Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (55 page)

That
Quincey was a pistol.

But
she was gone, and the dressing room emptied of
spectators with the expulsion of Quincey and her mother,
no doubt
bound somewhere well east of Eden.

Temple, left alone, stared a
little sadly at the impres-
sive rows of discount
store hair, eyes, teeth, and nail
products
laid out like leaderless soldiers whose general had been captured. Saddest of
all was the gaudy tube of
Daddy
Longlegs's Centipede Sweetie mascara, and the
spidery array of false eyelashes entombed in their clear
plastic packaging coffins like Elvis jumpsuits in
the
Medication Garden.

Enter the cause of it all, the snake, hissing, stage left.
"Psst! T. B.”

How could she have forgotten? The last Elvis Ex
ploiter, foiled at first and always. Her eyes met his in
the
mirror.

They
were alone.

Crawford—somehow
the title of Elvis's
King Creole
opening
number, "Crawfish," came inexorably to mind—
crept into the
deserted dressing room.

“Glad
to see you haven't gone ballistic, T. B."

“I
will if you continue to refer to me as an infectious disease.”

He
ankled over to stand beside her in the mirror.
"Why, Temple
honey, I didn't know you cared."
She elbowed him in the ribs.

“I'm done," he said,
doubling over.

“
Come on. I didn't hit you that hard."

“
It's not that." He looked up from almost black
eyes, large and accusing. "It's my emcee gig here tomorrow.
I need
my Priscilla."

“Maybe
you can talk Merle into doing it."

“Merle?
She's all wrong for the role."

“
Oh, come on! Anyone can impersonate a Priscilla
Barbie Bride. You could do it now that you've
shaved
off your stupid mustache."

“
I'm hosting the competition, much as I care any
more."
Without taking his arm from his midsection, he
collapsed onto a dressing table chair. "You're right.
None
of it matters. The King is dead. My career is dead.
Quincey will have to go to reform school; I won't have
the dough
to bail her out."

“
Craw-ford!
Since when were you going to lift a fin
ger for Quincey
anyway? You're always getting her into some gig no teenage girl should do. I'm
glad her mother has finally shown some backbone and jerked Quin from the
competition. How bad does it have to get before you
start thinking of someone besides
yourself?"

“
About as bad as this." He looked up, his face
stricken. Crawford
Buchanan stricken looked like a Chi
huahua
with Montezuma's revenge. Small and obnox
ious and big-eyed pathetic.
"I really idolized the King.
Wouldn't
admit it to just anyone, but I did. I was thrilled
to emcee this competition. I don't mind the impersona
tors. Maybe all together they only capture a tenth
of
what he had, but it's a tenth more
than we'd know about
today without them. Even lightning needs lightning
rods, huh?"

“
Maybe lightning bugs," she suggested pointedly.
"I'm not
sure I can go on," he sniveled.

Yes,
Crawford Buchanan sniveled as well as sneered
and leered. He
belonged in a bad melodrama, as if there
were any good ones.

“
You'll live," she said shortly, moving toward the
dressing
room door.

“
No, I don't mean I can't go 'on' on. I mean I don't
know if I can
go on stage tomorrow night. For the com
petition.
It's not only too soon after Elvis's death"—
Temple rolled her eyes
and found herself exchanging
exasperated
glances with a big fat spider on the ceiling;
how appropriate; even the insect world had no use for
C. B—"but it's dangerous out there. Someone
could kill
me by mistake."

“
Don't worry about it. I can't ever see it happening
that someone
would kill you by mistake."

“
What if the Elvis-killer is another impersonator, mad
to win? Or a deranged fan afraid a rediscovered
King
wouldn't live up to his old image? It could be anybody."
"That's absolutely right." Temple folded
her arms
over her chest, which even in his extremity of emotion
was attracting too much notice from Crawford Buch
anan. "Okay. I can provide you with
bodyguards, but
that's all."

“
I need a Priscilla to share the stage. It's a great part,
T. B.
—Temple."

“
Oh, sure. Stand around in the background like an
albino Christmas tree and then sling some
humongous,
heavy belt to the guy who
wins, all the time wearing
shredding
organza and unraveling seed pearls. And
maybe while I'm at it, a deranged fan/killer/maniac can
rush out and strangle me with a guitar string. Body
guards."

“
Who can you get for that?"

“Experts.
That's all you need to know."

“
There are enough guys
running around here in those
funeral-director
suits already. They haven't been able to
stop a thing."

“
Those aren't my bodyguards."

“Who
are they then?"

“I
can't tell you."

“
Then how do I know if they
exist and are doing their jobs?"

“
You'll just have to take my word for it.”

He frowned and squinted,
trying to squeeze out a fresh
glaze of
liquid to his eyes. Apparently he was done crying for the King. He only managed
to look constipated,
which was also appropriate.

Temple
turned to leave.

“Please!
I need a Priscilla tomorrow night."

“
Rent a
department store mannequin, then, and drape
what's left of the
wedding gown on it; I'm sure no one
in the audience will notice.
Now." She pointed a fore
finger.
"Out.”

He
slunk away like a whipped weimaraner.

Temple
sat on the vacated chair, feeling virtuous
about heeding
Matt's advice to take the sane and stable
road of noninvolvement.

He had been right. How
satisfying it was to turn C. B.

down cold, although it might have been fun to mas
querade
as Priscilla. If the dress hadn't been trashed, she
might have tried it, but no dress, no Priscilla, and one
less
Presley persona to worry about.

She glanced again at the many accoutrements neces
sary for recreating a late sixties woman, including
almost-white lipstick. Ick! How had they brainwashed
women into these universal "looks" back then?
Temple
liked to skim a fashion magazine
occasionally, and oc
casionally went after a
way-out nail color or a certain
article
of clothing, but she was mostly immune to the
color palette of the season or the next weird Hollywood
hair thing.

The soft scrape of a shoe on
cement made her look up.

A
man in black's silhouette filled the doorway. As she
watched, puzzled, he stepped into the room, drawing the
door
closed behind him.

Maybe the impenetrable sunglass lenses spooked her.
They
were as shiny and opaque as the bug-eyes on those
shrimpy albino aliens who were the official poster beings
of the
UFO set.

Whatever, the visitor was a tall, impassive guy, born
to
be typecast as either a mob enforcer or an IRS agent.
Temple theorized that they moonlighted as each other a
lot more
often than people realized.

Whatever his affiliation, government, crime, or out of
this world, his presence radiated authority and force, and
had Temple absolutely cornered.

She stood and backed up,
nervously, feeling her throat tingle and her stomach tighten.

“
Why do I get the impression," she asked, "that you're
not
hotel security?”

He
pulled off the sunglasses by one ear bow. "Good
instincts?" He smiled slightly, but she had already rec
ognized
him.

“
You're
... Bucek. Matt's Father Frank." She didn't
relax one bit. "You're FBI."

“
Thanks for saving me
digging out my ID. Now you
can do me another favor."

“
Favor?”

He nodded, pulled out the chair she had abandoned,
turning
it toward her.

“
I' ll stand." Temple
fanned her fingertips on the countertop for balance. Her knees were still
knocking slightly from the adrenaline rush of finding herself alone with
a
strange—and
strange looking—man.

Bucek shrugged and sat himself, holding his shades
loosely
in the hand he balanced on one knee.

“
I heard you tell Buchanan that you wouldn't step in
as Priscilla Presley in tomorrow's Elvis competition."

“
That's
right. Two men are dead, and the girl who
played Priscilla
has endured harassment and even per
sonal attack. I have no business
taking such risks be
cause 'the show must go on.' I'm just an innocent
bystander."

“
Excellent decision.
I'm sure Matt Devine would be
very happy to hear that."

“
How
nice for him, but I came to this conclusion all
by myself. So you
don't have to worry about my 'med
dling' in this case. I'm outa here.”

He smiled again, to himself.

“
I am outa here, aren't
I? You aren't going to arrest
me, or anything sinister? I didn't do it,
honest."

“
No, I'm not going to detain you at all, but there
is
that favor . . ."

“
I'm leaving, this very
instant. I'll be out of your hair
forever."
Temple pushed herself away from the support
of the countertop in demonstration of her imminent de
parture.

Bucek shook his head. "I'm afraid we're both about
to
disappoint Matt. I want you to stay."

“
Here? Now?"

“
I want you to stay for whatever time it takes to enact
Priscilla Presley tomorrow."

“
I'm sorry, you'll have to
get yourself another bride of Elvis. I'm absolutely determined to keep out of
it."

“
Again, an admirable
decision, and pretty atypical,
from
what I've heard from Lieutenant Molina, but
you're here. You know the setting, the actors, the cos
tume. We don't have enough time to prep a female
agent
and get her into place this fast. I don't like it, either, but
you'll have the agency's full protection."

“
Hah! That didn't help Lyle
Purvis much.”

Bucek sat forward, alert. "You knew he was a
target?"
"It was
pretty obvious after I found him dead."
"You
knew we were here?"

“
The Memphis Mafia security crew make a great
cover for G-men, but there were a few dozen too
many
of you running around.”

Bucek's smooth features suddenly roughened with a
new
insight. "And you had the fabulous, flying Fontana brothers to point out
dramatis personae to you."

“
They did mention the Mob, and the feds. And they
knew that the first victim, Clint Westwood, was a
minor
crime figure. Where do the bozos get these names?”