Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

She sighed. She knew Matt was terribly sincere, which made him such an excellent foil for the insincere of the world. If he had sensed honest turmoil in his caller, then it was there. Therefore the caller wasn't a cynical user, at least not totally, no more than Elvis had been once the bloom had blushed off the rose of his naive country-boy youth and upbringing.

“It wasn't your Elvis"—Matt groaned at her use of "your"—"that brought me to the Kingdome, you know. This whole Elvis thing does involve me, professionally, in a way."

“What way?" Matt was sounding suspicious and hard-nosed. Good; progress. Lesson one from Life's Large Instruction Book: Trust no one, especially those you trust most of all.

“There's been a construction holdup at the Crystal Phoenix. I went over to investigate, then ended up at the Kingdome."

“What could an Elvis attraction have in common with the classiest little hotel in Las Vegas?"

“That was the construction holdup. They're excavating the Jersey Joe Jackson action attraction mine ride." "So?"

“The workmen were balking at digging any further." "More money?"

“Less shock waves."

“Shock waves? Underground tremors?"

“Of a sort. They were seeing things."

“Well, it is a ghost attraction, isn't it?"

“Yes, but not for this ghost."

“What ghost?""They're convinced it's Elvis."

“Elvis has gone underground? At the Crystal Phoenix?"

“Do you see any reason someone trying to hype the Kingdome would put in a guest appearance at an underground attraction at another Vegas hotel?"

“Only if he was trying to tunnel his way out of a crypt, and Elvis is very definitely buried in Memphis, at Graceland, in the Meditation Garden, along with his mother and father, and grandmother."

“If he's dead."

“Temple! Things are weird enough without you jumping on the 'Elvis lives' bandwagon."

“I agree that it's unlikely, but let's give Elvis a chance. Let his fans, or detractors, call in with itsy-bitsy facts about his life that could trip up an imposter. You relay them in a nonchallenging way, crediting the person who asked the question. Maybe the station could give a trip to Graceland to whoever comes up with the question that stumps the King."

“Temple, that's so tawdry, cheap, and despicable. If I weren't looking at you right now, I'd think you were a Crawford Buchanan imitator."

“I agree. But ... this kind of bad publicity in the Scoop could put your newborn career in jeopardy. You have to demonstrate somehow that this phone-in from Elvis isn't a put-up job. You have to give the public a shot at proving that he's a phony.”

Matt ran his fingers into his Fantastic Sam's low-cost haircut.

“My career," he said as if naming a new enemy. "Suddenly I'm getting some decent money. I seem to be naturally good at this talk radio stuff, I'm getting a following, I'm getting criticized by the press—"

“Oh, puh-leeze."

“By the tabloid press, such as it is. Everybody has a stake in me, Leticia, the station, the public who believes I'm a good guy because of the baby incident, only now I'm maybe a bad guy because I might be a colluding fraud. I don't know what to think and do."

“Ever think that's how Elvis began to feel?"

“No. I've never really put any effort into thinking how Elvis got the way he got, until now. If this is just a taste of the price of fame, it's pretty bittersweet."

“That's why you can't stop now. It's not just the public you owe something to. And the story doesn't really have to have a pat ending. Let me put it another way: you have to give this man who sounds like Elvis a shot at proving he's who he says he is.”

Chapter 26

Let Me Be There

(A "sugary pop confection" says one biographer, that Elvis sang in a 1973 concert as he began to retreat from the musical ground gained during his post-comeback touring schedule)

"Have you considered the advantages of an expert assistant?”

Temple considered Electra Lark first.

Her landlady had rung the bell and spent the past fifteen minutes sitting on her sofa bruiting about her qualifications as an Elvis expert, ranging from attending the vital February 14 concert in Carlsbad to avid perusal of virtually every Elvis book published.

“I know, I know," Temple finally said, interrupting the flow of fannish enthusiasm. Electra was looking more like a toy troll than an Elvis freak today, with her white hair tinted a clownish carroty red.

“Have there been any more manifestations in the Crystal Phoenix underground zone?" Electra asked ea- gerly.

“'Manifestations' implies an incorporeal presence,”

Temple said uneasily. "All I had for witnesses were some workmen more likely to see Elvis in a shapeless blob of light than Princess Diana." She squinted her eyes at Electra. "It's hard to picture you in a poodle skirt with a ponytail and anklets, screaming over Elvis. Now that's a manifestation.”