Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (44 page)

“
I don't know what he called it, dear. All I know is
you're lucky that I remember that much. Can't you
check this out with the Animal Elvis attraction man
ager?"

“Yes, I can, now that you've
remembered something concrete." Temple glanced from Quincey to Electra.
The
effect was like a time machine. Over
thirty years ago,
Electra had—what
color hair?—and maybe had dressed like Quincey's Priscilla in white go-go boots
and teased
hair. On the other hand,
the real Priscilla, who was at
least a decade younger than Electra,
didn't look anything
like the older woman,
and probably never would, not
with all the anti-aging services Hollywood
had to offer.

“Fel-ton Jar-vis," Temple
intoned, mimicking Electra. Southern men's names had a certain elegance when
they
weren't the usual countrified Billy Bob
and Bobby Joe:
Rhett Butler. Lyle Purvis. Ashley Wilkes. Elvis Presley.
Felton Jarvis.

“
She's thinking," Electra whispered to Quincey. "It
doesn't
always come easy."

“
Hush your mouth!" Temple mock-snapped. And then
the subtlety
that had been nagging at her snapped back.
"Ohmigosh!
Elvis's name is in Fel-ton Jar-vis. El-vis.
Do you suppose that was a clue? Is that why the snake
was let loose in the pool with a dead man? Because
it
had a personal connection to
Felton Jarvis and therefore
Elvis
himself? Was Lyle right? Did an 'Elvis' have
something to do with the
mock Elvis's death?

“
Or did his anaconda?" Quincey threw in, looking excited. She turned
to Electra. "Where did you read about
that anaconda?"

“I don't know. In one of my
books."

“You actually own books
about Elvis?"

“Dozens."

“Can I come over to your
house and study them? If I
missed something as way cool as the snake, I need to."

“
I did loan some to
a friend, but I'm sure you could
look those over
too.
When do you get off here?"

“
The
rehearsal's over, so I can split."

“Great."
Electra stood. "Temple, coming?"

“No.
I need to find out more about Trojan here. There must be a keeper for that
miniature zoo somewhere."

“
Hope he isn't a miniature keeper," Quincey
said with
a giggle.

She
and Electra exited left, laughing.

Chapter 43

Too
Much
Monkey
Business

(A song Elvis
recorded—and never released—
during a truculent 1968 recording session,
the
first time his musicians noticed a
puzzling
personality change)

I am beginning to develop a deep sympathy for those
forced
to make their living as nannies.

This
conclusion comes home to me when I escort the
ingratiating
Chatter on an outing to the local zoo and gar
den, both happily uninhabited yet by humans, save for
the staff.

Chatter,
it seems, would like to hold my hand.
Apparently,
the chimp is used to being treated like a
child and likes to cling to his escort of the moment. It cannot have
escaped anyone's observation by now
that I do not have a hand.

Oh, I have useful forelimbs, aka arms, and clever pads
and shivs. But hands they are not, and they must double
as walking extremities. When I am afoot, they belong to
no
one but me.

So Chatter, being an inventive, clever chimp, settles
for
tightening his long fingers around my tail.

Oh,
the indignity!
Fortunately, this
is a clandestine outing.

We
have made our surreptitious way from the dressing room area, keeping to
shadowed halls, handy walls, and
hiding
behind the lush landscaping once we enter the
Kingdome itself.

Our situation is made even worse by the fact that I did
not care to take Chatter out undiapered, so he is wearing
his jeweled jumpsuit, which he was only too happy to don
at my request. I do not know how humans with offspring
keep
their sanity during these terrible Wonder Years. Perhaps they are called that
because parents are always wondering why they became parents in the first place.

But Chatter is happy to have a stroll, and keeps the
chit-chat
down, also at my request.

I
breathe a big doggy sigh of relief when we reach the
Animal Elvis exhibit unremarked upon. This has been one
of my
toughest undercover assignments yet.

“
Now, Louie, now? Chatter sing. Chatter swing. Now?"

“
Not yet," I tell him, trying to release my rear
member
from his tight grasp. "First we need to talk to
Trojan on
redirect."

“Huh,
Louie, huh? How we talk Trojan? I no talk Trojan. What redirect?"

“
Lawyer talk. I do not have an Esquire after my name
for nothing."

“
S-cried? Who S?"

“Never mind.”

I manage to ease Chatter around Rising Sun and Dom
ino.
He is all hot to crawl up on their backs and hang onto their "hair.”

I have never seen a critter so interested in hanging
onto the appendages of other creatures. What he made
of
Trojan, who has no appendages, I cannot imagine.

When we get to the snake pit, I let Chatter open the
lunch
slot and bounce in first.

If Trojan is in the mood for food, I am sure monkey
meat is much more nourishing than a few scrawny
feline
limbs.

But the big snake is pretty much where I left him yes
terday, doing the usual drowsing and digesting routine.
In
fact, he may still
be hypnotized by my soothing feline
wiles.

Chatter
jumps on his back and begins playing ride 'em,
Cowboy. It would take only two lazy coils of that svelte
muscular body to turn Chatter from a
three-dimensional being to a two-dimensional one, and I am tempted to let
nature
take its course and preserve my tail.

But my Miss Temple has mysteries to solve, so I sac
rifice poetic justice and the law of the jungle to serve
the
greater good.

“Off
the furniture!" I tell Chatter.

He
yips like a dog and bounds to the cage floor.

Trojan's narrow jet-black eyes blink. I have never seen
eyes so black. They are like pools of tar, and I know that
if I were not hypnotizing Trojan, Trojan would be mes
merizing
me into a menu item.

I begin purring, causing an irritated ripple to pulse
down
Trojan's long, long scaled and mottled back.

But this is the only way I can communicate with the big
fella. That reptilian tongue that doubles as a sniffer
does
not have a huge range
of vocabulary.

“You
remember Chatter?" I ask first.

The huge body shifts as if it rests on a nasty tack or
something.

“
I thought so. Did the monkey release you from the
cage?"

“
Yesssss." Trojan turns his massive,
spade-shaped
head the chimp's way.

“
Why did you take the opportunity to leave the
safety
of your, er, artificially accurate environment?"

“To
ssssee Vegassss.”

Is everybody a pushover for a good promotional cam
paign,
or what? "How about getting into the pool?" "Pusssshed.”

Now this is interesting. "Who pushed
Trojan?"
"Men. Men alwayssss pussssh Trojan
around."

“
Well, there's a lot of you to push. I imagine they think
they mean well.”

'Thesssse
men not mean well."

“How
do you know?"

“
They put Trojan in water with carrion. I like
fressssh
prey."

“
So you're saying that the dude was
dead before you
took a dip in the pool with him?"

“
Dude?"

“Man."

“
Man dead. Trojan try to play, but man dead."
"How long?"

“
In jungle river, piranhassss would eat all.”

I love the tropics: giant reptile stranglers, little bitty
flesh-eating fish. Before you can take
a bite out of them,
there will be
nothing left but your false teeth chattering
like a demented chimpanzee before sinking to the bottom
of the Amazon River. Remind me to stay north of the
Grand
Canyon.

Speaking of the devil you know, Chatter is getting rest
less
and wrestling with the twisted length of jungle vine.

It occurs to me that this is the narrow far end of the
mighty Trojan. I flash my shivs across Chatter's knuckles.
"Did you not see the signs
outside?
DO
NOT FEED THE
ANIMALS.
Which is what you will be doing if
you continue
to toy with Trojan's nether regions.”

With a shriek, the chimp desists, going
to
crouch
against the glass.

I remain in the middle, caught between two highly er
ratic animals.

“
So, sir," I conclude, addressing
Trojan respectfully,
which is the only way to
talk to a twenty-foot-long garrotte.
"Your
accidental dive into the pool had no bearing on the
life or death of the poor dude—man—who shared your
natatory endeavors?"

“Sssssay
what?"

“
Never mind. We will be leaving now. Is there
anything
we can do for you?"

“
If you encounter anything edible
besides yourssssel
vesss, sssshove it through the door
assss you leave.”

I
look at Chatter. It is tempting, but I still need the over
active little Elvis throwback. No wonder I would
dearly like
to throw him back to Trojan. Another day, perhaps.

Chatter is bouncing beside me as soon as we exit
single
file through the food door.

“
Can see more, Louie? Huh? Huh? Huh? Look up
skirts?
Huh? Huh? Huh?"

“
Sorry, kid. Dames do not wear skirts like they used
to.
You will have to get another
hobby." I do not mention that
I
took a peek for Miss Priscilla's garter belt just before
entering Chatter's storage closet a couple days
ago. That
was purely investigational.

I lead the way to my former hangout, the Medication
Garden.

I
have to stop the action right here to say that I do not
understand the great contempt in which Elvis is held for
liking a
mood-altering substance. My kind has a similar
weakness for a little herb called catnip in our honor. It is
true
that when we indulge in catnip we are transported to
moods beyond our normal range. We become kittenish and clown around and
roll around and generally cavort
around, to the amusement of all and
damage to none.
Apparently the nip that
Elvis used was less innocuous.
Perhaps if he had tried catnip, he would
have had all the
enjoyment and none of the
ill effects. Instead of "just say
no,"
perhaps humans should just say "hello" to catnip.
What could
it hurt?