We lapsed into silence. A couple people left the house, then another two cars arrived and a herd of people tramped to the front door and disappeared within.
Ray said, “Do other artists have imitators? I mean, are there Frank Sinatra imitators? Where’s that imitation thing come from, anyway?”
I shrugged. “I always felt like Elvis was imitating himself, there toward the end. Maybe it was a natural progression.”
“Huh. Sounds like a master’s thesis.”
“It probably already is,” I said.
We watched three more cars arrive. Church said, “Ready?”
“Sure.” I walked down the street and entered through the front door, mingling with this particular group of well-wishers. The Kingston house was crowded with mourners and family and friends. I nodded and shook hands, murmured my condolences, mingled, and kept my eyes open. John Kingston was tall and thin with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. To my mind he seemed to be handling the murder of his wife rather well. A number of attractive women were quick to drift his way whenever the weight of his grief threatened to overwhelm him, which it seemed to do at regularly timed intervals. Then his blue eyes would swell with tears and he would excuse himself, set his punch, juice, or coffee cup down and retreat to a back bedroom, the attractive ladyfriend following in his wake.
The third time this happened in the ninety minutes I was there I picked up his Styrofoam cup of juice and gracefully made an exit, walked down the street, and climbed into Ray Church’s Ford Explorer.
“Got it?” he said.
“You make sure to keep me updated,” I said.
“You bet.”
RAY DID BETTER than that. He put me in the observation room when they brought John Kingston in. Kingston refused to talk without his attorney, but his attorney showed up in an hour. It was a small town, ultimately.
“Okay,” said the attorney, a snowy-haired old smoothie who’d been practicing law ever since Clarence Darrow made his case against God. “Lay it out for us.”
“Your client’s being arrested in the murder of his wife,” Church said. “He had a private investigator in Detroit follow her to the Amazing Elvis Extravaganza in Detroit and photographed her having sex with one of the Elvis impersonators. He then took the photographs, mailed them to his wife with a blackmail note in order to get her to go to a hotel room at the Resort to meet him. He registered under the name Elvis Presley and wore a wig, glasses, and sideburns so he would blend in with the one hundred and one other Elvis impersonators. When Alicia came into the room he stabbed her in the heart and left.”
The attorney yawned, blinked, and said, “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. You can’t prove any of it.”
“We’ll see,” Church said. “But I can prove he sent the blackmail letter. His house is being searched now and we’ll be going through his accounts to track down the P.I.”
Church then held up a sheet of paper that looked like a blotchy barcode. “This is a copy of Mr. Kingston’s DNA fingerprint taken from a cup of juice he was drinking in his house.” He held up another sheet of paper. “It’s identical to this one. Which was taken off the postage stamps on the envelope the photographs came in.” He shook his head. “Elvis stamps, no less. Should’ve used self-adhesive, Mr. Kingston. As you’re aware, counselor, that’s probable cause. I have warrants to search his house, his office, and draw blood for an official DNA sample. Do you have anything to say, Mr. Kingston?”
Kingston looked stunned. “Why would I do that? Why would I kill my wife?”
“Having sex with an Elvis impersonator isn’t enough?” Church said.
“That’s nuts! I’d just get a divorce. I wouldn’t murder her.”
Church leaned over and inspected something else in the file next to him. He held it out to John Kingston. “Just in case you were wondering if the only thing I had so far was the DNA samples, I’ve been busy. And we’re only getting going, John. When we’re done with you, your life is going to look like a large print easy-to-read edition. The truth is, I didn’t think you’d murder her over her infidelities. But I do think you’d murder her over a half-million life insurance policy.”
He leaned toward John Kingston. “Elvis is dead, John. And so are you.”
Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden A Hollywood Fable by GARY PHILLIPS
FADE IN.
ON SCREEN
[Sometime in the near past.]
INT. ALAN ROSS’S OFFICE-DAY
{ALAN ROSS is thirtysomething, a vp of development at Ten-Shun Productions. He is built like the runner he is, wears tortoiseshell glasses, and is in shirtsleeves and suspenders. Ross sits behind his stressed antique desk in his tastefully appointed office. Absently, he fools with one of his Mont Blanc pens as he listens to:}
{WALSH KAGEN, late fifties, sitting across from Ross. Kagen is craggy-faced, thick in the middle, the product of too many Scotches for lunch for too many years. He is a director-writer with a track record of cult features and cable movies.}
ROSS: I’m going to take a pass on the interstellar doctor transporting medicine for sick alien kids, Walsh. It’s cute and touching, but not blue sky enough, you know? Hardball, how that was a heart-tugger and we could identify with those kinds of kids, their problems, what have you. See what I mean? (beat; fools with pen) What else?
{Kagen leans back in his chair, a satisfied smile spreading his cracked lips.}
KAGEN:Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden.
ROSS: Pardon?
KAGEN: You ever see that flick by Peckinpah?
ROSS: The old dead western guy?
KAGEN: Yeah, but he did other sorts of pictures, too. Though you could argue they all had western sensibilities. Anyway, this one, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, was released in 1974.
{Ross says nothing, jiggling the pen in one hand. Kagen leans forward again.}
KAGEN (cont’d): Alfredo Garcia starred Warren Oates-
ROSS (interrupting): He was in that other movie of Peckinpah’s, The Wild Bunch.
KAGEN: Right. Anyway, in this one I’m talking about, it’s set in present day, and Oates is hired by this Mexican crime lord to bring back proof that the scum punk who seduced his daughter is dead.
ROSS: Wasn’t this already re-made with Joe Pesci?
{Kagen swallows a caustic comeback, instead he says:}
KAGEN: Not really. That was Eight Heads in a Duffle Bag, and it was a comedy.
ROSS: Oh. I’m sorry, go ahead.
KAGEN: No sweat. Okay, in Sam’s picture Oates goes through all manner of turmoil to get this Garcia’s head. And his character arc is, each step of the way his psychological state deteriorates faster than the head he’s bringing back.
{Ross says nothing. The pen is held motionless in his hand.}
KAGEN (cont’d): I mean, Oates at one point is talking to this head in this crummy stained canvas sack, flies whizzing all around it, as it sits on the seat next to him in his car.
ROSS: So in your picture, what, your protagonist is riding around in a jeep in the hills of Afghanistan yakking it up with the world’s number-one terrorist’s head next to him in a Trader Joe’s shopping bag?
KAGEN: Not exactly. The idea here is a group of guys, men and women, who have failed at one thing or another, led by a disaffected vet, hunt bin Laden down, who has now fallen out of favor with his other Al Qaeda pals.