by Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley
“Holy Moses!” Elvis said. “She told me she was going to be making pictures on her own. Pictures Miss Pollard couldn’t dream of making.”
“Yup, she’s starting up her own movie studio, and I’ll tell you, six million bucks is a lot of capital for a nobody in this town,” Murphy said. “Not even a Hollywood madame earns that kind of moolah. It seems little Miss Maryjane has investors—that’s in the small print too, although it doesn’t give any names, of course. But I’d bet the farm that you could find every one of those investors in her little black book. Miss Aronson gives new meaning to the idea that whore mongers run Hollywood.”
Elvis started limping up and down the Caboose.
“Man, it’s all connected, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Aronson, Holly, Squirm. It’s like Regis says, ‘It’s a puzzle wrapped in an enigma.’”
Murphy smiled. “You can say that again, Elvis. But I don’t know where we go from here.”
Elvis kept pacing.
“I suppose we could get to work on your biography,” Murphy ventured brightly. “I mean, it doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere at the moment.”
Elvis came to a sudden halt.
“Let’s give her a call,” he said.
“Who?”
“Miss Aronson. Call her up and say I want to talk business.”
“What kind of business, Elvis?”
“The only kind she knows, Murph. Show business.” Elvis sat down on the corner of the desk, lifted the phone, dialed MGM, then proffered the receiver to Murphy. “Tell the operator you want to talk to Aronson in Development.”
Murphy took the phone. The operator apparently asked who was calling and Murphy replied, “Sol, from the William Morris Agency. She’ll know who it is.” Grinning, he handed the phone back to Elvis.
“Development. Miss Aronson speaking.”
“Afternoon, Miss Aronson. It’s Elvis.”
Not a sound in response. Hank Snow once told Elvis that the silences between verses were the loudest part of a song. This one screamed.
“I hear you’re opening up your own picture studio, and I was thinking about what you said at Will Cathcart’s funeral,” Elvis went on blithely. “You know, about me being like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause and all. Did you really mean that, ma’am?”
The blaring silence continued. Elvis could hear every little thought crackling through Miss Aronson’s fine-wired brain. She knew Grieves was dead and she knew that Elvis was suspected of doing it. They might be able to keep a story like that out of the press for now, but there is no way they could keep it from circulating at MGM. She probably also guessed that Elvis was in hiding somewhere. On top of that, she undoubtedly realized that Elvis was starting to put things together: Mickey Grieves and Will Cathcart’s death; maybe even her career as solicitor to the rich and famous in the call-girl business.
But rising above the din of every one of those thoughts was the fact that Elvis Presley, the most bankable star in the universe, was phoning her—Maryjane Aronson, the head of a fledgling movie studio. Of all the timeless truths that Elvis had learned in Hollywood, the one he was banking on now was that a deal—a big-time movie deal—was worth absolutely any risk. Such was the power and the weakness of the Hollywood mind-set.
“Yes, I meant that, Elvis,” Aronson said finally. “You have a special quality that none of your films has ever touched. A kind of vulnerability mixed with grit. James Dean meets Gary Cooper. And we aren’t even talking about your singing.”
“You figure I could carry a film without singing a single song?”
“I most certainly do, Elvis.” Aronson was at full tilt now, all fast-talking charm and flattery. And promises. Promise anything, close the deal, worry later. If she had a single qualm about murder or blackmail or the possibility of spending enough time in prison for her hair to return to its natural color and then turn white, the prospect of closing a deal with Elvis Presley trumped it without a whisper of internal protest. What the heck, her black book had kept her out of jail before. And she knew from experience that genuinely powerful men were immune from prosecution, even for murder. That would include Elvis himself—nothing as trivial as suspicion of a lowly stuntman’s murder could prevent the King from appearing in Timeless Films’ first major motion picture.
“Well, I surely would like to make a real moving picture for a change,” Elvis said in the earnest tones of a veteran actor. “Something that would give the folks something meaningful to talk about on their way out of the theater.”
“I know you would,” Aronson said. “And that is exactly what I want to do too. We are in absolute agreement about that.”
“Well, I guess we should get together then and talk turkey,” Elvis said.
“Yes, turkey,” Aronson said.
“I could meet you this evening,” Elvis said.
“Yes, that would be nice,” Aronson said. She hesitated a moment, then, “I don’t think over here at MGM would be appropriate. We both want privacy, don’t we?”
“Yes, ma am.”
“How about my new offices?” Aronson said. “They’re a little primitive at the moment. Just bare-bones furnishings. But I’m sure we can manage.”
“Sounds perfect,” Elvis said.
Aronson gave him an address in Studio City.
“I’ll see you at eight, then. Alone,” she said. “And Elvis?”
“Yes?”
“Should I order in?”
“No, ma’am,” Elvis said. “I kinda lost my appetite lately.”
23
A Two-Blackmail Deal
Elvis brought a pillow with him this time. Back under the hood of the Corvair, he curled up like a caterpillar in a cocoon in the fresh clothes Murphy had found for him. Elvis rested his head on the pillow and that feeling of peace descended on him again. The womb must have felt like this—close and secure, noisy movement outside, protective stillness inside. There was just enough room for another man his size to curl up on the other side, his head where Elvis’s feet were. Just enough room for Jesse Garon.
He had made two quick phone calls after speaking with Miss Aronson. First, he called Belizzi’s laboratory at UCLA. Garcia and Suarez were already at work and things were going smoothly; they expected to have some results later that evening. Regis came on and again apologized to Elvis for talking out of turn about his codeine pills. Elvis told him to forget it; they had more important things to think about now. Then he asked how things were going between him and Delores, and Regis just sort of hummed in reply. It was a happy hum, the hum of a man who cannot believe his good fortune.
Next, Elvis had phoned Colonel Parker at his office at MGM.
“It’s me, Colonel.” Elvis automatically held the phone away from his ear: Parker’s hyper-ventilated blare virtually drowned out the rumble of the presses above them.
“I’m dying, boy, you know that? You’re killing me, Elvis! Do you know what they’re saying about you now?”
“I know all about it,” Elvis said calmly. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head. Everything’s going to work out fine. I just need a few more days to sort out a couple things.”
“Damn it, Elvis, your pal Squirm is scot-free. Doing the hat dance in Mexico somewhere. That’s what you wanted, so why can’t you leave it be now? Then maybe—just maybe—we can salvage your career.”
That was true, all right. It looked like Squirm really had wriggled his way to permanent freedom. Not only that, but Will Cathcart’s death had been avenged, avenged with the ultimate retribution. If Elvis dropped the rest right here—STOP SNOOP NOW—those awful photos would be dropped too, and he really could get back to his life and his career. That is, once he cleared himself of Grieves’s murder. Sometimes you’ve got to chose between one shame and another.
“Can’t do it, Tom,” Elvis said finally. “Got a couple more things to work out. But I want you to set up a press conference so I can tell everybody what’s really been going on here. The whole truth. And then ev
erything will be all hunky-dory again.”
A long pause. “When?”
“How about Friday?” Elvis said. That gave him two more days to put this thing together, two more days to play tag with the police and his blackmailer. “Meantime, put it out there that I’m doing just fine, recuperating from a sprained ankle in a sanitorium somewhere in New Mexico. That should keep them busy looking for me somewhere else.”
Parker grumbled. “You don’t give me any choice, son. You’re crazy, but I’ll do it.”
“And by the way, Colonel,” Elvis said. “I didn’t kill Grieves.”
“I know that, boy. You’d never do a thing like that.”
“And I didn’t pull strings for Squirm’s escape neither.”
“I was wondering about that,” the Colonel said.
“I would have,” Elvis said. “Just didn’t think of it.”
Timeless Films, Incorporated, occupied the entire fifth floor of an art deco building on the south end of Ventura Boulevard. Elvis waited in the Corvair’s luggage compartment for several minutes after the car stopped; then, when the coast was clear, Murphy popped the hood and escorted him through the entrance hidden under a billowing white parka that he’d brought along for the occasion. To any passerby, it may have looked like Murph was steering the casualty of a parachute accident toward the elevator, but it takes considerably more than that to cause the denizens of Ventura Boulevard to stop and stare.
Elvis took the elevator up alone. There was not a doubt in his mind that Maryjane Aronson was somehow involved in the murder of Holly McDougal. She probably had not choked Holly herself—that must have been done by Holly’s final customer—but Aronson had surely participated in the cover-up and frame-up that put Squirm in jail for the murder. Aronson was one of the new Hollywood entrepreneurs, a woman with connections, an operator with a firm grasp of the art of the deal: You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Except the ante had been upped with this new generation: You cover up my homicide and I’ll bank your film studio. For them, it was just a minor variation on the same principle.
Elvis had only the bare outlines of a plan for what he was going to say to Miss Aronson. Above all, he needed to find out who her investors were—the murderer would surely be on that list. But that would be like asking to see her little black book: most of the names were undoubtedly the same, and Aronson could never afford to reveal them. Those veiled names were the fulcrum on which her entire little empire was balanced, her amulet against harm, her passport to Hollywood’s front offices. Maryjane Aronson had to believe that Elvis wanted something else from her.
Yup, that was the key, all right. On the countless occasions when the Colonel had numbingly lectured Elvis on the brilliance of his deal-making, he always declaimed the Tom Parker Golden Rule: Make the other party believe that you desperately want something that you actually didn’t give a hoot about. That put you in the catbird seat; you could moan and groan about giving up something that was actually worthless to you, then turn around and get what you really wanted. Elvis usually tuned out these lectures—it was worth the Colonel’s twenty-five percent just to spare himself the details of his conniving money games. But this little bit of Parker wisdom had stuck somehow. So the question was, What should the CEO of Timeless Films believe Elvis desperately wanted from her? It had to be something she thought Elvis Presley couldn’t get from anyone else in Hollywood.
“Hi, there!”
Maryjane Aronson was standing directly in front of the elevator as the doors separated on the fifth floor. Her hair was a living advertisement for Clairol, her tailored gray skirt and navy blue blazer a testament to good taste and expendable income, and the expression on her aging-kitten face pure eagerness. She raised herself onto the toes of her calfskin pumps and planted noisy kisses on each of Elvis’s cheeks. A Hollywood kiss, although it had gone by a different name in the Bible when they wrote up the Last Supper.
“Good evening, Ma’am.”
Elvis looked beyond Aronson to the offices of Timeless Films. Indeed, there was no furniture yet on the maroon carpeted floors, just phones sitting on the floor and cardboard boxes lining the walls. Aronson led the way to her corner office, a spacious room with arching windows, a pair of folding chairs, a card table, more boxes, and, snugged in the far corner, the largest item, an antique brass safe that looked almost comical in here, like the safe in a “Tom and Jerry” cartoon that fell out the window and made a pancake out of a pedestrian below. Elvis peered at it. By God, that had to be it. Maryjane’s little black book was in there. Her fortune of secret names all locked up.
“I can’t tell you how excited I am about all of this,” Aronson said, gesturing for Elvis to sit in one of the folding chairs.
“I am too, ma’am,” Elvis replied, remaining standing.
“Please call me Maryjane.” Aronson performed something that looked like a wink, but was hedged with an ironic smile. It was like those songs they wrote for him out here: half feeling, half parody of feeling.
“Sure thing,” Elvis said. “I hope you don’t mind if I get right down to business, Maryjane.”
“Please do, Elvis.” Aronson remained on her feet also.
“Well, like you know, I want to make meaningful films, important films, the kind Colonel Parker and Hal Wallis and just about everybody at MGM don’t think I have in me.”
“Exactly,” Aronson replied, nodding emphatically.
“But if I had the right producer, somebody who really trusted me as an actor, you know, like James Dean, then I’d jump right in. Get rid of all those people who don’t believe in me and make movies with somebody who really does.”
“We are precisely on the same wavelength,” Aronson bubbled. She could already see herself taking over the Colonel’s entire franchise.
So far, it had been a piece of cake, basically because everything Elvis was saying he actually believed in. But now it was time to swoop in with the bamboozle, and it came to Elvis in an inspired Colonel Parker-like flash.
“So here’s the film I want to make with you, Maryjane,” Elvis said. “Dr. Freud: The Musical.”
Aronson’s tight little mouth momentarily dropped open, but she recovered immediately with an earnest smile. “A musical comedy, right?”
“No, ma’am,” Elvis replied. “Serious. Kind of like an opera, you know?”
“And you—?”
“I’d play the good doctor, of course,” Elvis continued, amazed at how effortlessly all of this was coming out of him and at how much he was enjoying it too. “I know Freud had some kind of accent. German, I think. But with practice, I could get my tongue around that, don’t you think?”
Aronson braced both hands on the back of the folding chair in front of her.
“And I’d sing, you know?” Elvis went on rhapsodically. “The singing shrink. I even got a few songs worked out in my mind. One called, ‘Taboo.’ It’s about sex, of course. And one called, ‘Dress-up Games Rock.’ You know, about the games people play to soup up their sex lives. And another one about loving your mamma. I call it, ‘Madonnas and Whores.’”
Oh, yes, Regis’s cram course in psychology was paying off in spades, spades and jokers. Maryjane Aronson, Hollywood madame and criminal co-conspirator, looked positively scandalized. In Hollywood, the rules about what was fit and proper to go on a movie screen were entirely different story from the rules about what was fit and proper to do in real life.
“I, uh, I like it, Elvis,” Aronson stammered. “Very, uh, very unusual. Very original.”
“Thank you, ma’am. So what do you say? Should we write up a contract right now? Make it happen before the Colonel tries to put the kibosh on it?”
Elvis watched Aronson’s face twitch as she tried to figure out what to do next, as the bamboozle confused and befuddled her normally razor-sharp mind. “Freud: The Musical” was a totally ridiculous idea. Ridiculous and absolutely unbankable. But signing up Elvis Presley was a dream come true, a coup that could transform her piddlin
g new studio into a major player overnight. Thoughts about everything else—Holly, Grieves, murder, cover-ups—were reduced to wisps of smoke.
“Are you, uh, married to this Freud idea?” Aronson asked tentatively.
“I ain’t married to nobody,” Elvis laughed, working up a naive Jodie Tatum look on his face. “Nobody and nothing.”
“I mean, uh, are you saying we could discuss other movie ideas?” Aronson went on, trying to keep her excitement under control. “You know, just play around with them and see if we come up with something else? Maybe something even more compelling than the Freud opera?”
Elvis stroked his chin in a way that he hoped made him look deep in thought. He could practically hear the Colonel whispering in his ear: Slow and easy, son. Make her squirm. Make her think that if she makes one false move, she blows the whole deal.
“I sure do like that Freud idea, ma’am,” Elvis drawled. “A real meaty part, you know?”
Aronson nodded, barely breathing.
“And I surely don’t want to do any more films like Kissin’ Cousins. Makes me look silly and feel ridiculous,” Elvis went on. “That’s why I like this new idea of mine. It’s serious.”
“I know, Elvis. I wouldn’t even suggest something like Kissin’ Cousins. You’re far too talented for that. We’d have to come up with something totally serious and meaningful. Like one idea I’ve been playing with is a remake of Rebel Without a Cause, with you in the Dean part, of course.”
Elvis did some more chin stroking and head scratching while Aronson virtually quivered in her pumps.
“That sure is an interesting idea, Maryjane,” Elvis said at last. “Maybe we could do that first and the Freud movie next. Why don’t we just put in the contract something like, ‘for two scripts to be agreed upon later’? That should make us both happy, right?”
