. But we get along. I haven't shown her my Elvis suit, though."

“Why did you show us?" Temple asked.

Shana shut and locked the case and resumed her chair by the mirror before she answered.

“Doing an impersonation is different from any other acting job on earth. You're not digging into a character through the lines the playwright gave him; you're digging into a real person through the life he lived, and in this case, died. It's a commitment. It's an education. If you're any kind of actor, it's a transformation. Even if you're a bad actor, and there are a bunch of those here, you get caught up in the challenge, and maybe the privilege. You are an interpreter, and you want to be the best damn one you can be. So, you've got a vested interest, in the end.”

She leveled a glance at Matt, and Temple noticed that her eyes were a clear, strong, undrugged Elvis blue. Contact lenses, again? Ever the cynic.

“Whoever you're talking to," Shana went on, looking hard at Matt, "even if he thinks he's a fraud, is in trouble. Elvis-sized trouble. King-sized trouble. I'm riding on his image. So I owe it to Elvis to help.”

Chapter 21

Ya-kitty-yak

(Elvis never recorded "Yakety-yak," but it was written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who wrote other songs Elvis did record)

I guess I never paid attention when those Tarzan movies came on.

I find jungle life fairly boring, not to mention hard on the ears: all those exotic birds and monkeys shrieking in the trees, the stampeding elephants trumpeting like they have just been drafted into a mariachi band, natives jumping up and down chanting, drums beating to beat the mariachi band . . . not my scene.

Still, now I wish I had picked up a tip or two on relating to the most intelligent life form outside of Homo sapiens himself (and that is not saying much). See, these things chitter. They chatter. They screech. It is very hard to decode their ravings. Oh, they have those big brown eyes that everyone finds so expressive. So do dogs, and you know how many of their lightbulbs are on permanent dim. They also are blessed with those blasted opposablethumbs that have become the sine qua non of civilization. (This means that you are nobody without them.) But most of the time those flexible digits are only good for curling around the bars of a cage, and I do not see how that makes the species so intelligent. You will not find my pinkies curling around the bars of any cage. They will instead be kneading in fascinating rhythm into whatever soft surface is available: a mother's milkwagon, a pillow, or whatever human epidermis is most unprotected by distracting layers of clothing.

It is while gazing on the almost-naked ape (this critter is wearing the obligatory diaper) that I happen on the discovery of my life. Why are cats superior to all other species? We know that they are, and that they have attained this high station despite lacking the prized opposable thumb or even the disgusting bark so hailed in the canine species.