Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

But she wasn't Matt, she wasn't a talk-show host, andher off-campus assignment right now was to check out :he Elvisfest at the Kingdome. Which was good, because the felt sorry for Quincey, and responsible for her in a weird, big sister way. And in that regard, she really needed to follow up on her Grand Plan.

Half of her Grand Plan greeted her when she reached the dressing room area.

They were attired as sea-to-shining-sea Elvis: from East-Coast glitter Mafia to Hillbilly Cat metallic-thread rayon to Country Crooner rhinestones to Western Swinger to West Coast glitz tux to Hawaiian neon.

“Fetch my rhinestone sunglasses, boys," Temple teased in a Mae West voice, hefting her forearm up before her eyes as if bedazzled. "So what's the status quo?"

“Vadis?" Hawaiian neon Elvis tried.

“I just need to know the basics: who died, who cares."

“Nobody knows yet—I'm not kidding." Hillbilly Cat Elvis was so cute in his fifties muscle shirt and narrow belt that Temple wanted to pinch his arched upper lip. "Somebody says he was from Chicago, I think."

“I suppose the Elvi come from all over," Temple observed.

“Not many Italians." West Coast Elvis twitched his shoulders in his sharkskin dinner jacket with the black velvet lapels.

The Fontana brothers may not have possessed Elvis's facial features particularly, but at a universal six feet even and all imperially slim, they gave Temple a pretty good insight into just how gorgeous Elvis must have been in his prime. Dude-licious, one might say, to go with babe-licious, phrases Quincey would no doubt approve. Or "dig." Or rock with.

“I imagine you hear all the gossip, being part of the show."

“Hey, we're more than that," Oversized Elvis sounded distinctly aggrieved.

“Yeah," said Fifties Elvis, "the management is using the pageant as an employee screening system." He executed a swivel-pose onto the balls of his blue-suedeshod feet. "Several of us have been offered permanent positions in the hotel," he added importantly

“Oh, really. And how would your brother Nicky at the Crystal Phoenix like that?”

Hillbilly Cat Elvis pouted. "He doesn't have nothing to say about it. He never offered any of us a job." "I didn't know any of you were pining for jobs." "We're not, but it's nice to be asked.”

It turned out that various brothers Fontana had been plucked from the mob, so to speak, for positions as gift shop sales clerk, parking valet, health club waterboy, floor show usher, waiter, bartender, and blackjack dealer.

“The idea is that every guest will get a young Elvis working his way up to serve them."

“He had a lot of different jobs even in high school," Karate Elvis put in. "That kid was no slacker.”

Temple shook her head. "Do you have to sing at any of these jobs?"

“Not a requirement. We can hum a little, though, and fidget our left legs." Fifties Elvis demonstrated with a slacks-shaking shiver.

“That was the birth of the Delta boogie, you know. Elvis was a nervous-energy kind of kid and was always twitching something, particularly his left leg. That's what really got his pelvis going. Who'd ever think a nervous tic would be the key to all those teen angels out there?"

“He caught on fast, though," Motorcycle Elvis said. "You guys are sounding like fans. Did you start out that way?"

“Heck, no, Miss Temple. Except for Aldo, we thought he was this square old guy in Liberace leftovers who liked to blast out songs like churchy stuff and 'Dumb Coyote.' "

“I know 'How Great Thou Art' was one of Vegas Elvis's staple hymns, but what was 'Dumb Coyote'?""You know, 'I am I, Dumb Coyote—' “

Temple stared, dumbfounded. These guys were her age, but they didn't have her broad background from doing public relations for a repertory theater. "It's not `dumb coyote,' "—she had to pause to keep from laughing herself sick—"it's 'I am I, Don Kee-ho-tay.' Don Quixote. From the musical, Man of La Mancha, based on Cervantes's eighteenth-century novel."

“I don't think that Man of La Muncha has played Vegas, Miss Temple."

“Well, not the hotels. I'm sure a touring company played the civic center at one point, years ago. During Elvis's heyday. Anyway, that's the show-stopping song from the musical play, and Elvis sang that."

“We didn't really think he'd call himself a dumb coyote."

“He was too cool a guy.”

Temple nodded, reminded how fast the plays and songs of the one day fade into the fads of the next generation, and how remarkable it was that no one was letting Elvis turn the same sepia-brown of memory.

Not while anyone was alive to don a jeweled jumpsuit and another man's dream, anyway. Another man's dream-turned-nightmare.

“Hey, Miss Temple, don't look sad. I got some news that will perk you right up."

“What is that?" she asked. They answered serially. "The scuttlebutt."

“Around here."

“Snake's off the hook."

“Didn't do it."

“Naw, the guy was throttled, all right, but the snake would have crushed his chest, not his throat."

“So the snake is as innocent as a lamb."

“Who's guilty then?" Temple asked.

“We don't know."