Ah-hah! I remember my detective antecedents, bom in the USA, even if they were first practiced on French soil.
I refer, of course, to what mystery readers of all ilk must inevitably be reminded of when confronted with a crime, a primate, and a mysterious motive.
Cherchez le chimp, bebe.
It is very possible that the individual who attacked the costume so senselessly, scattering nail lacquer and paper towels about, was this very creature I share confinement with. A chimpanzee is quite strong, and even more unpredictable. Elvis kept one, as a matter of fact, by the name of Scatter, and it drank beer and looked up girls’ skirts, much to the amusement of Elvis and the refined gentlemen of his entourage. Then the novelty wore off, and the animal, after being the life of the orgy for some time, was consigned to a solitary cage, where it died alone and unmourned. I cannot condone treating even a silly antecedent of humanity so callously.
Seems to me some son of Scatter would be very interested in laying some version of Elvis low.
Chapter 22
Help Me Make It Through the Night
(Recorded by Elvis in 1971)
“Elvis alert!”
The phrase, bellowed out, made Matt start and look behind him.
Almost midnight, but he was alone in the studio, and the alert was only on his headphones.
Leticia was grinning at him from the other side of the glass window, a vision in an orange and turquoise-trimmed silk tunic and pants. Matt imagined she was the kind of vision Elvis would have had after eating one of those nightmare meals made from his four favorite food groups: lard, sugar, salt, and carcinogens.
“You’re expecting that guy to call again?” Matt asked through the mike. He was relaxing into the radio routine: commercials were blaring to the outside world while the staff took a break before they were back on the air.
“I’m hoping, honey.” She winked.
Matt wasn’t hoping for another visitation from the Tabloid Twilight Zone, but he was prepared if it came. He’d not only read a lot of books about Elvis, but he’d made notes. Maybe he could trip the King up. Prove him the fraud he needed to be revealed as, in order to come to terms with himself. His real self.
This was Matt’s show, after all, and he wasn’t here to be made a fool of. He grinned at the shakiness of that assertion. Anyone who stuck their neck out with a live call-in show like this was in imminent danger of public folly.
But no tin-star Elvis was going to be his downfall….
Of course, the worst nightmare for a live call-in show was not a bizarre guest. It was the absence of any callers. Leticia had been known to assume other voices and call in herself, if need be.
That wasn’t necessary tonight. Calls came pouring in, including three referring to the previous night’s Elvis sounding (as opposed to sighting). Two callers were irate that the station would use such a blatant gimmick to hype the new Elvis attraction in town. One caller wanted to know if Elvis had been in the studio for the interview.
“It wasn’t a live interview, no,” Matt said, tongue deeply in cheek. “He called in just like you did.”
“Oh, wow,” the woman said. She sounded too mature to be making this call or saying “wow.” “Then he could be dead too.”
“You’re claiming to be dead?”
“No! I meant, it could have been a voice from the grave.”
“In that case, I’m very glad it wasn’t an in-person interview.”
“It’s not a gimmick, like that man said before, is it?” “If it is, it’s not a gimmick that’s originating here at WCOO. We were as surprised as anybody.”
“Too bad you didn’t have an expert witness there when he called. Someone who knew Elvis, who could say if it was really him.”
“I’m afraid I was pretty much alone here, except for a technician and my producer, and we’re all too young to have heard much of Elvis.”
“Hey, everybody’s heard of Elvis. My little niece, she does the cutest version of ‘Teddy Bear.’ She could come in and do it on the air. Or, over the phone … Brianna, honey, come to auntie—”
“No, uh, thanks. I just do counseling, not auditions.” “Well, what if Elvis wanted to sing on your stupid show?”
“I don’t know. I imagine”—he glanced at Leticia’s eager face through the glass that reflected his distinctly uneager face—“that he would sing if he wanted to. We don’t catch too many live performances of his nowadays.”
The caller was gone, disconnected before adorable little Brianna could toddle to the phone to lisp her way through anything of a musical nature.
Matt had time for one deep breath of relief before another voice boomed into his ear.
“You this here Mr. Midnight?”
“That’s right. What can I help you with?”
“It’s me that can help you, buddy. Lots of us remember Elvis real well. We can tell a fake five miles off. That guy who called you, he was a piker. I’d know Elvis anywhere.”
“A rabid fan, huh?”
“A rabbit what? I’m no rabbit!”
“I meant that you’re an expert on the King.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s mah era. Cherry Cokes and unfiltered cancer sticks rolled up in your T-shirt sleeve. Man, either one of ‘em would sear the rust off a tailpipe. I can tell you right now: that weren’t Elvis last night. No way. You’ve been took in, or you’re trying to take us in.”
“No, sir, we’re not. That call was totally unexpected. But it’s good to know that expert listeners out there are keeping us from being bamboozled by phonies.”
“Right. Happy to help out. I guess this is one time the counselor needed counseling.”
“You’ve got that right, brother,” Matt said fervently. As an Elvis-detector, he was a King-sized bust.
To his relief, the next caller was a disgruntled in-law who disapproved of how the newlyweds had spent their wedding money. This was a snap; as a parish priest, Matt had handled every conceivable pre-and postnuptual problem that three hundred-some unions could produce.
He glanced at the big school clock on the wall. Only five minutes to final commercials and no Elvis. Leticia was looking deflated, but Matt was feeling even more relieved. Mr. Show Biz he’d never be, if laying yourself open to every nut who could punch in a phone number was part of the job description. Give him ordinary people with dull, ordinary problems, superstardom and self-destruction not among them.
“Um, Mr. M-m-midnight?”
Matt’s muscles seized up as if he had turned into an instant corpse.
“Are, uh, you there, sir?”
Leticia had come alive like a football fan whose team had just scored two points by running over the goal line from a faked point-after position. Her smooth cappuccino features all tilted up, as if her head was a helium-filled balloon that would lift her entire 300-pound body out of her chair.
Matt had become enough of a media personality to realize that the sight of such an ecstatic producer was nothing to trifle with. He surrendered to show biz.
“Yes, I’m here. You wouldn’t be Elvis again?”
“Well, sir, that’s kind of a funny way of puttin’ it. I’ve always been Elvis, so I don’t have to be him again, if you get my drift. Once has been enough, let me tell you.”
“You had a lot of good times.”
“Oh, yeah. But before and after … they weren’t sohot. You know, a guy gets to thinkin’ when he’s all alone—”
“Are you all alone, Elvis?”
“Guess so. Ain’t seen nobody around lately. ‘Course, they know enough to leave me alone when I want to be alone, and to be there for me when I want ‘em to.”
“Sounds handy. Like a light switch.”
“What do you know about my flashlight?”
Matt hadn’t been referring to a flashlight, but he recalled a famous photo of Elvis carrying one like a baton. “Oh, saw some photographs of you with one dangling from your wrist. That would be in the seventies, wasn’t it?”