believe it when I see it. But at least I
might get to see your major crown of
thorns in a brand-new hairdo."
“ Oh, the
Crawf's Elvis pompadour does nothing for him, not that anything would. Try not
to laugh out loud." "The Crawf?"
“ His unofficial
stepdaughter's term. I had stereotyped her
as a rather vacant sleazehead, but it turns out that's just the façade of a typical teenager nowadays.
Quincey may not be a happy camper,
but she's not such a dim Coleman lantern, after all."
“ How could she be a happy
camper, with the Crawf for a father figure? I
recall Buchanan as an obnoxious combo of bootlicker and egomaniac, and I
don't find that particularly laughable.
Those people can be dangerous. That's what some of Elvis's Memphis Mafia
turned into."
“Obsequiously
overbearing?"
“Well, only obsequious to
Elvis; overbearing to every-one
else."
“Sounds big-time
dysfunctional."
“And what do you call this?”
Temple
lowered her eyes from the circling Elvis stat ues on high to the
milling crowds, among whom the Elvis-like black-shag wigs and industrial-strength sunglasses
materialized here and there. And this was just the
come-as-you-weren't public; they hadn't even en countered any genuine imitators yet.
“ You know," she mused, "Las Vegas could be the world's first theme park for the dysfunctional. I
never thought of the old town as therapy."
“ Or metropolitan enabler," Matt said. "I'm glad I skimmed Electra's books. This all should mean a lot more to me."
“ If it means anything at all," Temple agreed. "I thought
we'd take advantage of our on-site guide." "On-site guide?"
“The Priscilla impersonator.”
Matt's
pale eyebrows lifted. "The cynical teenager. Should be interesting. Can I expect
tattooed and pierced flesh?"
“Only razor-burned.”
This
time no screams led the way to Quincey's dress ing room.
In
fact, a uniformed Kingdome security guard blocked the backstage route to the dressing
rooms below.
A
Kingdome security guard uniform was the same Men in Black outfit Crawford
had affected yesterday: white shirt, black suit, narrow black tie, fedora, and ul tradark sunglasses.
“Sorry, folks." He laid
down the law with an in- character smirk that
wasn't at all obsequious. "This is off limits."
“ We're here to see Quincey Conrad," Temple said briskly. Brisk always sounded businesslike and, more important,
legitimate.
The
guard's head shook.
“Perhaps
I should say 'Priscilla.' "
“You
may be here to see her, but she's not ready to see you. We don't let in tourists, only people connected to the
performers."
“ We're
connected. Check with Crawford Buchanan, the emcee. He knows the value of publicity.”
The sunglasses kept her from reading any loosening of
presumably narrowed eyes, but the guy extracted a cell phone from the suit and punched in a predialed num ber.
“ Yeah. Fiorello here. You know a—" During a
long pause the impenetrable sunglasses
so reminiscent of the latest fashion
in alien eyes seemed to wordlessly inter rogate them. Then the guard extended the phone so Tem ple could
speak into it.
“Temple
Barr with Matt Devine from WCOO radio.”
The
guard clamped the phone to his ear for the reply.
In a
moment he nodded grudgingly and stepped aside, but barely enough to let them pass.
They brushed by
itchy-scratchy mohair into the same claustrophobic stairwell Temple had used
the day before.
“ This is so much nicer without the sound effects," she told Matt.
“ You mean Quincey's screams.”
Temple
nodded, surprised to find the hallway that had been so empty
yesterday full of colorful foot traffic. Elvi in various stages of development
(Young, Come- back, and Jumpsuit) and undress (no shirt, open shirt, navel-reaching
jumpsuit vee) hustled by, too busy to give
them a glance. Matt rubbernecked like someone at a tennis match
“ They sure have the look
down," Matt said. "No won der
rumors started that Elvis was alive and well and imitating himself.”
Temple darted
might get to see your major crown of
thorns in a brand-new hairdo."
“ Oh, the
Crawf's Elvis pompadour does nothing for him, not that anything would. Try not
to laugh out loud." "The Crawf?"
“ His unofficial
stepdaughter's term. I had stereotyped her
as a rather vacant sleazehead, but it turns out that's just the façade of a typical teenager nowadays.
Quincey may not be a happy camper,
but she's not such a dim Coleman lantern, after all."
“ How could she be a happy
camper, with the Crawf for a father figure? I
recall Buchanan as an obnoxious combo of bootlicker and egomaniac, and I
don't find that particularly laughable.
Those people can be dangerous. That's what some of Elvis's Memphis Mafia
turned into."
“Obsequiously
overbearing?"
“Well, only obsequious to
Elvis; overbearing to every-one
else."
“Sounds big-time
dysfunctional."
“And what do you call this?”
Temple
lowered her eyes from the circling Elvis stat ues on high to the
milling crowds, among whom the Elvis-like black-shag wigs and industrial-strength sunglasses
materialized here and there. And this was just the
come-as-you-weren't public; they hadn't even en countered any genuine imitators yet.
“ You know," she mused, "Las Vegas could be the world's first theme park for the dysfunctional. I
never thought of the old town as therapy."
“ Or metropolitan enabler," Matt said. "I'm glad I skimmed Electra's books. This all should mean a lot more to me."
“ If it means anything at all," Temple agreed. "I thought
we'd take advantage of our on-site guide." "On-site guide?"
“The Priscilla impersonator.”
Matt's
pale eyebrows lifted. "The cynical teenager. Should be interesting. Can I expect
tattooed and pierced flesh?"
“Only razor-burned.”
This
time no screams led the way to Quincey's dress ing room.
In
fact, a uniformed Kingdome security guard blocked the backstage route to the dressing
rooms below.
A
Kingdome security guard uniform was the same Men in Black outfit Crawford
had affected yesterday: white shirt, black suit, narrow black tie, fedora, and ul tradark sunglasses.
“Sorry, folks." He laid
down the law with an in- character smirk that
wasn't at all obsequious. "This is off limits."
“ We're here to see Quincey Conrad," Temple said briskly. Brisk always sounded businesslike and, more important,
legitimate.
The
guard's head shook.
“Perhaps
I should say 'Priscilla.' "
“You
may be here to see her, but she's not ready to see you. We don't let in tourists, only people connected to the
performers."
“ We're
connected. Check with Crawford Buchanan, the emcee. He knows the value of publicity.”
The sunglasses kept her from reading any loosening of
presumably narrowed eyes, but the guy extracted a cell phone from the suit and punched in a predialed num ber.
“ Yeah. Fiorello here. You know a—" During a
long pause the impenetrable sunglasses
so reminiscent of the latest fashion
in alien eyes seemed to wordlessly inter rogate them. Then the guard extended the phone so Tem ple could
speak into it.
“Temple
Barr with Matt Devine from WCOO radio.”
The
guard clamped the phone to his ear for the reply.
In a
moment he nodded grudgingly and stepped aside, but barely enough to let them pass.
They brushed by
itchy-scratchy mohair into the same claustrophobic stairwell Temple had used
the day before.
“ This is so much nicer without the sound effects," she told Matt.
“ You mean Quincey's screams.”
Temple
nodded, surprised to find the hallway that had been so empty
yesterday full of colorful foot traffic. Elvi in various stages of development
(Young, Come- back, and Jumpsuit) and undress (no shirt, open shirt, navel-reaching
jumpsuit vee) hustled by, too busy to give
them a glance. Matt rubbernecked like someone at a tennis match
“ They sure have the look
down," Matt said. "No won der
rumors started that Elvis was alive and well and imitating himself.”
Temple darted
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