up
the heavy receiver. Matt, parsimonious former priest, had ordered the least fancy model. She dialed a number
she knew by heart.
“ It's not . . . him," Matt mouthed suddenly,
glowering as much as one with his sunny blond looks could. He referred
to Temple's significant but often missing-in action other, Max Kinsella. Temple shook her head, un willing
to get into personal differences.
“ Hi!" she greeted whoever answered, her PR
person's voice set on High-energy
Percussion. "What do you know
about Elvis? Oh, really? No kidding. Can you get some to Matt's place?
Right now? Good."
“Temple,
what have you done?" he asked the minute she hung up.
“ I've brought in an expert witness: a fairy
godmother with a heavy Elvish fetish, it turns out."
“Who?"
“Oh,
a music lover of our acquaintance."
“Not
Lieutenant Molina." Matt sounded shocked.
Temple couldn't talk for laughing. "Holy Half-note! Not Molina. I wouldn't sic her on you for anything. She not only is convinced Max should be on the Ten Most Wanted List for something, but she thinks I'm a
pest who couldn't figure
out what's in the mystery meat for dinner,
much less decode a recipe for murder. Besides, she's into oldies older than Elvis. Can you imagine her and Elvis together? Ugh! Joan Crawford and James Dean. No way. You'll like your friendly neighborhood Elvis expert. I guarantee it." The doorbell rang.
"And here comes—”
Temple pranced to the door on her mid-heel pumps to
flourish it open.
Behind
it stood Electra Lark, wearing a subdued black-and-pink
muumuu and carrying two canvas bags bulging with books. She assumed the
wide-legged and -armed stance of an entertainer as she belted out:
“If
your baby done left you, You've found the right place to dwell.
The bellhop is a black cat, The
landlady's dressed in black, Down Las Vegas's
own Lonely Street, At Huh-Huh-Heartbreak Huh-Huh-Hotel.”
Chapter 16
Send in the Clones
(Elvis
never sang or recorded the schmaltzy ballad "Send in the Clowns," but
he should have)
"I
feel like a fraud," Matt said, examining the vast white elephantine bulk of the Kingdome complex shining
in the thin winter sunlight.
“You
do have a radio show," Temple pointed out. She locked the Storm and they started walking into King- dome World.
“ But not the kind of radio show that would ever wel come
an Elvis imitator."
“ Not knowingly anyway,"
Temple agreed.
“ And what makes you
think I could recognize a voice I heard only once among this horde of burning
hunks of love.”
Temple paused to eye him. " 'This horde of burning hunks of love.' That's good. Very hip. You must have absorbed
a lot from Electra's Elvis books last night."
“ A lot and not enough. I've
never glimpsed a more promising or a more
poisoned life story before, not even in
confession. These tell-all books do tell it all, don't they?"
“I don't know. I never read
them."
“ Virtuously indifferent
to other people's dirt, or just too busy?"
“ A bit of both, I imagine. So Elvis's private life
was as spectacular as his public success, huh?"
“ Both seem to have gone up and down. I can see why the mysteries of Elvis are so tantalizing.... What
is that?”
Matt had stopped to stare at the four-story-tall tilted guitar in the Kingdome's massive atrium. Heads could be seen zipping along the handle and strings while mu sical
riffs boomed out from everywhere.
“ It's a slide. A guitar
slide, get it? Popular with kids."
“ I guess making noise
always is," Matt shouted over the hullabaloo. "Are you sure I can use
my radio show as a pretext to listening to various Elvis voices?"
“ Who's to challenge you? Publicity-hungry Elvis im itators would cozy up to a scrofulous porcupine if
they thought it meant airtime. Speaking of which, Crawford Buchanan will suck up any attention this circus
can get him. You are Media now, Matt.
You can go anywhere and ask anything and people will trip over their own
toes trying to catch your attention."
“ I'll
the heavy receiver. Matt, parsimonious former priest, had ordered the least fancy model. She dialed a number
she knew by heart.
“ It's not . . . him," Matt mouthed suddenly,
glowering as much as one with his sunny blond looks could. He referred
to Temple's significant but often missing-in action other, Max Kinsella. Temple shook her head, un willing
to get into personal differences.
“ Hi!" she greeted whoever answered, her PR
person's voice set on High-energy
Percussion. "What do you know
about Elvis? Oh, really? No kidding. Can you get some to Matt's place?
Right now? Good."
“Temple,
what have you done?" he asked the minute she hung up.
“ I've brought in an expert witness: a fairy
godmother with a heavy Elvish fetish, it turns out."
“Who?"
“Oh,
a music lover of our acquaintance."
“Not
Lieutenant Molina." Matt sounded shocked.
Temple couldn't talk for laughing. "Holy Half-note! Not Molina. I wouldn't sic her on you for anything. She not only is convinced Max should be on the Ten Most Wanted List for something, but she thinks I'm a
pest who couldn't figure
out what's in the mystery meat for dinner,
much less decode a recipe for murder. Besides, she's into oldies older than Elvis. Can you imagine her and Elvis together? Ugh! Joan Crawford and James Dean. No way. You'll like your friendly neighborhood Elvis expert. I guarantee it." The doorbell rang.
"And here comes—”
Temple pranced to the door on her mid-heel pumps to
flourish it open.
Behind
it stood Electra Lark, wearing a subdued black-and-pink
muumuu and carrying two canvas bags bulging with books. She assumed the
wide-legged and -armed stance of an entertainer as she belted out:
“If
your baby done left you, You've found the right place to dwell.
The bellhop is a black cat, The
landlady's dressed in black, Down Las Vegas's
own Lonely Street, At Huh-Huh-Heartbreak Huh-Huh-Hotel.”
Chapter 16
Send in the Clones
(Elvis
never sang or recorded the schmaltzy ballad "Send in the Clowns," but
he should have)
"I
feel like a fraud," Matt said, examining the vast white elephantine bulk of the Kingdome complex shining
in the thin winter sunlight.
“You
do have a radio show," Temple pointed out. She locked the Storm and they started walking into King- dome World.
“ But not the kind of radio show that would ever wel come
an Elvis imitator."
“ Not knowingly anyway,"
Temple agreed.
“ And what makes you
think I could recognize a voice I heard only once among this horde of burning
hunks of love.”
Temple paused to eye him. " 'This horde of burning hunks of love.' That's good. Very hip. You must have absorbed
a lot from Electra's Elvis books last night."
“ A lot and not enough. I've
never glimpsed a more promising or a more
poisoned life story before, not even in
confession. These tell-all books do tell it all, don't they?"
“I don't know. I never read
them."
“ Virtuously indifferent
to other people's dirt, or just too busy?"
“ A bit of both, I imagine. So Elvis's private life
was as spectacular as his public success, huh?"
“ Both seem to have gone up and down. I can see why the mysteries of Elvis are so tantalizing.... What
is that?”
Matt had stopped to stare at the four-story-tall tilted guitar in the Kingdome's massive atrium. Heads could be seen zipping along the handle and strings while mu sical
riffs boomed out from everywhere.
“ It's a slide. A guitar
slide, get it? Popular with kids."
“ I guess making noise
always is," Matt shouted over the hullabaloo. "Are you sure I can use
my radio show as a pretext to listening to various Elvis voices?"
“ Who's to challenge you? Publicity-hungry Elvis im itators would cozy up to a scrofulous porcupine if
they thought it meant airtime. Speaking of which, Crawford Buchanan will suck up any attention this circus
can get him. You are Media now, Matt.
You can go anywhere and ask anything and people will trip over their own
toes trying to catch your attention."
“ I'll
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