Daniel Klein (2 page)
Authors: Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective
Silent Night
T
he reporters had been gone for several minutes before either Elvis or the Colonel said a word. Then, without looking at Elvis, Parker pointed his cigar to a corner of his office.
he reporters had been gone for several minutes before either Elvis or the Colonel said a word. Then, without looking at Elvis, Parker pointed his cigar to a corner of his office.
“You want to read scripts?” he intoned. “Well, I got a whole crate of 'em right over there. And that's just last week's. That should keep you busy for a while, son.”
Parker stuck the cigar back in his mouth and stalked out of his office.
Elvis walked slowly to the picture window overlooking the MGM lot. It was dusk, but there was still plenty of activity out there. Two guys in cowboy outfits sauntered by eating hot dogs. A mini tractor swung around them, towing a calliope on a flat bed. Standing in front of the door to Sound Studio C, a statuesque blonde puffed furiously on a cigarette; all she was wearing was a silk dressing gown that didn't quite cover her buttocks.
That feeling of steady calm that had come over Elvis when he spoke his desire to make a meaningful movie was already ebbing away. Up and down, back and forth, around and aroundâseems he couldn't hold on to any one feeling for longer than a minute. All his hankerings seemed to come in opposites these days. Like Ann-Margret and Priscilla. Those two couldn't be more different from one another, but each one seemed like the perfect woman when he was with the
other
one. Same for Graceland and his house in Bel
Air. When he was in Graceland, he felt all cooped up, especially now that Dad and that woman, Dee, had taken up residence. Still, not a day went by out here when he didn't find himself hurting for home. It even went for the Colonel. One minute he'd be thanking his lucky stars for sending him Colonel Tom Parker to lead the way on this fabulous joyride. And the next minute he'd be cursing the day he met Parker, reviling him for dragging him further and further away from the life and the music that were in his soul.
other
one. Same for Graceland and his house in Bel
Air. When he was in Graceland, he felt all cooped up, especially now that Dad and that woman, Dee, had taken up residence. Still, not a day went by out here when he didn't find himself hurting for home. It even went for the Colonel. One minute he'd be thanking his lucky stars for sending him Colonel Tom Parker to lead the way on this fabulous joyride. And the next minute he'd be cursing the day he met Parker, reviling him for dragging him further and further away from the life and the music that were in his soul.
Elvis turned from the window and ambled over to the corner where the Colonel had pointed. As promised, a wooden peach crate sat there piled high with faux leather-bound movie scripts. He picked up the top one, brought it to Parker's desk, and pulled the chain on the banker's lamp. The title was
Flubber Rock
by one Richard Persky.
Flubber Rock
by one Richard Persky.
FADE IN:
Long Shot
of 16-foot Chris-Craft bobbing in open sea, Gulf of Mexico. Two figures, a MAN and a WOMAN, both in bathing suits and snorkeling gear, dive off the side.
of 16-foot Chris-Craft bobbing in open sea, Gulf of Mexico. Two figures, a MAN and a WOMAN, both in bathing suits and snorkeling gear, dive off the side.
Medium Shot
as CAMERA descends underwater with them. We see the MAN (Mr. Presley) and the WOMAN (Tuesday Weld? Ann-Margret?) facing each other, bubbles emerging from their snorkel tubes. They are SINGING.
as CAMERA descends underwater with them. We see the MAN (Mr. Presley) and the WOMAN (Tuesday Weld? Ann-Margret?) facing each other, bubbles emerging from their snorkel tubes. They are SINGING.
SONG: “Bubbling with Love”
Elvis closed the script right there and pushed it to the corner of the desk. He went back to the peach crate, hunkered down, and pulled the next script off the pile,
Pickles and Cream
by Bruce Person. He opened to the first page, still crouching.
Pickles and Cream
by Bruce Person. He opened to the first page, still crouching.
FADE IN:
Long Shot
of Drugstore. Through the window, we
see a long soda fountain, every stool occupied by a PRETTY YOUNG WOMAN, and behind the counter, a HANDSOME YOUNG MAN (Mr. Presley) , is making an ice cream soda.
of Drugstore. Through the window, we
see a long soda fountain, every stool occupied by a PRETTY YOUNG WOMAN, and behind the counter, a HANDSOME YOUNG MAN (Mr. Presley) , is making an ice cream soda.
As the CAMERA MOVES INSIDE we hear the HYM SINGING.
SONG: “Two Scoops of Love.”
Elvis dropped the script back onto the pile.
Damnation!
Maybe he should stop making movies altogether and get back to just recording songs.
Real
songs, not cornball movie ditties with cornball titles like those groaners from
Kissin' Cousins
: “Barefoot Ballad,” my foot! And “One Boy, Two Little Girls”âthat one sounded like a nursery rhyme for slow learners. Those songs were about as authentic as Mountain Dew pop since they sold out to Pepsi. Worse. Coming as they did out of the Hollywood song mill, they had a built-in wink to show that these Tinseltown songwriters were superior to the songs they churned out. And surely to show that they were superior to the man who would sing them. Fact was, these Hollywood types couldn't write a genuine songâa song with a true heart and soul like “It's Now or Never”âif their lives depended on it.
Damnation!
Maybe he should stop making movies altogether and get back to just recording songs.
Real
songs, not cornball movie ditties with cornball titles like those groaners from
Kissin' Cousins
: “Barefoot Ballad,” my foot! And “One Boy, Two Little Girls”âthat one sounded like a nursery rhyme for slow learners. Those songs were about as authentic as Mountain Dew pop since they sold out to Pepsi. Worse. Coming as they did out of the Hollywood song mill, they had a built-in wink to show that these Tinseltown songwriters were superior to the songs they churned out. And surely to show that they were superior to the man who would sing them. Fact was, these Hollywood types couldn't write a genuine songâa song with a true heart and soul like “It's Now or Never”âif their lives depended on it.
Elvis was just straightening up when he saw the photograph lying in the Colonel's wastebasket. It was a photo of Elvis in an army uniformâa
real
army uniformâwith a guitar in his hands, and it looked like he was singing. Other soldiers all around him. And somethingâa tree?âjust behind him. Strange. He hadn't given any public performances while he was in the army. That was part of the deal: He'd insisted on being treated like any other private and that meant no performing, not even for the troops.
real
army uniformâwith a guitar in his hands, and it looked like he was singing. Other soldiers all around him. And somethingâa tree?âjust behind him. Strange. He hadn't given any public performances while he was in the army. That was part of the deal: He'd insisted on being treated like any other private and that meant no performing, not even for the troops.
He picked the photograph out of the wastebasket and held it under the desk lamp. That was a tree behind him, a Christmas tree. Suddenly, it came back to himâChristmas Day, four long years ago, in
Friedberg, Germany. He and his company had set up a Christmas party for a nearby orphanage, then returned to Ray Kaserne and decided to decorate their home away from home for the holidays. When they'd finished, one of the guys had brought out a guitar and started singing “The First Noel.” Pretty soon, everyone was singing “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Elvis was singing along too and at one point the guy handed the guitar off to him. They all kept singing until they got to “Silent Night” and then, one by one, the others dropped out, leaving Elvis to sing it solo. And sing he did, poured his heart into it for all the Christmas trees and Christmas dinners every one of his comrades would be missing that year. It had come out of him all gospel, the song singing itself. At one point, the guys with weekend passes started to file out and, when they passed by Elvis as he sang, they just touched his sleeve and continued to the door, not saying a word. When he came to the end with a soaring, “Sleep in heavenly peace,” no one clapped or cheered. They just stood there, silently happy and sad and grateful. Finally, Elvis had called out, “Merry Christmas, everyone” and they'd called back, “Merry Christmas, Elvis.” Elvis remembered thinking then, as he thought again now:
That is why I sing. That's
what it's all about, right there
.
Friedberg, Germany. He and his company had set up a Christmas party for a nearby orphanage, then returned to Ray Kaserne and decided to decorate their home away from home for the holidays. When they'd finished, one of the guys had brought out a guitar and started singing “The First Noel.” Pretty soon, everyone was singing “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Elvis was singing along too and at one point the guy handed the guitar off to him. They all kept singing until they got to “Silent Night” and then, one by one, the others dropped out, leaving Elvis to sing it solo. And sing he did, poured his heart into it for all the Christmas trees and Christmas dinners every one of his comrades would be missing that year. It had come out of him all gospel, the song singing itself. At one point, the guys with weekend passes started to file out and, when they passed by Elvis as he sang, they just touched his sleeve and continued to the door, not saying a word. When he came to the end with a soaring, “Sleep in heavenly peace,” no one clapped or cheered. They just stood there, silently happy and sad and grateful. Finally, Elvis had called out, “Merry Christmas, everyone” and they'd called back, “Merry Christmas, Elvis.” Elvis remembered thinking then, as he thought again now:
That is why I sing. That's
what it's all about, right there
.
Elvis saw that there was a faint pencil line circling the head of one of the soldiers at the edge of the photo and next to it the word “me.” He leaned his head closer. It was a baby-faced soldier with sleepy eyes and a loopy smile. Elvis had no idea who he was. Just another GI keeping up a brave face far from home. But why had he sent the photo? And why the heck was the Colonel throwing it out without showing it to him first? Colonel knew this was just the kind of photograph that Elvis saved for his personal photo album.
Elvis walked back to the wastepaper basket and squatted next to it. It stank of cigars and spit and fermenting pizza crusts. He poked around with one finger. Another photo, this one of a pretty young woman with bare shoulders and short curly hair. It had writing on it too in ink: “Elvis, I'll do anything you want me to. ANYTHING! I love you, Doris Frimel. Telephone 555-3298.” That's what passed
for fan mail these days. Elvis pushed it off to the side next to a cigar stub. And there he saw a crimped-up piece of blue-lined notebook paper with something written on it in pencil. He brought it back to the desk and ironed it flat with his fist.
for fan mail these days. Elvis pushed it off to the side next to a cigar stub. And there he saw a crimped-up piece of blue-lined notebook paper with something written on it in pencil. He brought it back to the desk and ironed it flat with his fist.
Dear Mr. Presley,
No reason for you to remember me, but this little photograph holds one of the happiest memories of my young life. It's a memory of a Christmas carol that raised up my spirits at a time when they were kind of sagging.
Let me be honest with you, Mr. Presley, I'm just another guy down on his luck who is reaching out to you. I bet you get letters like this all the time, so I wouldn't be surprised if you just crumpled this up and threw it away along about right now.
Elvis smiled to himselfâColonel had already taken care of that part. He read on:
Thing is, I'm in prison, California Correctional Institution up in Tehachapi, and I'm not just doing time, I'm doing the rest of my life. Murder, first degree, of a young girl. But you see, I didn't do it. I swear I didn't on the grave of my mother, Agnes P. Littlejon, may she rest in peace.
So here goes: I need someone to stand up for me. Stand up and prove they got the wrong man. It's gotta be somebody folks would really listen to. And you're the only person in the world I ever met who fits that bill. You don't owe me nothing, Mr. Presley, I know that. I'm just asking.
Gratefully yours for that long ago “Silent Night,” Freddy “Squirm” Littlejon
Elvis looked again at the photograph. No, he didn't remember Squirm Littlejon, just as he didn't recognize the hundreds of other faces he saw every day of people who surely knew who he was,
people who had even convinced themselves that they knew what was hidden in his heart, God love them. And heaven knows this man was right, Elvis didn't owe him a single thing.
people who had even convinced themselves that they knew what was hidden in his heart, God love them. And heaven knows this man was right, Elvis didn't owe him a single thing.
Suddenly, there was a tap at the open office door. Elvis looked up. Silhouetted against the corridor lights were Gene Nelson and the Colonel.
“Busy?” Gene asked.
“Kind of,” Elvis said.
“Just wanted to tell you I checked the dailies and there's a little problemâwe keep seeing Wayne's face in the hoedown. Can't cut around it, so we'll have to reshoot tomorrow morning. Only a half day, okay?”
Elvis clasped a hand to his forehead. At this particular moment, the prospect of prancing around hay bales for even one more minute felt like a twenty-year sentence on a chain gang.
“I told Gene we don't having anything else scheduled for tomorrow,” Colonel Parker said brightly, sauntering toward his desk.
Reflexively, Elvis spread his hands over Littlejon's letter, but it was too lateâBarker's eagle eyes saw it, and he was already shooting Elvis one of his scolding stares, the kind that said, “
Don't get distracted by that nonsense, son. Keep your eyes on the prize!
”
Don't get distracted by that nonsense, son. Keep your eyes on the prize!
”
“No problem at all, Gene. I'll be there bright and early,” Elvis said evenly, averting his eyes from Parker's. “But if you gentlemen will excuse me now, I got some personal business needs taking care of.”
Colonel Parker fired off another admonishing glare but Elvis glared right back at him, and this time it was Parker who looked away. He must have seen the venom in Elvis's eyes, a look that said,
“Don't push me, Colonel, or I'll throw this damned desk lamp
right in your face!”
“Don't push me, Colonel, or I'll throw this damned desk lamp
right in your face!”
The moment the two men left, Elvis lifted the phone on Parker's desk and asked the MGM switchboard operator to connect him with the California Correction Institution in Tehachapi.
“I'd be happy to, Mr. Presley,” the operator said. “Is there anyone in particular you wish to speak to?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Elvis replied. “Man named Freddy Littlejon. He's doing time out there.”
Elvis snapped off the lamp and put his feet up on the desk. Priscilla and the gang would be waiting for him at home. There had been talk of a wrap party out at the house to celebrate the completion of
Kissin' Cousins
. Of course, Priscilla would have heard about the Ann-Margret interview by now. He definitely wasn't looking forward to the conversation they would be having about that. It was hard enough having two opposite feelings about everything without a woman with tears in her eyes begging you to have one pure heart.
Kissin' Cousins
. Of course, Priscilla would have heard about the Ann-Margret interview by now. He definitely wasn't looking forward to the conversation they would be having about that. It was hard enough having two opposite feelings about everything without a woman with tears in her eyes begging you to have one pure heart.
The operator said, “Go ahead,” and a man's voice said, “Mr. Presley?”
“Yes, this is Elvis.”
“My Lord, what a fine surprise this is,” the man on the phone said. “I'm Bob Reardon, warden of CCI. Funny thing is, I just this minute heard them talking on the radio about you. About an interview you gave this afternoon.”
“How about that?” Elvis said. Trifling news traveled fast out here in California.
“I hear you want to talk to one of our residents,” the warden said. “Squirm Littlejon.”
“That's right, sir,” Elvis said.
“Call me Bob, please,” the warden said.
“Okay, Bob.”
“Did you want to meet with Squirm in person?”
“Just on the phone should do it,” Elvis said.
“Between you and me, Mr. Presley, you can't tell much from a phone call with a con. Gotta see their eyes, you know?”
Elvis rubbed his jaw. What was this Reardon fella getting at?
“Normally, setting up a face-to-face is no easy thing,” Warden Reardon went on. “Takes a load of paperwork. But I've been known to make exceptions under special circumstances.”
“That's encouraging to hear,” Elvis said.
“What are you doing right now, Mr. Presley?” the warden blurted out abruptly, with a self-conscious laugh.
Elvis gazed out the picture window of the Colonel's office. It was completely dark on the lot now, probably past eight o'clock already. What was Mr. Presley doing right now? He was sitting alone in a dark room in a movie studio trying like crazy to put off going home.
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