He felt a little like Elvis going for a motorcycle thrill-ride, putting on his suede half-boots, his faux sheepskin jacket, and getting out his leather gloves. Picking up Temple, who was perky enough to pass as one of Elvis’s fifties starlets and even resembled a smaller, less sexy Ann-Margret, who had shared Elvis’s love for motorcycles and had apparently shared a deep love with Elvis before he had begun the final, slow spiral downward. Ann-Margret never opened a show from then on without a huge floral tribute in the shape of a guitar from Elvis … except for the show she opened the night of August 15, 1977. No floral guitar, no Elvis after August 16, in Memphis, or anywhere else … except here and there and everywhere, like that “demmed elusive Pimpernel” of Scarlet Pimpernel fame. The actress-singerdancer’s hair had been a heavier, sultrier red than Temple’s, which was even now being dampened by the sleek silver bubble of Electra’s helmet.
“Speed Queen” read the cursive letters above the dark visor. The play on words was a late-middle-aged woman’s jest and defiance to the world, but Elvis had been a Speed King in every worst connotation of the phrase. And that had not been a joke but a tragedy.
Why couldn’t he get a long-dead man out of his mind? Matt wondered. Maybe it wasn’t a dead man he was trying to exorcize.
“Did you bring gloves?” he asked Temple. “It gets icy at seventy miles an hour without heating.”
She pulled something that resembled wooly udders from her dressy white leather jacket pockets. “Courtesy of a Minnesota girlhood. Will they do?”
“Are you sure you can spare the time?”
“Stop being such a Guilty Gus!” Temple stomped a toy boot heel on the shed’s concrete floor. “I’ve been dying to travel on this thing. Let’s do it.”
“You had a ride once before.”
“But we didn’t go anywhere. For a purpose. Not a whole round trip.”
She was like a kid; her promised outing had to be the whole enchilada. Matt smiled, unlocked the shed, and rolled the massive machine into the clear winter sunlight. The flat, bright light ignited the Hesketh Vampire’s fluid silver lines, reminding him of the slanted, silver letters he scrawled on photographs nowadays.
“Awesome.” Temple waited for him to mount the cycle, then struggled to hop on behind him. The seat had been “cut down” for Electra, but Temple was a lot shorter than their landlady.
He felt her hands curl into the side seams of his jacket,donned his own, unlabeled helmet, revved up the lion’s-roar motor, and kicked off. They slid into smooth, chill motion.
Electra, being a solitary rider, had never invested in helmets with walkie-talkies built in. Silence was enforced. The bumpy side streets evened into the entry ramp to Highway 95; soon they were sweeping past the clogged lanes of the city onto the asphalt that slashed through the Nevada desert.
He couldn’t know if Temple was nervous, or cold, or having a ball.
He knew the machine enough to enjoy the ride now, though. And he was actually reluctant when they pulled onto the smaller access road to rattle up the deliberately rutted dirt road to Three O’Clock Louie’s.
Various vehicles were scattered like dice around the rough-hewn restaurant building: ersatz Wild West on the shores of a lake the brilliant color of a London blue topaz. He’d looked at those stones when buying a Christmas present for Temple, deciding on the black opal cat necklace instead. Opals and black cats had lived up to their unlucky reputation that time, Matt thought grimly; his gift came too late, after Temple’s Christmas reconciliation with Max Kinsella.
He felt the idling bike lighten as she jumped off, then he shut off the motor, kicked down the stand, and let it tilt into silence and stillness.
“Gosh. I’m still vibrating!” Temple shook her gloved hands. “I’ve never had my teeth chatter from motion before, not cold.”
“You didn’t like it.”
“I loved it. Like being in a blender. Makes me want to eat a hamburger with onions on it and a brown beer.” “A brown beer?”
“Yeah, you know. That manly stuff that comes in long-necked bottles. Let’s hustle inside.”
Matt shrugged and followed her in.
Two steps outside the door they picked up a big black cat with a gray muzzle.
“Hi, Three O’Clock!” Temple turned to Matt. “The critter the place is named after. Isn’t that a scream? A name like Louie’s and he looks like his grandfather!”
Three O’Clock humped his back, whether in anger or as the prelude to a leg-rubbing it was hard to tell.
“I don’t know if he’s allowed in,” Temple said, hesitating in the open wooden screen door.
“Of course he’s allowed in.” An elderly man for whom the phrase “old coot” had been invented, down to the handlebar mustache, leaned out to hold the door open for man, woman, and cat. “Come on, Miss Temple Barr. We owe you lunch on the house.”
“I can’t think what for. We wanted to add to the restaurant’s customer base.”
“And this fellow is—?”
“Matt Devine, one of Electra’s most valued tenants.” “After yourself,” the guy said with a bow.
“This is Wild Blue Pike, one of the restaurant owners.”
Matt, gloveless again, shook a gnarled hand that gave no quarter.
“Cold hands, warm heart,” Wild Blue commented, shaking his fingers gingerly.
“Sorry. We motorcyled out. I guess my fingers are too cold to know their own strength.”
“No problem. I like a hearty shake, and a hearty lunch. You ready for a Louieburger, Miss Temple?”
“A Louieburger! What’s that?”
“Sourdough bun, almost a pound of prime lean beef with jalapeno cheese, Worcestershire sauce, and cayenne-peppered onion rings.”
“Wow. Lead us to it.”
The tables were wood with inset tiles, the chairs heavy to match, and sported woven-rush seats and backs.
Wild Blue led them to a corner near a roaring mesquite-wood fireplace.
“This is neat,” Temple said as she sat in the chair Wild Blue held out for her, and then pushed way under the table, as if for a child. “I can’t believe I saw this place in the making, a sawdust palace.”
“All good things gotta start with a pile of elbow grease,” Wild Blue said, slapping plastic encased menus before them.
“Forget the menu. It’s a Louieburger for me.” “Me, too,” Matt said.
“All the trimmings?”
“The full Louie,” Temple responded. “And the brownest beer you have.”
Wild Blue frowned. “You like dark ale?”
“No, but I’m suited up and ready to ride.”
After Wild Blue left, Matt regarded her. “You’re in a feisty mood.”
“I’m probably in the same state you are: my brain is weary and my spirit is wilted. Desperate times take desperate measures. Bad-for-you food is the answer!”
“I never thought of advising that over the radio. These guys should buy a spot on the Midnight Hour.”
“Tell ‘em.”
“That’s not my job.”
“It’s your show.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s his.”
“His? Ohhh, your guest celebrity.”
“I think he’s made his last appearance.”
“Really? Why?”
“We had a real go-round the night before last. I pushed him on all the issues. I feel bad about that.” “You were too hard on him?”
Matt shrugged out of his jacket. The fire was hot. “No. I feel sad about it, that’s all. We … he reached a kind of closure. I think he’s … gone for good this time.”
“Really?”
“You keep saying ‘really,’ in that noncommittal tone. Like everything you say has a double meaning.”
“It could,” she said seriously, drawing back while Wild Blue plopped a condensation-dewed bottle of dark beer before each of them.
“Should have asked for a glass.”
“Easy riders don’t ask for glasses.”
“Sorry.” She sipped, then sighed. “I’ve been feeling kinda blue too. One of the neatest Elvis impersonatorsoops, we say ‘tribute performers’ nowadays—died yesterday. He was really, really good. Might even have passed as the real thing, if you were inclined to think that way. Had a great chance of winning the competition. I did it again: found the body, thanks to Midnight Louie.”