Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

(From 1968's Speedway)

"Boys," said Temple in her second-best Mae West voice, "you are the finest fairy godmothers a girl ever had." "Watch it!" Karate Elvis glowered.

Her hand dropped its instinctive caress of the new wedding gown, a column of shining white fabric and iridescent beads that hung from the otherwise empty rod in Quincey's dressing room. "How did Minnie make this up so fast?"

“Minnie made the first gown," said Oversized. "She loves a challenge, and you and Quincey are the same petite size as Priscilla.”

Temple lifted a swath of empire skirt. "Priscilla picked this style herself, off a rack. So much had been decided for her. I think the simple act of buying something ready-made was a statement. After she left Elvis, she ran a boutique with a friend. Picking and choosing,she who had so much picked and chosen for her."

“Elvis could be a little overbearing," Tuxedo admitted, clearing his throat. "Especially with women."

“Elvis could be a lot overcontrolling," Temple said. "Just like his mother. To them, it was a sign of caring."

“I haven't seen Miss Quincey about today," Motorcycle put in.

“She's coming along later. I'll help her get dressed. Now you guys, shoo! You've got wardrobes and makeup and lyrics and moves to tend to. I'll help Quincey.”

They scattered, excited despite themselves. Elvis had a way of doing that to people.

Temple confronted herself in the mirror. It awaited her, the impersonation of a career that never was. She went to shut the door, then dragged an ice cream chair from the dressing table and tucked its upper rung under the doorknob.

“Give a girl a little privacy on her wedding night," she whispered to the empty hall.

She went back to the mirror and began assembling her weapons: false eyelashes, false nails, white lipstick, black wig. She couldn't totally say why she was doing this, except that she agreed with Velvet Elvis: someone owed it to Elvis, or to Lyle Pervisse, or even to whoever had so hated to stop the music, but had to do it anyway, despite himself.

There's something about a show just about to go on. You can feel it in the air, all around.

You can sense it in your lonely dressing room, the thumps and stutters of preparations on the stage above, like a dead body being dragged out of a trunk and into the center spotlight.

The audience is sifting into their seats, chattering in the soft illumination of the house lights, deciding whether their location is good or bad, eyeing the other audience members' position and clothes, glancing at the naked, empty stage, almost afraid of catching some lowly set technician doing something overt.

They are listening for the first sounds of the low-profile backup musicians creeping into place one by one. Picking up and adjusting their instruments even though no one is supposed to notice them, these Rumplestiltskins of the gold about to be woven by the main attraction.

Elvis to the hundreth power.

Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.

Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.

Poor man, rich man, beggared by a thief.

Doctored and lawyered, and left to grief.

Victim, hit man, bridegroom, bride.

Singer, survivor, sweetheart, suicide.

Temple finished installing the fountain of illusion veiling over the high, illusory helmet of hair beneath it. Steel within smoke.

She looked as much like Priscilla as Quincey had, as any woman would who erected the same cage of artifice around herself.

Poor Priscilla, who could only free Elvis once she had freed herself from the gilded cage he had made her; only when he was dead, and none of it mattered but the trademarks.

Temple's fingertips trembled as she adjusted the veiling. This was a foolhardy thing to do. She had even deceived her stalwart defenders, but they had their own stage roles to play, and she feared their presence would intimidate the killer. Besides, she had Bucek's professionals looking out for her, promise.

The hair pick so essential to an evenly balanced beehive was clenched in her hand: six inches of pointed metal. Not much of a weapon, but easily concealed.

Bucek was out there.

And the Fontana boys.

And maybe even Agent Mulder, this being a natural X-Files case, but Temple didn't believe in that last notion as much as she believed in Elvis.

Because he, the original dead man, had driven every incident that had haunted this hotel opening, and had even impinged on the grounds of the Crystal Phoenix.

He meant something different to every person who thought he or she knew him, or loved him, or betrayed him. Sometimes a legend is so large he cannot be counted out.

This Priscilla outfit was made for entangling. Temple stood, arranged the folds, and floated to the door like a gorgeous ghost.

She was so totally retro. In the spirit, so to speak. Ready to meet a ghost on a parapet.

Ready to exact revenge. Extract justice.

Hopefully, the villain of the piece would cooperate. A knock sounded on her door.

She unjammed the chair, swept it aside, threw open the door.