“ ‘Son,’ ” she repeated the caller once. “That’s an old Southernism.”
“Speaking of old … how old do you think he sounds?”
“Ummm. Mature. Middle-aged. But with a mischievous, maybe even melancholy boyish quality … no, not quite that, maybe a little self-mocking.”
Matt aimed the remote and suddenly shot the sound off, either pausing or muting the recording. “So? What do you think?”
She finally turned to confront him. “I think if you hadn’t mentioned Elvis, I’d never be thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Which is?”
“That it’s supposed to be Elvis.”
Matt made a noise behind her, then came around the sofa end to perch uneasily on a curve. “What do you mean ‘supposed’?”
“I mean the man is stone dead. Been that way since nineteen seventy-seven.”
“Is that when he died? That long ago?”
“Yes. Don’t tell me you don’t remember? I thought it was a Crucial Twentieth-Century Date, like when Kennedy was assassinated, or Martin Luther King, or Bobby Kennedy, or when Marilyn Monroe died.”
“We’re too young to have lived through or remember much about those other deaths, but I was around for Elvis’s death and I don’t remember it. I do remember when Pope John Paul the First died.”
“Not exactly the same thing, Matt.”
He grinned. “That’s why I need expert advice. Was that a credible Elvis?”
“I don’t know. I’m not an Elvis expert. I can tell you that Las Vegas happens to be crawling with Elvis impersonators at the moment, and I bet a lot of them sound pretty credible.”
“Elvis imitators, really? Why?”
“Ever heard that the Kingdome is coming?” “Kingdom—?”
Temple loved teasing people with the name. “Not the Kingdom, the Kingdome, and not the athletic facility in Seattle that’s just been torn down, either. It’s the new Elvis Presley-themed hotel-casino.”
“How could I have missed that? And you say that a host of Elvis imitators is in town for the opening? So my guy is just some Elvis imitator?”
“That’s the best guess.”
“But why?”
“Good publicity?”
Matt sighed. “Leticia is really jazzed on that call. Says it’ll skyrocket the show’s ratings.”
“Probably will. And since when have you used a verb like ‘jazzed’? Is working for that radio station corrupting you?”
Matt shook off her gentle jibe, still concentrating on what bothered him. “You don’t think the radio station, Leticia—?”
“Would arrange for Elvis to ‘phone home’ without telling you? No.” Temple glanced at him, measuring hismood. “But the thing about you, Matt, is you’re such a sincere, natural radio personality. If they did want to encourage more sensational news, like that call from the unwed mother a couple weeks ago, they might be tempted not to tell you it was a set up deal.”
“I would never approve of a deception like that.”
“Of course not, and I’m sure they know that. Besides, if it was a setup, you’d be a whole lot more believable if you really bought it.”
“They’d do that? Trick me? Use me?”
“You ever hear the story how some mean director got Jackie Cooper to cry as a child actor? He lied and told him his dog was dead, then shot the scene.”
“Well, nobody’s telling me Elvis isn’t dead. And I wouldn’t cry for him anyway. I mean, I know nothing about the man, except for his scandalous lifestyle.”
“Right, you were listening to old Bob Dylan instead of early Elvis. Talk about far-spectrum opposites. It is kind of amazing how it all came together in the late fifties and early sixties: Elvis making hard-edged rock ‘n’ roll out of the rockabilly and rhythm and blues closet, Bob Dylan leaving the Minnesota Iron Range to troll for authentic folk music in the South, then the Beatles borrowing from both and blowing in from England and blowing away both folk and rock for a while.”
“Huh? That all sounds like Sanskrit to me. You do know a heck of a lot more about this than I do, Temple.”
“No, just the rough outlines. I always had to know a little about a lot in my various jobs.”
“That’s why you’re so invaluable.”
“Right.”
“So how can I avoid being taken to the cleaners—on the air, yet—by this phony Elvis?”
“Know thy antagonist.” Temple bit her lower lip. “There’s the library,” she said, smiling at the vision of Quincey Conrad being forced to apply for a library card because of her Priscilla assignment. “Tons of books on the subject. And videos too, I’ll bet. You could check the voice against your own recording.”
Matt frowned. “I don’t have a VCR.”
“Yet. One more improvement of modern life to invest in, son,” she added in a relaxed baritone drawl.
Matt looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. “That was pretty good for a girl who’s no Elvis freak.
If you can do Elvis that well, how good would a real Elvis imitator sound?”
“Like the real thing. Especially if he had a facial structure that actually resembled the King’s. The shape of the facial mask affects how the voice is produced. Ever notice how lookalikes usually sound alike?”
“No.”
“Well, they do.”
“Come to think of it, there was a priest in Arizona we always used to say looked and sounded like Gig Young, the actor.”
Temple giggled.
“Why are you laughing?”
“If you knew Gig Young’s wicked, womanizing ways … well, him as a priest is pretty funny. Plus, he committed suicide.”
“Poor man. But no way would he have been priest material. So I’m still in a pickle: how do I keep from looking like a complete fool the next time the guy calls, if he does?”
“Oh, he probably will. Even if he’s just a nut with no motive but exposure, kind of like a psychic flasher, he’ll want more attention. Say, I wonder—? May I use your phone?”
“I can’t resist anyone who says ‘may’ instead of `can’.”
“Only every other Tuesday.” Temple picked up the heavy receiver. Matt, parsimonious former priest, had ordered the least fancy model. She dialed a number she knew by heart.
“It’s not … him,” Matt mouthed suddenly, glowering as much as one with his sunny blond looks could. He referred to Temple’s significant but often missing-inaction other, Max Kinsella. Temple shook her head, unwilling to get into personal differences.
“Hi!” she greeted whoever answered, her PR person’s voice set on High-energy Percussion. “What do you know about Elvis? Oh, really? No kidding. Can you get some to Matt’s place? Right now? Good.”
“Temple, what have you done?” he asked the minute she hung up.
“I’ve brought in an expert witness: a fairy godmother with a heavy Elvish fetish, it turns out.”
“Who?”
“Oh, a music lover of our acquaintance.”
“Not Lieutenant Molina.” Matt sounded shocked.
Temple couldn’t talk for laughing. “Holy Half-note! Not Molina. I wouldn’t sic her on you for anything. She not only is convinced Max should be on the Ten Most Wanted List for something, but she thinks I’m a pest who couldn’t figure out what’s in the mystery meat for dinner, much less decode a recipe for murder. Besides, she’s into oldies older than Elvis. Can you imagine her and Elvis together? Ugh! Joan Crawford and James Dean. No way. You’ll like your friendly neighborhood Elvis expert. I guarantee it.” The doorbell rang. “And here comes—”
Temple pranced to the door on her mid-heel pumps to flourish it open.
Behind it stood Electra Lark, wearing a subdued blackand-pink muumuu and carrying two canvas bags bulging with books. She assumed the wide-legged and -armed stance of an entertainer as she belted out:
“If your baby done left you, You’ve found the right place to dwell.
The bellhop is a black cat, The landlady’s dressed in black, Down Las Vegas’s own Lonely Street, At Huh-Huh-Heartbreak Huh-Huh-Hotel.”