Cat In A Leopard Spot

His skin crawled at how easily the most innocuous life could be compromised. One determined monomaniac could weasel her way into every crevice of his routine.

Matt stood.

He left and locked the apartment, for whatever good it might do, and took the elevator to the building’s main floor.

The Circle Ritz lived up to its name both in its rotund construction and its aura of faded 1950s glory, when it had been architecturally reasonable to slather black marble on floors and exterior walls as if it were Russian caviar on Melba toast.

He passed through the modest lobby, his reflection on the black marble floor making him feel like he was walking on water, on very dark, deep water. At least the hall leading to the chapel was paved in step-softening walnut parquet.

A wedding was in progress.

Matt slipped into a white-painted pew as discreetly as he could. From much past experience of weddings and funerals, it was very discreetly indeed. He only glanced at his seatmate once his settling rustles had quieted.

Oh. Of course. Elvis.

Elvis sat as still as a corpse. Matt couldn’t see beyond the dark, silver-framed aviator shades to anything resembling eyes. Electric candelabra stationed at the pew ends threw dancing lights on the colored stones studding Elvis’s wedding-white jumpsuit. His pompadour and sideburns were angel-hair white too.

Platinum Elvis took up a lot of space. Matt squeezed against the pew end. Wouldn’t want to crowd the King. He put his respectful attention on the ceremony. He had, after all, crashed this wedding.

Electra, looking like a late-life girl graduate in her black JP’s robe, officiated. In a few minutes she released the fortyish couple to a slow walk back down the aisle between a smattering of friends and the host of soft-sculpture figures with which Electra populated the pews so every couple would have a full house.

Taped music—Hawaiian Wedding Song—played until everyone involved had hula-ed down the aisle and out, except Electra and himself.

Matt stood as she noticed him. “Got a few minutes?”

“Got scads of minutes,” she said. “Las Vegas weddings are much less impromptu now. Everything’s scheduled. Like real life. Kinda boring.”

“I see the organ is a stage prop these days.”

“Oh, yes.” She shrugged out of the robe. “It’s easier not arranging for Euphonia to come to play it. Besides, couples want a high-tech ceremony today: their favorite songs; videotapes-to-go; balloons released; all the wedding bells and whistles.”

Matt moved to the silent organ, his fingertips pausing on the pale keys. “Kind of a shame.”

“You’re welcome to come and play any time the chapel’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Not hosting a wedding.”

“Speaking of dead—” He looked questioningly toward Elvis.

“My newest.” Electra fondly regarded the figure. “He just didn’t want to be left out. And, you know, I met this neat Today Elvis guy at the big Kingdome Hotel opening with all the impersonators present, and have never seen hide nor snow-white hair of him since. I thought we had something special. So this is a memorial to Izzy.”

“Izzy?”

“Too complicated to explain, Matt. Aren’t there some things in your life too complicated to explain?”

“How about everything?”

“Such ambition,” Electra joshed. “You’re too young to be that mysterious.”

“Not mysterious, just mystified. Anyway, I want to offer you a deal you can’t refuse. I’m hoping that Elvis in the pew is on my side.”

“Really?” Electra’s thinning gray eyebrows lifted as high as they were capable of.

“I want to make a trade.”

“Trade?”

“My Millennium Volkswagen Beetle for your Ford Probe.”

“Your silver Elvismobile for my old faded pink Probe?”

“Right.”

“But…I’ve loved Elvis since 1955, and he gave that car to you.”

“Exactly.”

“To you, not to me.”

“I don’t believe in Elvis. I’m sorry, Electra, but I just don’t. I believe in the Holy Ghost, but I don’t believe in Elvis. Maybe he just isn’t holy enough. So I can’t accept a car from someone I don’t believe in. It’s fitting that you have the Beetle. It means something to you. And…I could use a less high-profile car.”

“But your new VW is worth six times more than my old Probe.”

“That’s why I’d like you to throw in the Hesketh Vampire. You can keep occasional riding privileges, though. I’d hate to see you hang up your Speed Queen helmet for good.”

“I thought you loathed that motorcycle.”

“Did it show that much?”

“And how! This deal is saccharine sweet for me. But I hate taking advantage of you.”

“You’d be doing me a favor, but I’d probably get the Probe repainted.”

“Color it purple; see if I care.”

“I was thinking…white.”

“Oh.”

“Practical in this hot climate.”

“At my age, I don’t want practical and white unless it’s a private nurse. But suit yourself, dear boy. No doubt it’ll be a tropical-weight white linen one.”

“White may be practical in cars, but it’s murder on suits. Besides, I got used to black.”

Electra winked. “If you get too lonesome for black, you can slip on my justice of the peace robe and stand in for me.”