Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

She tapped her front teeth with the eraser end of a long yellow pencil. She knew the backstage area would be abuzz with gossip today. More than other performers, these men were not islands. Their whole existence was a form of denying death, so any Elvis death would diminish them. They would not go gently into that dark night.

She really needed to return to the Kingdome and view the aftermath of the articles herself. First, a phone call. She glanced at the clock while punching in numbers to make sure the hour was decent.

“Matt? Oh, I'm fine, but you sound like I woke you up. Oh, didn't get to sleep until six A.M.? Whyever not?”

His answer was vague, saying the ride home had been windy and cold. He really had to get a car.

“Terrific. What kind?"

“Something reliable and economical."

“Oh, phooey. You're no fun. Listen, I'm off to the Kingdome, and I wanted to know what call-in Elvis said last night."

“Nothing."

“Nothing? Don't tell me he sang instead?"

“Not a note, not a peep."

“That's ... odd."

“We don't have a date every night."

“Well ... it's really odd that he was mum last night when you know that an Elvis imitator was killed yesterday."

“Killed?"

“Not necessarily murder. Could be a bizarre accident. Electra and I found the body."

“I'm not going to ask how."

“Just by being the usual nosy. I'll spare you the lurid details. It's in the evening paper if you want to read it when your baby browns are open wide. You do sound beat. How can radio chit-chat be so draining?"

“Waiting for someone to call who doesn't can be a strain. And ... other stuff."

“Other stuff. Life is full of 'other stuff.' It'll be really interesting to see if your call-in Elvis stops calling now that this guy is dead."

“Why do you always see a death as linked to any nearby remote connection?"

“I don't see. I suspect. What does your gut tell you?" "That I got to bed way too late this morning and need something to eat."

“You want me to breeze upstairs and whip you up something?"

“No breezing, no whipping, and I would hope no snooping around the death scene."

“Can't promise anything. I'll let you know if anything fascinating turns up."

“It probably will. It always does when you're around." "Thank you!"

“Temple. Be careful. There are odd people out there." "Sounds like you've had your fill of talk radio already.”

He didn't answer, an ominous reaction.

“Let me know if Elvis calls again," she said. "Temple, that's a fantasy."

“Matt, this is Las Vegas.”

Temple thought about Matt while she drove to the King-dome.

He was usually as easy to see through as a crystal ball, but now, she sensed, he was trying to keep something from her. She couldn't tell if he was feeling worried—not a new emotional state for him—or jaded. Jaded definitely would be a new emotion. How could he be Down when so many Up things were happening to him? A new media career, a modicum of fame and fortune, hero status ... what more could any normal American boy want? Of course there were no normal American boys, or girls, just people muddling their way through the sweet mysteries of life. And now that Temple had ended the unhappy state of being torn between an ex-lover and one not-yet-and-maybe-never lover, she had no business being in Matt's life. What did a fallen-away Unitarian have to offer a recovering Roman Catholic celibate anyway? Temple smiled to recall Matt's astonishment at hearing that she had dropped out of a religion as broad-based and tolerant as the Unitarian Universalists, whose name said it all. Unification. Universality. She had neglected the Sunday sermons, that was all. The lessons stayed with you in spirit whether you were there in body or not. And she'd become so busy when she and Max began living together. A performing magician kept ungodly late hours, which didn't lend themselves to keeping godly Sunday mornings.

When Max had vanished a year ago, everyone had been so ready to believe he was just another skedaddling scoundrel. Not Temple. And Max finally had returned, to confess that he'd left to safeguard her from the secrets of his dangerous undercover past. Matt and Max. Light and dark, quite literally, and both dogged by the darkness of that eternal mystery, their own tangled family relations. At least her family was pretty uncomplicated, if a bit overbearing. But now Max the performer had been forced into hiding, and Matt the modest priest cursed with matinee idol looks had been pushed into the limelight. And wasn't sure he liked it! Did everybody get exactly what they didn't want? Was that the sweet-and-sour mystery of every life? Maybe even hers? Temple felt a rare nostalgia for her fleeting television reporter stint. Maybe she should have persisted in TV, found another on-air spot. Hosting a local talk show, say. Cohosting. She was so good at talking to people, at finding out things about them. Gee, if she had Matt's current opportunity, she'd be jumping in the air and clicking het heels, even if that did scuff good shoe leather.