Daniel Klein

by Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley

  “Thank you, thank you very much,” Elvis said. “This next one I want to dedicate to my friend Regis Clifford and his woman, Delores Suarez. She’s a doctor, folks. My friend Regis has landed himself a doctor.”

  A ripple of giggles went through the crowd and then they went quiet as Elvis launched into “Young Dreams.” Again, the song came out of him pure as honey, as he thought about Regis and Delores pushing into their forties but with a sudden love as young as any twenty-year-old’s. God, it was a pleasure to sing from the heart again.

  The crowd roared, the Stetsons came back front chock full of paper money, somebody emptied the hats into a barrel, and out they went again as Elvis came to the microphone for the next song, “Teddy Bear.”

  “I dedicate this one to my best buddy, Billy Jackson. Looks like a nice woman has taken a fancy to him. Love is alive and well, folks, thank the Lord!”

  As Elvis came to, “I don’t wanna be a tiger/’Cause tigers play too rough,” he pantomimed a tiger clawing at the air, his hips doing a slithery jungle thing. The crowd laughed and started clapping rhythmically right through, “I don’t wanna be a lion/’Cause lions ain’t the kind you love enough.” The fact that Elvis was bouncing around on his sprained ankle did not even occur to him. He was having too much fun.

  When he dedicated the next song, “Jailhouse Rock,” to Squirm Littlejon, “an innocent man who’s doing time for being at the wrong place at the wrong time,” many people in the audience kind of gasped, while others let out a cheer of “Squirm!” Rodeo folks, at least, hadn’t forgotten about the case of Squirm Littlejon.

  By the end of this number, the barrel was pretty much full and somebody rolled out another one as the hats went out again. Elvis conferred with the fiddler and came back to the microphone.

  “This here is my last one, friends,” he said. “And I’m sending it out to every man and woman who ever lost a loved one. It’s the heartbreak that never heals, folks. Never. So this one is to the memory of Will Cathcart … and—” Elvis stopped and swallowed hard. “And it’s to the memory of Miss Selma DuPres.”

  The fiddler jumped right in with the intro to “There Will Be Peace in the Valley for Me” and once again Elvis found himself singing the truth in the song, the heart at its center.

  Oh well, I’m tired and so weary

  But I must go alone

  Till the Lord comes and calls, calls me away, oh yes

  Well the morning’s so bright

  And the lamp is alight

  And the night, night is as black as the sea, oh yes

  As he sang on, Elvis’s mind jumped from an image of that moment when he witnessed Regis and Delores falling in love to the sound of Connie Spinelli’s voice when she asked if Billy was married, and from there to the sadness in Jilly-Jo Cathcart’s eyes and then to Selma’s warm smile as she led him into her bedroom in Alamo, Tennessee. God, yes, love was alive and well, and even if his heart was breaking, it was full—yes, full of love. But as he came to the reprise, he realized that not once had an image of Priscilla come to him. Or of Ann-Margret. In fact, he had not thought about either of them in days.

  There will be peace in the valley for me, some day

  There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray

  There’ll be no sadness, no sorrow

  No trouble, trouble I see

  There will be peace in the valley for me, for me

  In front of the bandstand, folks were now moving on in an orderly file from left to right, digging deep into their pockets and handbags and tossing even more money into the barrels, then looking up at Elvis and smiling and saluting before continuing out to the parking lot. For a long, soulful moment, Elvis was back at Ray Kaserne in Friedberg, Germany, singing “Silent Night” to the enlisted men setting off on Christmas leave, and the love he felt in his heart surged out to every man, woman, and child passing in front of him. Yes, for one long wonder-filled moment, Elvis once again remembered exactly why it was that he had always wanted to be a singer.

  The total in the barrels came to $1,273 and Elvis added a check for $3,727, “just to make it come out even,” as he said to Jilly-Jo Cathcart after the concert was over. They talked a bit longer, but she had nothing more to add about Mickey Grieves, and she told Elvis that Will had never mentioned anything to her about a Holly McDougal or Squirm Littlejon. She had no idea what it was that Will had intended to tell Elvis once he got back from the rodeo. Finally, Jilly-Jo said that Will’s funeral was out in Maywood tomorrow at eleven and Elvis was welcome to come.

  The crowd around Elvis had thinned down to just a couple dozen, including the two roustabouts who had carried him up to the bandstand. He asked one of them if they could show him exactly where the bull had gored Will Cathcart to death and again the crowd moved with them, like bees around a Queen Bee, to the main-event corral. There was nothing much to see there—no blood, no scraps of clothing. Less than an hour after Will’s body had been carted off, the bull-wrassling competition had continued on the same spot. All in a day’s work. Now one of the roustabouts leaned in to Elvis’s ear.

  “Want to see the bull?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  The young man led Elvis to a stable just outside the corral’s far end. At its entrance, he told Elvis that it would be better if they went in alone; Elvis asked the crowd to excuse him for a bit and they stayed behind respectfully. Then he swung on his crutches over the hay-strewn floor to a stall by the wall. The roustabout swung open the stall door. There lay a Celtic shorthorn of easily nine hundred pounds. It was dead.

  “They kill him right after?” Elvis asked.

  “Would have,” the young man said. “You always kill the bull who kills a man. But didn’t have to this time.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Bull died on his own just a few minutes after.”

  “What from?”

  “Don’t know. Just keeled over dead right next to young Will.”

  “That ever happen before?”

  “Only once. Turned out the bull had a bad case of high blood pressure—made him go crazy and then have a heart attack.”

  Elvis set a foot on the bull’s rear shank.

  “Would you do me a favor?” he said. “Get a vet over here and find out what killed him. I’ll foot the bill.”

  Elvis pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket and started to peel off fifty-dollars worth, but the young man held up both palms in a gesture of refusal.

  “This one’s on me, Elvis,” the young man said. “We never can repay you for what you done today.”

  Elvis gave the roustabout Regis’s phone number and told him to call after the vet did his autopsy.

  By the time Elvis pulled in to the Stardust Cabins near Yosemite, he could barely keep his eyes open. It was just a little past midnight and he’d intended to drive all the way back to L.A., but the minute he got behind the wheel, his ankle had started to throb worse than ever—that prancing around on the bandstand hadn’t done it any good—so he’d chewed down a painkiller and, soon enough, he’d been doing the vehicular equivalent of sleepwalking.

  The check-in clerk was an old guy in an Indian-rug bathrobe who looked like he’d just woken up and wasn’t too happy about it. He didn’t appear to recognize Elvis, but after they’d done the paperwork he said, simply, “You done good in Sparks, Elvis,” and then rambled back to his La-Z-Boy recliner.

  As soon as he entered his cabin, Elvis switched on the TV for company, then flopped down on the bed with his boots on. He was out in a minute.

  Elvis’s dream came in fits and scraps. One minute he’s singing “Love Me Tender” to a herd of bulls, the next he’s doing the wash with his mother at the Laundromat in Tupelo. Doing it with Rinso and singing the Rinso White ditty with the box in his hand. It was one of those dreams where he knew he was dreaming and the thought popped into his head that this Rinso business was product placement —product placement in his own dream! Now who in heck had arranged that—the Colonel? The
dream bounced on: Regis dancing the tango with Delores in the Santa Teresa Botanical Garden, but when Regis swung around you could see that half his cheek was gone, and his right eye was hanging out by a thread. Except that it wasn’t his eye, it was Elvis himself, dangling from the ceiling by the Stuntman’s Mistress. “Mr. Presley was allegedly spotted singing at a rodeo today in Sparks, Nevada, adding one more twist to the mystery of his disappearance.”

  Elvis’s eyes fluttered open.

  “For more on this breaking story, we go to Rich Fitzpatrick in Hollywood.”

  “Bill, I’m standing here with Patrolman Tom Schultz of the LAPD. Officer Schultz is the last person to have seen Elvis since he slipped away from the MGM studios Tuesday afternoon.”

  Elvis pulled himself up against the headboard and squinted at the TV.

  “I’ll tell you, Rich,” Schultz was saying. “Elvis looked strange, real strange. Eyes all bleary, like he’d been crying. Face red. And he was real agitated. Like I said, he was doing ninety miles an hour when I pulled him over, and first thing he does is start talking about recording this duet with Hank Snow, right there in his car.”

  “Incredible,” the reporter said. “Tell me, Officer Schultz, in your opinion had Mr. Presley been drinking?”

  Schultz bit down on his lip. “No, not drinking,” he murmured tentatively.

  “Are you suggesting that he’d been taking drugs, Officer?”

  “That’s not for me to say, is it?” Schultz said

  “Back to you, Bill.”

  Elvis rubbed his eyes. No, he was awake all right. So what the devil was going on here? Exactly how long had he been away from his house on Perugia Way? Tonight, here, last night in Santa Teresa, and the night before with Regis. Three nights and he’s a missing person?

  “One unconfirmed report has even placed Elvis in London, holed up in the Cummington Arms Hotel with his latest Hollywood conquest, Ann-Margret,” reporter Bill was saying.

  Elvis rolled out of bed, hopped over to the TV and snapped it off. Damn every last one of them! He limped back to the bed and picked up the telephone receiver from the bed table, but immediately dropped it back onto its cradle. Who the heck was he going to call anyway? The Colonel, so he could take some abuse for not reporting his whereabouts every minute of the day? Priscilla, so he could listen to her weep while he assured her that he was not holed up in London with Ann-Margret?

  He pulled off his boots and lay back in the bed. He felt a smile creep up on his lips before he realized what put it there. Man, it felt good to be a missing person. It was probably the closest thing to freedom he could hope for anymore. Selma had once told him about a famous writer who faked his death and changed his name just so he could get his own life back.

  This time when Elvis closed his eyes, he was blessed with a dreamless sleep that was all music.

  17

  Suffocating Demon

  “It’s all over, Elvis! Done! The end!”

  Regis was standing unsteadily in the doorway to his office with a glass of Scotch in his hand when Elvis came hobbling up the stairs the next morning. Regis looked like he had been drinking since daybreak; so much for the resolutions of newfound love.

  “What the devil is wrong with you, man?” Elvis limped up to Regis and made a grab for his glass of booze, but Regis swung it away, spilling half its contents in the process.

  “I tell you, it’s over!” Regis yanked a folded Los Angeles Times out of his jacket pocket and thrust it in front of Elvis’s face. “Read all about it! You both made the front page, big guy!”

  Elvis grabbed the paper and limped over to the window. The lead story was about the FBI’s preliminary report on the Birmingham church bombing and the second lead was about President Kennedy’s upcoming visit to Dallas; sandwiched in between were two short news columns. The one on the left was headlined “The King Surfaces: Elvis at Sparks Rodeo Benefit.” And the headline right next to it was “Killer Escapes CCI: Littlejon Squirms Loose.”

  “God Almighty!” Elvis cried. “When did this happen?”

  “Middle of the night,” Regis said.

  “How’d Squirm do it?”

  “How do you think, movie star? It was a set-up. Somebody on the inside showed him right to the door. They wanted him to escape!”

  “It says that here?” Elvis scanned down the article.

  “Of course not!” Regis blasted. “Your pal Reardon says they took Squirm to the prison infirmary in the middle of the night because he was complaining of chest pains. They turned their backs and, abracadabra, he’s gone. And if you believe that, pal, I’ve got a nice deal for you on the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “It could’ve happened that way,” Elvis said. “Squirm’s a slippery guy. That’s how he got his name.”

  “He’s slippery, but he’s no magician,” Regis said. “One thing Reardon fails to mention is that there hasn’t been an escape from CCI in thirty-two years. Tight as a drum. Why now? Why Squirm and nobody else? I’m telling you, it was a set-up.”

  “But why in heck would they want him to escape?”

  “So they can track him down and shoot him, no questions asked,” Regis said. “The giveaway is that Reardon insists that Squirm is armed and dangerous. The Singing Warden doesn’t have a clue how Squirm escaped, but he’s dead sure he’s got a gun. And that, my friend, is license to kill him on the spot.”

  “Why the heck do they want to kill him? They had him locked up for life.”

  “Because that’ll put an end to any questions the public has,” Regis said. “Nobody ever believes an escaped con is innocent. Never. They figure he wouldn’t run if he was innocent. This way, the case gets put to rest for good. Escaped killer shot, end of story. Squirm was an idiot for going along with it, for thinking they were really just letting him get away scot-free. Now he’ll be a dead idiot.”

  “But he’s a convicted man, Regis!” Elvis bellowed. “Nobody gives a hoot what the public thinks about him.”

  “Not before they didn’t. But they do now. Ever since last night when the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll decided to become a social protester. Mister Joan Baez. Suddenly, the whole world is talking about Squirm Littlejon.” Regis pointed a shaky finger at the article that Mike Murphy had written in the Times about Elvis.

  Elvis skimmed down the story:

  … Elvis dedicated his next song, “Jailhouse Rock,” to Squirm Littlejon {see adjoining story}, declaring that the convicted murderer of actress Holly McDougal was innocent, “a man who was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Anonymous sources have informed the Times that Mr. Presley is currently sponsoring a private investigation of the Littlejon case with the intention of reopening it. Apparently, Presley believes that Mr. Littlejon was framed for the crime and that the guilty party is still at large. Presley’s investigation may, in fact, account for his mysterious absence during the past three days.

  “That was a dumb mistake, I guess,” Elvis said quietly.

  “You bet it was, movie star!” Regis retorted mercilessly. “As soon as Littlejon became a cause celebre, somebody decided to act fast. And, God damnit, they did! They set him up like turkey in a barrel.”

  Elvis hobbled over to the chair across from Regis’s desk and sat down heavily.

  “I’m sorry, Regis,” he said. “I got carried away by all that feeling over there in Sparks. I dedicated a love song to you and Delores too.”

  “How touching,” Regis intoned sarcastically as he filled his glass again. “That’s over too, you know. Who the hell did I think I was kidding? A second chance for Regis Clifford? The drunk falls in love and turns over a new leaf? Sounds like some cornball country ditty. Give it to your songwriters, pal. You can make another million.”

  Elvis felt himself flinch inside. What in the name of God was he doing taking this abuse from a bitter, drunken bum he’d only met a few days ago? He’d gone out of his way to help the poor guy, for godssake—way out of his way. Given him money, given him hope. And
this was the pay-off? It was bad enough that Regis had forgotten who he was talking to, but had Elvis forgotten himself? He was Elvis Presley, for godssake! Regis Clifford was lucky he even gave him the time of day.

  Elvis felt a sickness in his gut. He reached for his crutches. Regis was right about one thing: it was over, all right. All over. Once they tracked down Squirm—once they shot him—no one would have the stomach to reopen his case. Not a single judge in the entire state of California would risk disclosing that not only had they jailed the wrong man, but they had killed him too. That is exactly the kind of public disaster that the people in charge will do absolutely anything to avoid—including burying the truth along with Squirm Littlejon.

  “Here’s your money back, movie star. Nobody can say Regis Clifford ever kept a nickel he didn’t earn.”

  Regis flung some crumpled bills onto his desk. Elvis gathered them up and stuck them in his pocket without looking at Regis. Then he braced himself onto his crutches and started for the door. That awful feeling in his gut was getting worse, reaching up to his chest and making it hard for him to breathe. He was in the corridor now. He glanced up and there he was again in Doc Goldstein’s mirror: Elvis Presley, the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, limping along a dingy hallway in West Hollywood with two days’ growth on his face. The misbegotten twin. The loser twin. Well, damn it, Regis could have that role all to himself. Elvis had better things to do with his life.

  Elvis looped his right arm through both crutches, then braced his hands on the handrail and started hopping down the stairs, the tips of his crutches bouncing on the steps behind him. Okay, so Colonel was right—he wasn’t cut out for this line of work. He’d been greedy to think he was. The good Lord had made him a superstar, wasn’t that enough? All this snoop business gave you was a lame foot and an abusive partner. And let’s face it, Elvis had done more harm than good these past few days. Some real harm too. Like if Will Cathcart really was murdered, that was on Elvis’s head. That surely wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t stuck his nose in.