Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

So here in the Kingdome, Elvis himself was like an invisible, entombed pharaoh surrounded by all the pomp and circumstance of his life, except his own image.

While Temple was mulling over the symbolism of the Absent Elvis effect, who should come walking toward her but ... Elvis.

He was wearing a white jumpsuit punctuated with gold metallic studs and gleaming gemstones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald.

Temple had seen a lot of extravagant, outré, bizarre, and dazzling effects in Las Vegas. She had always seen the man behind the curtain: the special-effects wizard who pulled the strings and set off the fireworks and who murmured, constantly, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain." Colonel Tom Parker, if you will.

But there was no curtain here.

There was only Elvis, finally, in the flesh-and-blood form.

Walking toward her.

A movement to the side caught her eye.

There was Elvis, sleek in hair cream and black 'cycle leathers.

Walking toward her.

She blinked.

Another Elvis at three o'clock high, this one attired in a martial arts gi—white pjs, really—banded here, there,and everywhere in red satin and sashed in black satin at the waist.

On they came, like a mirror image trio of gunslingers: three incarnations of Elvis, the hair and sideburns all of one piece, like a gleaming dark helmet, the garb light and dark, like hero and villain in one and the same form. Then came the fourth Elvis.

He carried an ornate cane and a flashlight (of all things). His belt and his cloak clasp were swagged in chains of gold, his dress vaguely Regency style, the Emperor Elvis. I, Dracula meets the King of Rock 'n' Roll. Temple had prided herself on never actually stopping and gawking at anything or anybody in Las Vegas. But now she did both.

She suddenly understood the utter genius of the King-dome: no image of the King himself was allowed, so the place was crawling with imitators. If No One could be Elvis, Everybody Else was.

While she stood there trying to absorb the existential implications of being, and not being, Elvis, someone had approached her from behind and now spoke.

“Awesome, isn't it, T.B.?”

She whirled. Facing her was someone far more familiar, but a sad let-down from the high-camp presence of the Magnificent Four Elvi.

“You don't seem surprised to see me." Crawford Buchanan sounded peeved.

Let-down could hardly describe the anticlimax that Crawford Buchanan embodied. He was a short, slight man, neat as some scavenger carnivore. His full head of hair, last she had seen it, had been a silver waterfall that curled into froth at his nape. Now it was dyed jet black with moussey aspirations to a pompadour. Not to mention sideburns.

His voice was the same night-radio baritone, oily and suggestive.

His attitude was dyed to match his hair, or maybe it had always matched his current style: preening sexist smirk.

Temple suddenly remembered why she had never liked Elvis, impressive though his persona could be. She also realized why she felt obligated to help Merle with Quincey. Crawford Buchanan wasn't warped enough to molest a girl, but he wasn't above using Quincey as a nubile draw in his selfish schemes. What an unspeakable pseudo-stepfather for a teenage girl!

“So the place is thronging with ersatz Elvi," she said. "Is that just for the contest, or will they be a regular feature?"

“Oh, the contest is just the opening salvo. The impersonators will be fixtures, a doorman here, a croupier there. That way the customers can get up close and personal with Elvis."

“You actually think a Las Vegas hotel-casino can succeed without anything genuine to its real theme on the premises?”

Buchanan's shrug drew attention to his black mohair suit, white shirt, and narrow black sixties tie.

“Since when did you start dressing like a Jehovah's Witness?" she asked.

“This isn't that look! This is the Memphis Mafia look. Maybe this will give you the right idea." He whipped a pair of ultradark sunglasses with heavy black plastic frames from his breast pocket to his face.

“You still look more like Men in Black than Mafia from Memphis."

“And you still look like a million dollars, T. B." Crawford flipped up his shades to leer. "What are you doing over here anyway?”

Temple ignored the leer; it came with the territory when one ventured into Crawford Buchanan Country. "Just checking out the new game in town."

“Then stick around a few days. I'll be emceeing the world's biggest Elvis Presley imitator contest. Well, some call themselves 'impressionists,' and some callthemselves impersonators, or even actors, but imitators seems the most honest description.”

Temple let her head swivel to survey various passing Elvi from the rear. "Looks like you've got every stage of Elvis from debut to death around here.”

Buchanan followed her glance with a sneer. That was C.B.: always a leer for the ladies and a sneer for the guys. She hadn't seen him for so long she'd forgotten how despicable he was.