by Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley
Elvis snapped the whip, catching Grieves just below the harness on his rump. It made him spin like a Christmas-tree ornament on a ribbon. Grieves grimaced with pain.
“Who are they, Mickey?” Elvis said. “Who’s trying to stop me?”
“It doesn’t matter who,” Grieves called back. “It’s what they can do. And that’s just about anything they feel like doing.”
“I know what Holly was doing out here,” Elvis said. “And I know it’s one of her johns who’s behind all this. Give me his name, Grieves. Give me the name or I’m going to call the police right now and have them come get you for Will’s murder.”
“They won’t believe you, Pelvis,” Grieves said. “Hell, they never believe a drug addict.”
Elvis swallowed hard. “They’ll believe the vet who did the autopsy on the bull,” he said. “And they’ll believe Binxter Bartley who saw you give it that shot.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but for emphasis Elvis snapped the whip under Grieve’s chin.
For a long moment, Grieves said nothing. Then, “Okay. Let me down and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you who killed Holly. But then you got to let me run. Get a running start before you call the police.”
“Deal,” Elvis said.
Above him, Grieves started to pump his legs, swinging toward the hook and slipknot. He folded his feathered arms across his chest like a bashful angel. A sudden silver flash appeared in his hand.
A shriek: “You killed my Willy!”
Elvis spun around. Jilly-Jo Cathcart had soundlessly crept into the stunt shack. She stood just behind Elvis, a long-handled stunt apparatus held high in her hands. Squeeze trigger at one end, a spring, a length of rubber tubing, huge scissorlike blades at the other.
One well-placed snip is all it took.
Grieves was in mid-swing when she snapped the cable. A sudden look of horror, then a dark smile as he spread his wings, swooping toward Elvis with his right hand raised. The silver flash was a knife in his hand.
Elvis jumped to his right. Grieves knocked against Elvis’s left shoulder, flipped, and hit the floor on his belly. That was it. Grieves didn’t move. A stream of purple blood trickled out from under his chest. Elvis and Jilly-Jo stared down at him. Then Elvis stooped down and pulled Grieves up by the shoulders. The handle of the knife was still in Grieves’s right hand; the blade was deep in his chest. He was dead.
Jilly-Jo was shaking, sobbing uncontrollably. Elvis put his arm across her shoulders.
“We best get out of here,” he whispered.
They started for the shack door. Abruptly, Elvis halted, turned, and again leaned over Grieves’s sprawling corpse. He quickly withdrew the tweezers from his jacket pocket, yanked a strand of bloodied hair from the back of Grieves’s head, and then stuck both tweezers and hair into his pocket.
Five minutes later, Elvis drove out through the MGM gate with Jilly-Jo crouched behind the driver’s seat and hidden under Elvis’s jacket. Elvis knew full well that he was abetting the escape of a murderer, but sometimes you got to choose between one shame and the other. Funny thing was, being connected to the death of Mickey Grieves didn’t feel like a shame at all.
22
The Silence Between Verses
Senor Rodriguez was adjusting the rabbit-ears aerial of an eight-inch television on Regis’s desk when Elvis walked in the door. Electrified by a series of extension cords that led back to the travel agency, the set appeared to be pulling in three stations simultaneously, one black-and-white image of a newscaster layered over the other, which seemed appropriate for its tripartite audience. Regis, Delores Suarez, and Hector Garcia sat about as far away from each other as the tiny office permitted, and there was enough static electricity being generated between them to interfere with reception in the entire building.
“So where have you been, Elvis?” Regis said, staring at the fluttering screen.
“Condolence call,” Elvis replied. “Out in Maywood to see Jilly-Jo Cathcart.”
The only part that was true about that, of course, was that he had driven Jilly-Jo home to Maywood from MGM. On the way, she had explained that Binxter Bartley had phoned her right after he had spoken with Elvis. She had come to the stunt shack that morning with the intention of confronting Grieves, not killing him. But when she had seen Grieves draw that knife in mid-air, she had reacted spontaneously. She had simply done what she had to do, she said; she had never intended to kill Grieves. Elvis and Jilly-Jo decided that for now they would not tell anyone what had transpired in the stunt shack.
But what was going on here? Hector Garcia had not even glanced at Elvis since he entered the room.
“Wonderful to see you, Hector,” Elvis said, walking toward him with his hand extended. “Glad you could get up here so quick.”
“I came in good faith,” the doctor said quietly, his eyes cast down, his own hands remaining rigidly at his side.
“I know that, Dr. Garcia, and I truly appreciate it,” Elvis said. He gazed at the doctor, bewildered. “I’ve made all the arrangements for a lab and a place for you to stay.”
Delores turned her coal-black eyes from the television screen and glared at Elvis accusingly.
“We know about your drug problem, Elvis,” she said.
“My what?”
“Your codeine addiction,” Delores said.
“I had to tell them after the police came here looking for you,” Regis jumped in. “Prime suspect in the murder of Mickey Grieves. It’s the only defense we’ve got. Drug-induced rage, insanity defense. It’s either that or you start running now. The police are looking for you everywhere.”
“But I didn’t kill Grieves!” Elvis bellowed.
“They have a witness,” Dolores blurted. “The guard at the gates. He saw you go in there just before Grieves arrived.”
“I … I was there when it happened,” Elvis stammered. “But it was … it was an accident.”
“An accident,” Regis echoed.
Elvis heard the wail of a siren in the distance. His head was spinning. He suddenly dropped to his knees in front of Hector Garcia and looked up at him beseechingly.
“I swear on the grave of my mother that I did not kill that man,” Elvis said. “You can believe me or not believe me, but please, Doctor, take the samples. Do the lab work. Help me find the truth.”
For an interminable moment, Dr. Hector Garcia gazed deeply into Elvis’s eyes. “You must make me a promise,” he said, finally.
“Anything.”
“No more drugs,” the doctor said. “No more codeine, even if you are in pain.”
“But I am not a drug ad—” Elvis stopped himself, then, “Yes, Doctor. I promise.”
Garcia stood. “I will get to work immediately,” he said. “But I believe you must go now.”
Elvis quickly jotted down Dr. Belizzi’s number at the UCLA laboratory. He suddenly remembered the tweezers and hair in his pocket and handed it to Garcia, explaining that it was from Grieves. He started for the door, but Delores stopped him.
“I will need a sample from you also,” she said, a laboratory vial in her hand.
“What in heck for?”
“Elimination,” Delores Suarez said. “In case you have contaminated any of the samples by handling them. I will take cells from Regis and from your Mr. Murphy also.” She reached up and plucked a hair from Elvis’s head.
“Elvis?” Regis was now standing beside Elvis too, but he was unable to look at him directly. His bloodshot eyes kept darting around the office, his lips were quivering. He looked like he needed a drink very badly.
“What is it, Regis?” Elvis said.
“I … I am sorry if I … if I spoke out of turn about … about your drug problem,” Regis stammered. “But I worry about you.”
“And I worry about you, Regis,” Elvis said.
“I am not going to have another drink myself, Elvis,” Regis said. “I promise you that.”
Delores suddenly took Regis’s hand and squeezed it.
“Y
ou two take care of each other,” Elvis said, and he left.
Mike Murphy’s timing was perfect again. He was just pulling his shiny black Corvair coupe up to the curb when Elvis emerged from Regis’s building.
“Keep the motor running, Murph,” Elvis said, pulling open the passenger door and easing himself in. “I need to stay in motion.”
“So I hear,” Murphy said, slipping his car back into first gear. “Police have an all-points going for you. But they’ve made the press keep a lid on it for now. There’s enough in the news about you as it is.”
“I didn’t kill Grieves,” Elvis said.
“Glad to hear that,” Murphy said, nosing the car into the traffic. “It would make for kind of an abrupt ending to your biography.”
“So what are they saying in the news about me?”
“You haven’t heard?”
Elvis put his hand to his forehead. My God, had they published those photographs in the papers already? “Haven’t heard a thing,” he said.
“Warden Reardon has been relieved of his duties out at CCI,” Murphy said. “But that’s the least of his problems. They’re indicting him for unlawfully releasing Squirm Littlejon. They say he aided and abetted his escape.”
“We’re way ahead of them on that one,” Elvis said, feeling only half relieved. “But what’s that got to do with me?”
Murphy chuckled. “One of the guards out at the prison has come forward and declared that Reardon did it expressly for you. Because you are a personal friend of his and of Squirm’s. But mostly because Reardon wants you to make some movie of his.”
“The Singing Warden,” Elvis said.
“Jesus!” Murphy said. “You mean they’re right?”
“They’re right about Reardon’s movie,” Elvis said. “Wrong about him letting Squirm loose for me. I knew they’d hang Reardon out to dry if thing’s didn’t go according to their plan, but I never figured on this—trying to hang him and me at the same time.”
Murphy turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard. “Where are we going, by the way?” he said.
“Any place they won’t come looking for me,” Elvis said, then, “I take it Squirm is still out there or they wouldn’t be turning on Reardon.”
“Oh, Squirm’s out there, all right,” Murphy said, grinning. “So far he’s been spotted in Pacific Palisades, El Paso, Tijuana, and Montreal. And he was seen by an entire family wriggling out of a drainpipe in downtown Spokane. Family said they shared a hero sandwich with him and wished him well on his journey.”
“El bandito diminuto!” Elvis cheered.
“I saved the best for last,” Murphy went on. “Squirm was sighted in a White Tower on the south side of Chicago where he was sharing a bag of burgers with you.”
Elvis laughed. “Hey, why not? They had me in a London hotel with Ann-Margret just a couple of days ago. Man, I could be dead and buried and they’d still be spotting me all over the map.”
A sudden flash of red light shot in through the Corvair’s slanted back window.
“Damn! The cops!” Murphy cried. “I got to pull over. Hide!”
“Hide?” The coupe was tinier than the cabin of an eight-wheeler, the narrow rear seat jutting within inches of the front bucket seats.
“Pull up the carpet!” Murphy said, pointing at the floor pan under Elvis’s feet.
Elvis did as he was told. Under the carpet was a hinged panel. He pulled it open as Murphy coasted onto the shoulder, the police car right behind him. The opening led directly under the car’s hood.
“I’ll burn to a crisp in there!” Elvis said.
“Engine’s in rear,” Murphy said. “Go! Now!”
Elvis slid down in his seat, wiggling through feet first. When he got down to his hips, he stuck, too wide for the opening. Murphy kept on coasting. The cops blared their horn. What would Squirm do?
Elvis twisted clockwise, then twisted back, doing a little slithery thing with his hips like he did when he performed “Teddy Bear.” He gyrated into the Corvair’s front luggage compartment and pulled the panel shut just as Murphy came to a full stop. Above his head, he heard Murphy kick the carpet back down over the floor pan.
“Was I speeding, Officer?” Murphy intoned, sounding like the male equivalent of a Santa Monica housewife on her way to the beauty salon.
“I thought it was you, Murphy,” Elvis heard the policeman reply. “Nobody else would be seen dead in one of these pickle wagons.”
“It’s the car of the future, Officer.”
“I hear you’ve been hanging out with Elvis lately,” the policeman said.
“That’s right,” Murphy replied brightly. “I’m his official biographer.”
“So where is he, Mr. Biographer?”
“Last I heard he was in Chicago—South Chicago, actually. Supping with Squirm Littlejon.”
“Don’t get wise with me, Murphy.”
“Honest, I heard it on the radio.”
“And you believe that, right?” the policeman whined sarcastically.
“Well, it was on the news.”
“Listen, Murphy, if you know where he is and don’t tell, we can put you away for a long time.”
“I’m a law-abiding citizen, Officer,” Murphy said. “If I were you, I’d put in a call to Chicago’s finest real quick.”
A moment later, they were rolling again, Murphy cackling, “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Elvis!”
Crouched fetal-like on his side under the Corvair’s hood, Elvis smiled. There was something surprisingly tranquil about lying here in the semi-darkness, bouncing along in this cramped enclosure. Outside, he was Missing Elvis, Wanted-for-Murder Elvis, Phantom Elvis Eating Two-Bite Burgers with Squirm, Drug-Crazed Elvis, Pornographic Elvis Making Love to a Swedish Starlet. But in the luggage compartment of Mike Murphy’s coupe, he was just himself, Elvis from Tupelo, Gladys Presley’s little boy with the soulful voice.
“I’d rather stay in here, Murph,” he called back.
“Fine with me. Next stop, the L.A. Times. Got a room there nobody comes looking in. The Caboose.”
The room was in a sub basement under the presses, and Murphy had been using it for years as his personal getaway from the sea of desks and wiseguys in the newsroom. It was outfitted with a desk and chair, a phone, a radio, and a ratty sofa. No windows, no pictures on the walls. Pictures would have tumbled off their hooks anyway—the incessant overhead rumble of the presses made the room vibrate like a railway car. Elvis stretched out on the sofa.
“By the way, it turned out I was right about that Aronson woman,” Murphy said, sitting down at his desk and pulling a yellowed newspaper out of the middle drawer. “I had seen her before. When I was a cub on courthouse duty back in fifty-eight.”
Elvis sat up. “What was she doing in court?”
“Smiling like the Cheshire cat,” Murphy answered. “She’d been arrested for solicitation.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Not for herself, of course,” Murphy went on, unfolding the newspaper. “Miss Aronson has always been in management.”
“She was soliciting for someone else?”
“For a whole stable of call girls,” Murphy said. “Twenty or thirty of them. Mostly moonlighting chorus girls and bit players.”
“Like Miss Holly,” Elvis said.
“Yes, like Holly,” Murphy said.
“You said she was smiling.”
“That’s right, the smile of an untouchable. Aronson knew there was no way in hell she would have to pay for her sins.”
“Why’s that?”
“Her black book,” Murphy said. “She took it out of her I. Magnum pocketbook and flashed it at the judge like it was the devil’s own amulet. Her client list.”
“Who was on it, Murph?”
Murphy laughed. “That’s what everybody wanted to know. A list of names like that can skyrocket a cub reporter’s career in a single edition of the morning paper. The judge took one look at it, turned several shades of purple,
and handed it back to Miss Aronson like it was molten lead burning his fingers. Must have been some major bigwigs on that list.” Murphy snapped his fingers. “Case dismissed, just like that.”
“On what grounds?”
“Coffee grounds,” Murphy said, laughing again. “Insufficient fiddle-di-di. The usual mumbo jumbo they come up with when they want to smother a hot potato. She was out of there in a flash. But not before the intrepid reporter, Michael Xavier Murphy, could snap her picture.” He held the newspaper aloft, pointing to a tiny photograph in the corner of a page next to an advertisement for a funeral home. “It’s what’s known in the trade as a buried story.”
Elvis leaned forward on the sofa. The dismissed case of Miss Maryjane Aronson occupied a mere one-and-a-half column inches on page thirty-six of the newspaper, wedged—without so much as a subhead—between a report about one Ralph Lulek’s bail bond and one Suzy “Tootsie” Peppard’s thirty-day-suspended sentence for “loitering with intent,” although it didn’t specify what her intent might have been. The photograph was a tiny gray smudge without a caption; the way it was placed, one would surmise that it was of Tootsie herself, caught in the act of loitering.
“How the heck did Miss Aronson get from there to the movie business?” Elvis asked.
“Probably through the front door,” Murphy answered. “I imagine that black book has opened a lot of doors for her. Soft-core blackmail.”
“I bet there’s a connection between her and Miss Holly,” Elvis said.
“I’m sure there is,” Murphy said. “Maybe Holly wasn’t the independent contractor we assumed she was. But there’s more, Elvis.” Murphy began rummaging around in the middle desk drawer and pulled out another section of newspaper. This one looked whiter, more recent. “I did a search in the morgue for anything else we may have run about Maryjane Aronson. And lo and behold, this turned up in the business section last May.”
Murphy folded the paper into quarters and held it up close to his eyes.
“Small print, straight from the rolls of the state office of revenue and taxation. The week’s new corporations.” Murphy traced a finger down a column, then began to read, “‘Incorporated April 20, 1963, Timeless Films, a motion-picture studio. CEO, Miss Maryjane Aronson. Initial capitalization, six million dollars.’ It says they’ll be open for business in January 1964. That’s just a few months from now.”
