Read Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit Online
Authors: Carole Nelson Douglas
Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (7 page)
“
I got to know her a little,"
were
working in the pageant together last fall.”
Merle nodded, frowning. "As 'pose-down models.'
That
doesn't sound too savory, but I supposed if an adult woman like yourself was
doing it—"
“You
didn't see the pageant?"
“
No. Quincey said it wasn't
much of anything."
sorbed
than agreement.
The romance cover-hunk contest had been something,
all right, even without murder on the menu, which there
had
been. The pose-downs involved steamy simulated embraces with ninety-nine and
forty-four one hundredth
percent impurely
unclad male cover models.
As for herself, well, she had been undercover at the time.
“
But this new thing Crawford's got her into—"
Merle
was saying.
back from that close en
counter with actual death as well as virtual desire.
"What
new
thing?"
“
With the new
hotel-casino. Of course they're making '
a big to-do about it, but Crawford's roped Quincey into
playing a 'role' at the opening, and I'm afraid it
could
be ... dangerous."
“
Wait.
What new hotel-casino? There are so many
right now, the
Belladonna, otherwise known as the Be
luga, for one."
“Oh, the really big
one."
“
There are so many
really big ones, as the late Ed
Sullivan would point out."
“
Huh? Oh, the `reeely big shew' man from early TV.
But
haven't you seen the signs?"
“
In the heavens?"
“
No. On the streets.
They're all over town: The King-
dome is Coming. The Kingdome is
Coming."
“
Oh,
those! I thought they were religious billboards."
"Not 'Kingdom.' Kingdome."
“
A new sports stadium?
At a hotel-casino? Makes
sense. The town hasn't fully tapped the sports
theme."
“
A new arena, all right. But for the King."
When
“
Elvis?" That name kept turning up in her life
with
uneasy frequency.
“
Yes. Everybody's been going
on about it."
“
Well, I was a little distracted, by some other things."
Like a few murders and a private life. "So
it's an Elvis
hotel. High time, sounds like."
“
Anyway, Crawford is
emceeing the Elvis imitator
contest.”
that. She could
hardly picture it without
laughing, but she could pic
ture it.
“
And he's talked Quincey into dressing up like
Priscilla Presley back in the sixties. The winner
of the
contest gets a championship
belt from the hands of
`Priscilla' and gets a date with her. Except it's
Quincey.”
gesture had started
feeling mechanical. She
could picture Quincey with
Young
Priscilla's sky-high-teased dark tresses, wearing enough eye makeup to weigh a
to her knees. Actually, Quincey was a natural for
the
role.
“And they want to kill
her," Merle added.
“What? Kill Quincey?"
“No, Priscilla!"
“But she lives in a
doesn't she?"
“
Maybe. I don't know where she lives! And they don't
want to kill that Priscilla anyway. Maybe just
mutilate
her a little."
“But—"
“
They want to kill the Priscilla who married Elvis in 1967 and divorced
him in 1973. I guess they've always
wanted to kill her."
“
Wait a minute! I don't know much about Elvis, but
who wants to
kill her?"
“
Everybody who loved Elvis hated Priscilla, Quincey
says. Either because they envied her when she
married
him, or they blamed her for
his downfall and death after
she left him."
“
Talk about a no-win situation. Then female fans are
the
threat?"
“
Sure. And some of the men, too. There was always a power struggle
between Priscilla and the Mafia, you
know."
“The Mafia's involved in
this?"
“
Not the plain Mafia. The Memphis Mafia, the guys
who were Elvis's bodyguards and gofers, who
Priscilla
was fighting for Elvis's time and attention."
“
You talk like all this was just yesterday, Merle. It
was over
thirty years ago.”
Merle picked up the cooling tea and drank deeply.
"I've been listening to Quincey chatter about it
night and
day. She's gone
ga-ga over the whole Elvis mania. She
calls it digging deeply into her role. I call it
obsession."
"Well, Elvis
was an obsessive kind of guy, to hear
tell.
It's only fitting his fans should follow suit."
“
Suit! And that's another thing. This is a very
costly
show. Those stupid jumpsuits
all the imitators wear cost
a small fortune. And then the hotel invited
all sorts of internationally famous designers to design new fantasy
jumpsuits for Elvis, some with real gems on them,
and
those are on exhibit. I tell you,
Miss Barr, the whole
Kingdome is a festering circus of the seven deadly
sins:
avarice and gluttony and pride and envy
and lust and—
what else was there?"
“Sloth,"
Temple answered absently.
“
That's why I thought of you," Merle said,
punctu
ating this interesting statement
with a last swallow of
cold peppermint tea.
“
Just
how concrete are these seven deadly sins get
ting?”
Merle leaned back to pet Midnight Louie again. He
had been as quiet and attentive as Temple had ever seen
him.
Perhaps he was interested in Elvis lore.
“
Well,"
Merle said, "I don't want to be an alarmist,
but Quincey is getting death
threats."
“
How. Telephoned? Written?"
“
Both. And yesterday, when she was in the dressing
room alone putting on all that false Priscilla
hair and
couldn't see, someone
sneaked up behind her, grabbed
her
around the throat, and cut an 'E' into her with a
razor blade, right
where her neck and shoulder meet."
“Merle,
this is a job for the police!"
“They
think it's just some Elvis nut."
“
Nuts
are called nuts because they're dangerous. What
do you think I can do?"
“
The
police are 'keeping an eye on things,' and hotel
security swears it's
going to be all over the place, but
there
are so many people in costume and weird get
ups ...
anybody could get around all that officialdom.
I
thought
it'd be natural for a
PR
woman to be on the site,
and you could, you
know, snoop."
“
This doesn't sound like a snooping job. This
sounds
like a body-guarding job." Temple's eyes opened wide. Merle
leaned forward, hopeful at last. "And that
I
might be able
to arrange."
“
Thank
you so much. You're such a good example for Quincey."
“
I
am?"
“Oh, yes. She said
you really got down and boogied
at that
romance cover-hunk pageant. She thinks you're
way cool for an old
person.”
Chapter 6
Blue Eyes
Cryin'
in the Rain
(Recorded at Graceland in 1976, the last song
Elvis ever sang the day he died, August 16,
1977)
The
King eyed himself in the mirror.
His hair. Finally showing the bends from dyin' all these
years.
Hair's only human. You bend it enough, it'll break. It'll just die.
His eyebrows were refusing to grow, like a cotton crop
that
had been water-starved
too often. Had to paint 'em on now. Mascara on his baby-blond lashes, dye on
his head and his
eyebrows, and even on his
chest hairs now that he was older
and
those born-waxed-smooth boyish pecs were growin' moss.
He'd gone white when they weren't lookin'. When he
wasn't
lookin'.
But
he hadn't been lookin' for a long time. Too long.
The
King blinked. At least his eyelashes weren't fallin' out, but they weren't the
thickets he was born with. Born blond. Blue-eyed blond. Wishy-washy. Momma's
boy.
Fixed that.
Black. Boot-black dyed hair, eyebrows, lashes. Black
'cycle
cap. Black like Brando. Wild Ones. Wild
Thing.
Wild
in the
Country.
One of those damn movies when he'd tried to get
serious
about bein' an actor.
The King frowned at his
reflection. He was an actor now, by God. Actin' like he was alive, still the
King.
As long as he could animate
this ole bod, he was.
The
heart of rock 'n' roll wasn't in no damn Cleveland. Or in Motown, and damn sure
not in Nashville. Ever. lt was in
Memphis.
On Beale Street. Always had been, even before he
got there. No kings in
Memphis, though.
That's
why he'd always liked the Luxor Hotel, when they put that puppy up. Even
downtown Memphis had its fake pyramid now, a big bow to the Egyptian forerunner.
He liked those Egyptians. Life after death and all that.
Very
mystical.
Sometimes he suspected he was one of them. Death
was
just crossin' that river. Over Jordan, over Nile. Let my people go. Did the
Egyptians have music? Must have. You can't have death or a civilization without
music.
Book
of the Dead. Hah! He was bigger than any ole Phar
aoh. He had collected whole Books of the Dead, mystical books
on eastern religions and numerology and all sorts
of intriguing
things, mountains and mountains of them. Whole pyramids.
His entire friggin' life had been a Book of the
Dead. Only no
one knew it.
Except maybe mama.
Mama.
Without
her, nothin'. With her, nothin' and everythin' pulling back and forth until he
was a piece of taffy. Blond taffy
in a black
wrapper; you know, the shiny little papers with the
twisty ends. So
tasty-sweet, like Krispy Kreme donuts, like
young
girls. Addictive. Gotta eat more and more of 'em, until
you burst.
Guess his end had been twisty enough. Twisted gut, damn
near drove him nuts the last few years. Distending his
stomach,
making his throne room the bathroom,
his crown of thorns a chronic case of constipation. His insides kinking up on
him, just like his outsides had. And couldn't say it, breathe it. He
was the King. No weaknesses. Nothin' snapped,
'cept the halr
on his head.
