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Authors: Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley

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BOOK: Daniel Klein
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The crowd around Elvis had thinned down to just a couple dozen, including the two roustabouts who had carried him up to the bandstand. He asked one of them if they could show him exactly where the bull had gored Will Cathcart to death and again the crowd moved with them, like bees around a Queen Bee, to the main-event corral. There was nothing much to see there—no blood, no scraps of clothing. Less than an hour after Will's body had been carted off, the bull-wrassling competition had continued on the same spot. All in a day's work. Now one of the roustabouts leaned in to Elvis's ear.
“Want to see the bull?” he asked.
“Yup.”
The young man led Elvis to a stable just outside the corral's far end. At its entrance, he told Elvis that it would be better if they went in alone; Elvis asked the crowd to excuse him for a bit and they stayed behind respectfully. Then he swung on his crutches over the hay-strewn floor to a stall by the wall. The roustabout swung open the stall door. There lay a Celtic shorthorn of easily nine hundred pounds. It was dead.
“They kill him right after?” Elvis asked.
“Would have,” the young man said. “You always kill the bull who kills a man. But didn't have to this time.”
“How's that?”
“Bull died on his own just a few minutes after.”
“What from?”
“Don't know. Just keeled over dead right next to young Will.”
“That ever happen before?”
“Only once. Turned out the bull had a bad case of high blood pressure—made him go crazy and then have a heart attack.”
Elvis set a foot on the bull's rear shank.
“Would you do me a favor?” he said. “Get a vet over here and find out what killed him. I'll foot the bill.”
Elvis pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and started to peel off fifty-dollars worth, but the young man held up both palms in a gesture of refusal.
“This one's on me, Elvis,” the young man said. “We never can repay you for what you done today.”
Elvis gave the roustabout Regis's phone number and told him to call after the vet did his autopsy.
By the time Elvis pulled in to the Stardust Cabins near Yosemite, he could barely keep his eyes open. It was just a little past midnight and he'd intended to drive all the way back to L.A., but the minute he got behind the wheel, his ankle had started to throb worse than ever—that prancing around on the bandstand hadn't done it any good—so he'd chewed down a painkiller and, soon enough, he'd been doing the vehicular equivalent of sleepwalking.
The check-in clerk was an old guy in an Indian-rug bathrobe who looked like he'd just woken up and wasn't too happy about it. He didn't appear to recognize Elvis, but after they'd done the paperwork he said, simply, “You done good in Sparks, Elvis,” and then rambled back to his La-Z-Boy recliner.
As soon as he entered his cabin, Elvis switched on the TV for company, then flopped down on the bed with his boots on. He was out in a minute.
Elvis's dream came in fits and scraps. One minute he's singing “Love Me Tender” to a herd of bulls, the next he's doing the wash with his mother at the Laundromat in Tupelo. Doing it with Rinso and singing the Rinso White ditty with the box in his hand. It was one of those dreams where he knew he was dreaming and the thought popped into his head that this Rinso business was product placement
—product placement in his own dream
! Now who in heck had arranged that—the Colonel? The dream bounced on: Regis dancing the tango with Delores in the Santa Teresa Botanical Garden, but
when Regis swung around you could see that half his cheek was gone, and his right eye was hanging out by a thread. Except that it wasn't his eye, it was Elvis himself, dangling from the ceiling by the Stuntman's Mistress. “Mr. Presley was allegedly spotted singing at a rodeo today in Sparks, Nevada, adding one more twist to the mystery of his disappearance.”
Elvis's eyes fluttered open.
“For more on this breaking story, we go to Rich Fitzpatrick in Hollywood.”
“Bill, I'm standing here with Patrolman Tom Schultz of the LAPD. Officer Schultz is the last person to have seen Elvis since he slipped away from the MGM studios Tuesday afternoon.”
Elvis pulled himself up against the headboard and squinted at the TV.
“I'll tell you, Rich,” Schultz was saying. “Elvis looked strange, real strange. Eyes all bleary, like he'd been crying. Face red. And he was real agitated. Like I said, he was doing ninety miles an hour when I pulled him over, and first thing he does is start talking about recording this duet with Hank Snow, right there in his car.”
“Incredible,” the reporter said. “Tell me, Officer Schultz, in your opinion had Mr. Presley been drinking?”
Schultz bit down on his lip. “No, not
drinking,”
he murmured tentatively.
“Are you suggesting that he'd been taking drugs, Officer?”
“That's not for me to say, is it?” Schultz said
“Back to you, Bill.”
Elvis rubbed his eyes. No, he was awake all right. So what the devil was going on here? Exactly how long
had
he been away from his house on Perugia Way? Tonight, here, last night in Santa Teresa, and the night before with Regis. Three nights and he's a missing person?
“One unconfirmed report has even placed Elvis in London, holed up in the Cummington Arms Hotel with his latest Hollywood conquest, Ann-Margret,” reporter Bill was saying.
Elvis rolled out of bed, hopped over to the TV and snapped it off.
Damn every last one of them! He limped back to the bed and picked up the telephone receiver from the bed table, but immediately dropped it back onto its cradle. Who the heck was he going to call anyway? The Colonel, so he could take some abuse for not reporting his whereabouts every minute of the day? Priscilla, so he could listen to her weep while he assured her that he was not holed up in London with Ann-Margret?
He pulled off his boots and lay back in the bed. He felt a smile creep up on his lips before he realized what put it there. Man, it felt good to be a missing person. It was probably the closest thing to freedom he could hope for anymore. Selma had once told him about a famous writer who faked his death and changed his name just so he could get his own life back.
This time when Elvis closed his eyes, he was blessed with a dreamless sleep that was all music.
Suffocating Demon
“I
t's all over, Elvis!
Done! The end!
”
Regis was standing unsteadily in the doorway to his office with a glass of Scotch in his hand when Elvis came hobbling up the stairs the next morning. Regis looked like he had been drinking since daybreak; so much for the resolutions of newfound love.
“What the devil is wrong with you, man?” Elvis limped up to Regis and made a grab for his glass of booze, but Regis swung it away, spilling half its contents in the process.
“I tell you, it's over!” Regis yanked a folded
Los Angeles Times
out of his jacket pocket and thrust it in front of Elvis's face. “Read all about it! You
both
made the front page, big guy!”
Elvis grabbed the paper and limped over to the window. The lead story was about the FBI's preliminary report on the Birmingham church bombing and the second lead was about President Kennedy's upcoming visit to Dallas; sandwiched in between were two short news columns. The one on the left was headlined “The King Surfaces: Elvis at Sparks Rodeo Benefit.” And the headline right next to it was “Killer Escapes CCI: Littlejon Squirms Loose.”
“God Almighty!” Elvis cried. “When did this happen?”
“Middle of the night,” Regis said.
“How'd Squirm do it?”
“How do you think, movie star? It was a set-up. Somebody on
the inside showed him right to the door. They
wanted
him to escape!”
“It says that here?” Elvis scanned down the article.
“Of course not!” Regis blasted. “Your pal Reardon says they took Squirm to the prison infirmary in the middle of the night because he was complaining of chest pains. They turned their backs and,
abracadabra,
he's gone. And if you believe that, pal, I've got a nice deal for you on the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“It could've happened that way,” Elvis said. “Squirm's a slippery guy. That's how he got his name.”
“He's slippery, but he's no magician,” Regis said. “One thing Reardon fails to mention is that there hasn't been an escape from CCI in thirty-two years. Tight as a drum. Why now? Why Squirm and nobody else? I'm telling you, it was a set-up.”
“But why in heck would they
want
him to escape?”
“So they can track him down and shoot him, no questions asked,” Regis said. “The giveaway is that Reardon insists that Squirm is armed and dangerous. The Singing Warden doesn't have a clue how Squirm escaped, but he's dead sure he's got a gun. And that, my friend, is license to kill him on the spot.”
“Why the heck do they want to kill him? They had him locked up for life.”
“Because that'll put an end to any questions the public has,” Regis said. “Nobody ever believes an escaped con is innocent.
Never.
They figure he wouldn't run if he was innocent. This way, the case gets put to rest for good. Escaped killer shot, end of story. Squirm was an idiot for going along with it, for thinking they were really just letting him get away scot-free. Now he'll be a dead idiot.”
“But he's a convicted man, Regis!” Elvis bellowed. “Nobody gives a hoot what the public thinks about him.”
“Not before they didn't. But they do now. Ever since last night when the King of Rock ‘n' Roll decided to become a social protester.
Mister
Joan Baez. Suddenly, the whole world is talking about Squirm Littlejon.” Regis pointed a shaky finger at the article that Mike Murphy had written in the
Times
about Elvis.
Elvis skimmed down the story:
… Elvis dedicated his next song, “Jailhouse Rock,” to Squirm Littlejon {
see adjoining story
}, declaring that the convicted murderer of actress Holly McDougal was innocent, “a man who was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Anonymous sources have informed the
Times
that Mr. Presley is currently sponsoring a private investigation of the Littlejon case with the intention of reopening it. Apparently, Presley believes that Mr. Littlejon was framed for the crime and that the guilty party is still at large. Presley's investigation may, in fact, account for his mysterious absence during the past three days.
“That was a dumb mistake, I guess,” Elvis said quietly.
“You bet it was, movie star!” Regis retorted mercilessly. “As soon as Littlejon became a cause
celebre,
somebody decided to act fast. And, God damnit, they did! They set him up like turkey in a barrel.”
Elvis hobbled over to the chair across from Regis's desk and sat down heavily.
“I'm sorry, Regis,” he said. “I got carried away by all that feeling over there in Sparks. I dedicated a love song to you and Delores too.”
“How touching,” Regis intoned sarcastically as he filled his glass again. “That's over too, you know. Who the hell did I think I was kidding? A second chance for Regis Clifford? The drunk falls in love and turns over a new leaf? Sounds like some cornball country ditty. Give it to your songwriters, pal. You can make another million.”
Elvis felt himself flinch inside. What in the name of God was he doing taking this abuse from a bitter, drunken bum he'd only met a few days ago? He'd gone out of his way to help the poor guy, for godssake—way out of his way. Given him money, given him hope. And this was the pay-off? It was bad enough that Regis had forgotten who he was talking to, but had Elvis forgotten himself? He was
Elvis Presley,
for godssake! Regis Clifford was lucky he even gave him the time of day.
Elvis felt a sickness in his gut. He reached for his crutches. Regis
was right about one thing: it was over, all right. All over. Once they tracked down Squirm—once they
shot
him—no one would have the stomach to reopen his case. Not a single judge in the entire state of California would risk disclosing that not only had they jailed the wrong man, but they had killed him too. That is exactly the kind of public disaster that the people in charge will do absolutely anything to avoid—including burying the truth along with Squirm Littlejon.
“Here's your money back, movie star. Nobody can say Regis Clifford ever kept a nickel he didn't earn.”
Regis flung some crumpled bills onto his desk. Elvis gathered them up and stuck them in his pocket without looking at Regis. Then he braced himself onto his crutches and started for the door. That awful feeling in his gut was getting worse, reaching up to his chest and making it hard for him to breathe. He was in the corridor now. He glanced up and there he was again in Doc Goldstein's mirror: Elvis Presley, the King of Rock ‘n' Roll, limping along a dingy hallway in West Hollywood with two days' growth on his face. The misbegotten twin. The
loser
twin. Well, damn it, Regis could have that role all to himself. Elvis had better things to do with his life.
Elvis looped his right arm through both crutches, then braced his hands on the handrail and started hopping down the stairs, the tips of his crutches bouncing on the steps behind him. Okay, so Colonel was right—he wasn't cut out for this line of work. He'd been greedy to think he was. The good Lord had made him a superstar, wasn't that enough? All this snoop business gave you was a lame foot and an abusive partner. And let's face it, Elvis had done more harm than good these past few days. Some
real
harm too. Like if Will Cathcart really was murdered, that was on Elvis's head. That surely wouldn't have happened if he hadn't stuck his nose in.
Elvis halted on the stairs, gasping for breath.
God forgive
me! He hadn't actually thought about it that way before:
Jilly-Jo Cathcart was a widow because of him! Her husband had been about to give him incriminating evidence, so they shut him up for good
. And now Squirm too—he'd be sitting in prison, but at least he'd still be alive if Elvis hadn't butted in.
God help me, I've done terrible harm
!
Elvis limped slowly down the rest of the stairs, pushed open the door to the street, and drew in a lung full of fresh air. A Latin beat pulsed out of the open door of the record shop. Elvis leaned on his crutches, listening. It was one of those heroic-sounding Spanish numbers with a wailing solo trumpet. The horn sounded sorrowful and brave at the same time, like a bull fighter who's down and bleeding bad, but won't give up—not yet. Not
ever
.
If Elvis just walked away from this whole rotten business, Holly McDougal's murderer could rest easy for the rest of his life. Same for whoever turned Jilly-Jo Cathcart into a teenage widow.
Now what kind of man turned his back on that
?
Elvis spun around. He left his crutches leaning against the outside wall, hobbled back up the stairs, and stumbled into Regis's office.
“It ain't over, Regis!” he bellowed. “None of it!”
Regis looked up at him from his desk, a sneer plastered on his plastered face. He was drinking straight from the bottle now. Elvis lunged across the desk and smacked the bottle out of his hand. It bounced off the wall and shattered on the floor. Regis cringed, his hands flying up in front of his face like a terrified child.
“You're a quitter, man!” Elvis snarled. Regis didn't move. “Yesterday you said your life had turned around, and today it's like nothing happened. So you got ghosts! We all got ghosts, Regis! You got LeRoy, I got Jesse Garon and then some. But you've turned yours into a stinking alibi! An alibi for being a loser and giving up on your God-given chance to love a good woman with one pure heart!”
“Leave me alone, Elvis.”
“Hell I will!” Elvis snapped back. “We started this thing together and we're going to finish it together. Now put your head under the spigot and let's get to work.”
“What work? Squirm is—”
“He ain't dead yet. At least far as I know. Wash your ugly face, Regis. Sober up, man!”
Elvis picked up the phone, dialed the operator, and told her to get him the number for the
Los Angeles Times
. Seconds later, he was put through to Mike Murphy at the city desk.
“Mr. Murphy, this is Elvis Presley.”
“Sure, buddy. And I'm Frank Sinatra.” A pause and Elvis heard Murphy's muffled voice call out to his office mates, “Got another ‘Missing Elvis!' Number three this morning!”
“Listen, Mr. Murphy, I made your acquaintance the other day at a press conference over at MGM. You're the one asked me to comment on something Hal Wallis told you. Something not too flattering, as I recall.”
“Jesus, you
are
Elvis, aren't you?”
“Through and through,” Elvis said. “We don't have much time, Murphy, so listen up. I've got reason to believe Squirm Littlejon's escape is no accident. It's a set-up so the authorities can hunt him down. Hunt him down and kill him.”
“Jesus!”
“Murphy, you got to get this out fast so they don't dare do it. So folks will get riled up real bad if they even try. It can't wait for tomorrow's paper. Can you do that?”
“I can put it out on the wire. They'd pick it up on radio in less than an hour,” Murphy said. “But, Elvis, I need more. A lot more. Like who the hell set this thing up? And I need to know for sure that it's really you. I can't run with a story like this without—”
“It's me, all right, and time's running out. The troopers could have Littlejon in their sights already.”
“If this is a hoax, I'll lose my job, damnit.”
“Your
job
, Murphy! Not your
life
!”
“Where are you, Elvis?”
“West Hollywood,” Elvis said. “I'll tell you exactly where if you promise to put that story on the wire right now.
Immediately
! Then you can get yourself over here and I'll give you more. An exclusive.”
A long pause at the other end. Then, “Deal. Where are you Elvis?”
Elvis gave him Regis's address. “I'll be here for an hour, no longer,” he told the reporter and hung up.
Regis was back standing behind his desk, water streaming down his face onto his jacket. He looked halfway to sober.
“Get me Dr. Garcia on the phone,” Elvis barked at him.
Regis snapped to the task like an army recruit. He handed Elvis the phone while it was ringing at the other end. Delores Suarez picked up in Santa Teresa.
“Buenos tardes
.”
“Dr. Suarez, this is Elvis. I'm back in California with Regis and I got to talk with Dr. Garcia, ma'am. Is he there?”
Garcia came on the line a moment later.
“Hector, we got an emergency going up here. Littlejon's escaped and they're hunting him with rifles. We've gotta move fast. Can you get yourself up here right away? I'll pay for everything, of course.”

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