Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“I'm just so glad I was smart enough to quit taking diet pills all those years ago." Her voice paused. A deep, trembling sigh. "I'm still fat, though."

“You're still here," he said gently.

The commercial break gave Matt time to contemplate his unexpected—unwanted—new role as an Elvis apologist. From a lifestyle point of view, the man had been everything he wasn't.

Leticia's orange-painted lips were mouthing "poor baby" at him through the glass. Matt took a swig of lukewarm spring water. He felt as if he'd been wrung out and then hung out to dry. And this hadn't even been the main event: the night's Elvis appearance.

At least the phone lines were jumping, and in talk radio, that was the name of the game.

Chapter 29

Return to Sender

(Otis Blackwell's song was the only quality number on the soundtrack of Girls, Girls, Girls, a 1962 film)

Temple hated to admit it, but Electra's notion that the spirit haunting the Kingdome backstage area was more likely a vengeful Memphis Mafia member than the King himself made sense.

Of course, she didn't for a moment believe in spirit manifestations. In the two incidents, flesh and blood had been attacked in actuality, or in simulation. As if the whole thing were a show. A production number.

It was possible that some Elvis advocate was so caught up in the past that he, or she, needed to protest the presence of an ersatz Priscilla.

Temple found the razor attack the most disturbing. Despite Quincey's tough teen bravado, the act had been cruel and personal. If whoever did it had an opportunity to approach the real Priscilla . . . but that was the point. He didn't, or he wouldn't have bothered Quincey. And anybody that could do that to a sixteen-year-old girl—! Temple had paused under the soaring dome, which played endless footage of Elvis in concert. Evidently, running pre-existing film was estate-approved. Most of it was in black-and-white, so the effect was eerily like storm clouds clashing above, a pre-Technicolor twilight of the god.

Electra had temporarily abandoned Temple to make a round of the domed chamber's vast perimeter, admiring each designer Elvis in its niche.

Around Temple, gawking tourists thronged, often bumping into her, the lone stationary object, as they gazed up at Elvis in 3-D surround.

Somebody bumped her and didn't back off.

A half-second later she shook off her thoughts enough to become annoyed. "Hey!"

“Hey, hey, hey! You ticklish, T. B.?"

“Get your hands off my ribs, or you will be corned beef hash.”

Crawford Buchanan backed away just enough so that she could focus on his abhorable face. It was grinning.

“What is that dreadful smell?" Temple demanded.

“My cigar." Buchanan swaggered the small brown cylinder to the side of his mouth. "A Tampa Jewel, like Elvis used to smoke," he said through his cigar-clenching teeth, just like a melodrama villain. "Got it in the gift shop."

“He smoked cigars, too? Not my type."

“All of us big shots smoke cigars. It's a guy thing." "That's what I mean."

“So what are you doing here alone?"

“I'm not alone. Just because I look alone doesn't mean I am."

“Oh, come on, T. B. You don't have to pretend with me. You haven't always got some guy on a string, like you want me to think. Afraid to admit you could use an escort? I don't see any rings."

“You would have, but I lost it.""That 'lost ring' excuse is as old as Elvis."

“It happens to be true in my case." Temple felt a justifiable stab of self-pity. Not every woman lost her engagement ring to a traveling magician's sleight-of-hand. She'd barely had it for two weeks, and, presto! Gone forever.

“Now, don't pout. Crawford's here to turn every saltwater tear to pure cane sugar."

“Yuck!" Temple said.

He leaned close. The more she expressed her distaste, the more he felt compelled to force himself on her. She wondered for a wild moment what would happen if she actually encouraged him ... but she couldn't count on an equal and opposite effect.

“You'd cheer up if you were sitting on what I'm sitting on," he whispered in sing-song, taunting tone.

Temple didn't want to know what he was sitting on. "I doubt it." She scanned the crowd, looking for the loud beacon of Electra's muumuu—chartreuse, black, and orange today.

“I am on to something so big it'll rock this town right off its blue suede shoes."

“That's hyperbole even for you."

“It's the biggest story of the century."

“Isn't that premature? The century isn't quite over yet. I believe 2001 is the actual date."

“And it won't be over until I break this story. Believe me, this is the Big One. I can write my own ticket when this gets out." He leaned closer, radiating cigar stench. "And you can ride it with me."

“Why should I want to?"

“Because nobody can resist a success."

“I can, very successfully.”

He blew a thin stream of blue smoke over her right shoulder. "Tut-tut, T. B. You talk a good game, but you'd fold like everyone else if you knew what I'm sitting on."

“Well, I guess nobody will until you get up."