“Haven’t you got something to switch to in your tote bag?”
“Yes, but that’s for really rough terrain. I refuse to get down and get sloppy when we’re paying calls on men who are more lavishly attired than I.”
“You have strange standards.”
“So I’ve been told.” Temple eyed him a little cautiously. He was really out of his element. “You did some pretty heads-up interviewing in there.”
“Maybe I’m getting good at my new job. But … all these guys, they start looking like clones after a while. Can you tell one from another?”
“It’s hard to see the person behind the persona. I bet that caused Elvis a lot of problems too.”
Matt nodded. He looked like someone who was tired of talking about Elvis, seeing Elvis, interviewing Elvis.
“Now he’s giving me problems,” Matt went on. “I’m obligated to take this caller seriously. Whatever else he is, he must be a very troubled man. Maybe he’s as likely to overdose any day now as Elvis was back in seventy-seven.”
“Yet,” Temple pointed out with her usual insouciance, “if you take him too seriously, you could end up a laughingstock.”
“Exactly. I don’t know what to do. I know what Leticia wants me to do: ride the radio Elvis for all it’s worth. But if the man is not just a joker, if he’s really convinced he’s Elvis, that could be dangerous.”
Temple pushed herself off the wall’s welcome support. “Let’s do this. Let’s forget about interviewing Elvis imitators; let’s cherchez le suit.”
“It’s true that these guys don’t talk like Elvis until they’re onstage, and then they use mikes, so my chances of recognizing a voice are nil. But no one so far has missed a jumpsuit.”
“We’ve only hit a couple dressing rooms.”
“Of forty guys.”
“Tell you what. Let’s find the girl’s dressing room. I for one am eager to glimpse Velvet Elvis.”
They trekked back down to Quincey’s dressing room, but it was empty.
“Too bad,” Temple said. “She’s the one most likely to know—”
“The girl most likely to know what?” a voice behind them asked.
They turned.
The woman was fashion-model tall, in other words, about six feet. Her jet-black hair was cut short at the sides and back, and full on top. She had the wide shoulders of an athlete on a willowy frame. She wore a T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. With two-inch heels.
“We were looking for the women impersonators’ dressing room,” Temple said gamely, a feat, since at five-foot-nothing she looked upon model-tall women as a form of goddess. They always seemed more grown-up than she. She knew her attitude was an illusion and a throwback to her squat and powerless childhood, but she couldn’t help it. That some girls could actually grow like Jack’s bean stalk all the way to Giant World .. .
“You must be Velvet Elvis,” Matt said in a cucumber-cool fashion that only made Temple dislike her own awe all the more.
Tall men didn’t intimidate her. Tall buildings, horses, even elephants didn’t intimidate her, but tall women .. . at least this one didn’t carry a badge. Oops! Elvis had carried lots of badges. Maybe his impersonators did too.
“How’d you guess?” the woman asked with a grin. She was also disgustingly lean. Temple gritted her teeth, vowed to let Matt handle it, and repeated to herself three times: this is a media-designed, unhealthy role model; get over it.
“Shana Stewart.” The woman extended a hand first to Temple.
All right! Matt shook her bony hand in turn.
“My digs are right next door. I’m the only Elvisette here. There were a couple other girls, but they chickened out.”
The dressing room was a mirror-image of Quincey’s setup. Everybody pulled a lightweight chair from under the slab of dressing table that lined the walls, and sat.
“What are you interested in?” Shana asked.
“We’re interested in costumes. Jumpsuits,” Temple began in a crab-sidling manner. No sense telling her too much.
“I’m a radio talk-show host,” Matt said, giving his name, rank, and station call letters. “Someone’s been calling me, acting and sounding like Elvis. I’m trying to figure out if it’s a gimmick to promote the hotel and the Elvis competition, or if I’m dealing with a really sick person.”
“If you are, it sure could be Elvis,” Shana said ruefully.
Temple stared at Matt. He had blown his own cover, told this interrogatee everything, but he didn’t seemed worried about that at all.
Maybe Shana Stewart was a goddess, or at least a witch.
“How did you become interested in impersonating Elvis?” Temple put in, since frankness was obviously the order of the day, and she was frankly curious.
“Lily Tomlin. You ever see her do Tommy Velour, the quintessential lounge singer? Fabulous! Shows you what a woman can do when she cuts free of gender stereotypes. I’m a model.” As if Temple, ace amateur detective, hadn’t figured that one out! “I’d like to be an actress, but no one takes me seriously. I’m hoping for some coverage from this, maybe a career boost.”
“It’s quite a stretch,” Matt said. “You’d be hard to picture as a man.”
He sounded nauseatingly admiring to Temple. What had happened to all his ex-priest’s issues, like whether he could relate well with women after all those celibate years? That last line sounded like, well, a line.
Shana stretched back against the dressing table as if emulating Matt’s figure of speech. “That’s the point. If I looked butch to begin with it wouldn’t be as impressive an impersonation. And Elvis was a very pretty man, you know? That’s why he toughened up his image with blackhair and black leather. Didn’t want anyone to see the mama’s boy under the swagger. A shrink could have a field day with Oedipus complexes and repressed homosexuality with Elvis, but I think the guy was straight, that way at least.”
Temple thought it was time to assert her presence as expert interrogator. “I understand you have a very original costume and act.”
“Oh, the boys have been talking about me, have they?” Shana smiled conspiratorily. “That’s what you want: preperformance buzz. I let ‘em see just enough to get agitated about what I might be doing.”
“You’re a velvet painting come to life?” Matt asked.
Shana suddenly stood, which was quite a production at her height. She went to close her dressing room door. Temple was glad she was here as chaperone. Poor Matt wasn’t used to dealing with upfront females like this.
Shana turned, holding the door shut with her body. “You seem like a couple of decent people. I’ll show you my outfit if you keep mum about it. Oh, you can mention it and roll your eyes in front of the other Elvises, but that’s all.”
“We have become very good at rolling our eyes in front of the other Elvises,” Temple said demurely.
Shana’s raucous laughter bounced off the facing mirrors. “I bet you have!”
She went to a niche with a rod running across at shoulder height, but no costumes hung there, just a blue satin boxer’s robe and a big sweater. A long portable locked case, like sports equipment or a big musical instrument is carried in, leaned against the niche’s far wall.
Shana rotated the dial of a padlock, then cracked it open. The interior was lined in black felt, but something else black took up the space.
Temple and Matt came over to see better.
It was a black velvet jumpsuit. Heavenly bodies—constellations, planets, nebulae—decorated the flared bellbottom pants, the wide sleeve-bottoms and the front.
A dazzling asteroid belt six inches wide hung at the hips. Rather than being gemstones or studs, the celestial landmarks were laid out in something Temple, the glitz freak, had never seen before: aurora borealis rhinestones, only in chalky neon colors of lime green, hot pink, turquoise, and yellow.