Authors: Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective

Daniel Klein (17 page)

BOOK: Daniel Klein

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“Thought I'd seen her before, but probably not,” Murphy said. “She's just a type, Hollywood standard issue.”

Elvis then related his encounter with Florbid. When he got to the part where he said, “A little respect. We're at a
funeral,
for heaven's sake!” all three started to laugh so hard that Elvis had to pull over to the shoulder and wait until they finished lest they spill their precious cargo of tears.

Elvis's Personal Biographer

T
he latest news out of Tehachapi was not good at all. Dogs had picked up Squirm's scent in the northeast corner of the mountain range, and now there was talk of bringing in National Guard helicopters, although Governor Brown hadn't signed off on that yet. The story of Elvis's claim that the whole thing was a set-up so they could shoot Littlejon had completely evaporated from the airwaves.

“A story like that doesn't have much staying power,” Mike Murphy explained from the back seat. “If they repeat it too much, it just sounds crazy.”

“We need a new story then,” Elvis said, turning onto the West Hollywood exit. “Something else to make them think twice before they go ahead and shoot Squirm. Probably shouldn't have my name attached to it this time, you think? I'm getting the reputation as an unreliable source, as you folks say.”

“Can't help you there, Elvis,” Murphy said. “You can't just make something up and put it on the news, you know.”

“Why not?” Regis chortled. “Half the stuff you hear on the news is the figment of
somebody's
imagination. Usually some politician's.”

Elvis hung a right onto Sunset Boulevard.

“How about something about the FBI coming up with a new suspect in the McDougal murder?” Elvis suddenly said excitedly. “Hot on his trail and all. That might do it. What do you think?”

“I think I'd better get back to my office and see if I still have a job,” Murphy said soberly.

“I'm serious, Murphy, that's not bad, right? Folks respect the FBI.”

“Forget it, Elvis,” Murphy said.

“You can use the old âanonymous sources' bit,” Regis piped up. “Fits perfectly. Everybody knows the FBI is ultra secretive.”

“He's right,” Elvis said. “Your paper had that anonymous source's fella telling stories about me only yesterday.”

“Let me out at the next corner, Elvis,” Murphy said resolutely. “I've paid my dues to you already, thank you.”

“You sure have, Mr. Murphy,” Elvis said. “Especially over there in Maywood. Man, you've got the fastest tweezers in the West.”

Murphy had to laugh in spite of himself.

“I'm sorry, Elvis,” he said. “This has been terrific. A day to tell my grandchildren about. But I'm a journalist and we have an ethical code.”

“Yup, that ethical code had me holed up in a hotel room in London with Ann-Margret just last night,” Elvis said.

“Can't do it, Elvis,” Murphy said. “Sorry.”

They drove in silence for a few moments before Elvis said quietly, “I've been thinking of doing my biography, you know? My life as I see it. I'd need a writer, of course.”

For several minutes no one said anything. Then Murphy burst out with, “Jesus, Elvis! You drive one hell of bargain!”

“I just happen to like you, Murphy,” Elvis replied, grinning. “Now how about that? There's a phone booth right on the corner there.”

He pulled the Eldorado up to the curb right beside a phone booth. He looked in the rearview mirror: in the back seat, Mike Murphy was kneading his long forehead, a look of panic on his freckled face.

“I'm engaged,” Murphy mumbled. “Getting married next month.”

“Congratulations,” Elvis said. “She'll be real proud of you. You're doing the right thing.”

Regis leaned across Murphy and pushed open the car door.

“Do I get my name on the cover?” Murphy asked.

“In blue suede,” Elvis said. “Bigger than mine if you like.”

Murphy got out and entered the phone booth, leaving the door to it partially open. Elvis rolled down all the car windows and listened. Murphy had to give some kind of code word proving his identify to the editor on the other end, then launched into his story about the anonymous source who confirmed that the FBI had a new suspect in the McDougal murder case. Apparently the editor was more than a little skeptical.

“Can't give you his name, Doug,” Murphy was saying. “Protected source. The guy could lose his job, you know.”

Pause
.

“No, it's not Littlejon. They're clear on that.”

Pause
.

“They won't say, Doug. Don't want to tip him off that they're hot on his trail. They shouldn't have told me as much as they did, believe me.”

Pause
.

“A bulletin, right. On the wire immediately.”

Pause
.

“You bet, Doug. As soon as I hear anything else.”

Murphy hung up. He remained in the booth for several seconds, then came stumbling out to the curb where he bent over and spewed up his breakfast. Poor devil. Truth to tell, it was kind of reassuring to see that some people still got sick when they told a lie. Elvis sure wouldn't have guessed Murphy to be one of them. Murphy probably really was a good choice for his biographer.

“You done good,” Elvis said when Murphy got back into the car.

“I bet you could use a drink,” Regis said, producing his flask, but Murphy waved it off. Elvis scowled at Regis in the mirror and Regis put away the flask without a nip.

“Let's say you're right,” Murphy said seriously as Elvis started up the car again. “Let's say Littlejon is innocent, like your Spanish doctor insists. And let's say his escape really is a set-up so they can shoot him. If all that's true, we aren't just up against some stuntman,
Elvis. It's got to be bigger than that. Mickey Grieves can lie on the stand and string you up in the stunt shack, but he can't pull strings in the California prison system. No way in hell Grieves can do that. He may be a cog in it, just like Warden Reardon, but he's not running the machine.”

“I'm thinking the same thing,” Elvis said. “But that's where I get stuck. Who's got that kind of pull?”

“Politicians and movie stars,” Regis said. “People like you.”

“Baloney,” Elvis said. “You don't think I could've called up Reardon and told him to turn Littlejon loose, do you?”

“Maybe,” Regis said. “If he thought that would get âThe Singing Warden' into production, I can see him doing something like that.”

“Never,” Elvis said.

“Don't underestimate yourself, Elvis,” Murphy said. “I'm here to tell you that you're one hell of persuasive man.”

Elvis laughed.

“Guess I could've saved a whole lot of trouble if that's what I'd done in the first place,” he said. “Had Reardon turn Littlejon loose, but nobody following him with a rifle. Heck, making the warden's fool movie picture would've been worth it. Probably no worse than the movies I been making.”

“You mind if I take notes?” Murphy piped from the back seat, pulling out his notepad.

“Go right ahead,” Elvis said. “Put that in our book. I can't stand my movies, not a one of them since
Wild in the Country
. Truth is, I wouldn't put down a wooden nickel to see any of them myself.”

“You're kidding me,” Murphy said, scratching away in his pad.

“Hey, would I kid my personal biographer?” Elvis said.

All three of them started to laugh again. Man, it felt good, it felt right. Riding along in a car with a couple of buddies, speaking the honest truth to each other while pulling the wool over everybody else's eyes. It felt like the old days, tooting around Tennessee with Scotty and Bill, playing little clubs and waiting for the future to happen.
Just being yourself.

By the time they pulled up in front of Regis's office on West
Eighth Street, the first bulletin had already hit the air: anonymous source, FBI suspect, Littlejon's innocenceâthe whole ball of wax. When it came on the radio, Mike Murphy said he felt sick again, but this time he managed to keep all remaining cookies down.

Rodriguez was waiting for them at the top of the stairs holding up his freshly minted court order complete with letterhead, California state seal, and judge's elaborate signature.

“A masterpiece,” Rodriguez announced. “It is the best work I ever do.”

Murphy leaned over, peering at the document which designated Elvis Presley as the personal representative of Holly McDougal's estate.

“Holy Mother,” Murphy murmured. “I'm in with a den of criminals.”

Elvis handed Rodriguez a hundred dollars in twenties, shook his hand, and took the court order.

“Bank closes at two thirty. We don't have much time,” he said. He told Murphy to stash the tear vials and Wayne's hair sample in Rodriguez's refrigerator, then told Regis to get ahold of Holly's sister and have her meet them immediately at the Los Angeles Savings and Loan with Holly's safety deposit box key. They were back in the car in five minutes flat.

Mike Murphy had certainly earned his right to hear what Elvis had omitted from his original story, so Elvis and Regis filled him in on Holly McDougal's private call-girl operation on the MGM lot, along with the stunning total of her late life's savings.

“It's undoubtedly one of her johns who murdered her,” Murphy announced from the back seat after they had finished.

“What makes you say that?” Elvis asked.

“I must have covered a dozen call-girl murders when I was on the city desk,” Murphy replied. “And nine times out of ten, it's either her pimp or one of her johns who did it. Well, it sounds like Miss McDougal was self-employed-no pimpâso that leaves her customers. And by the way, that doesn't eliminate our friend Littlejon. He may not have been a paying customer, but he was still a john.”

“Why?” Elvis asked. “Why do they do it?”

“Craziness,” Murphy said. “Fits of disgust. They hate themselves for sinking so low, and they turn it around and blame it on the whore. She's the Jezebel. She's the one who made them sin, so she has to be punished.”

“Dr. Freud again,” Regis said.

“Sometimes it's another kind of craziness,” Murphy went on. “Humiliation. Sexual humiliation. Say the john can't get it up or he's self-conscious about his size or something like that. The girl smiles at him funny, probably not meaning anything at all by it, but the john gets it in his head that she's laughing at him and goes berserk. Strangles her in a rage.”

Elvis shook his head. In the past few days he'd heard enough about sexual crazinessâespecially of the male varietyâto last him a lifetime.

“We're closing in, friends,” Regis said gleefully. “Process of elimination. He was one of Holly's customers
and
he has a lot of power. Enough power to get Reardon to do his bidding. And to get Will Cathcart offed by a bull.”

“If,
” Murphy said.
“If
any one of your cockamamie assumptions is true. Especially that one about the raging bull that's a hit man.”

Elvis glanced at Murphy in the rearview mirror. He had the panicked look of a man being strangled by second thoughts.

“I'm sorry, gentleman,” Murphy said quietly. “But it still makes more sense to me that Littlejon is McDougal's murderer
and
he's a talented escape artist. Occam's Razorâthe simplest explanation is usually the right one.”

“Damnation!
It's him again!” Elvis hollered.

The baby blue Beetle had suddenly appeared in his mirror, swinging directly in back of him from the right lane. Same driver in the same nightwatch cap, but this time Elvis got a better look at what the man was waving in his hand: a cardboard box with a gleaming, blood-red skull and crossbones painted on its cover. Elvis floored the accelerator and the Eldorado lurched forward, its tires spitting sparks.

“What the hell?” Murphy sputtered as he was thrown back against his seat.

Next to Elvis, Regis had pivoted around and was staring out the rear window.

“Mean-looking bastard!” he cheered. “Man's been threatening Elvis ever since he got on this case. Got a simple explanation for that, Murphy?”

Elvis was weaving in and out of traffic at sixty-plus, but every time he looked in the mirror he saw the Beetle still hanging on his tail.

“Must have a Corvette engine in that darn thing!” Elvis called, hanging a hard right and cutting across two lanes onto the shoulder where he kept the pedal floored, bouncing from one pothole to the next as he shot past the cars on his left.

“Hell, let him catch us, Elvis!” Regis crowed. He was clearly having the time of his life. “There's three of us. We can take him.”

“No,
please,”
Murphy moaned. He had crawled down into the space behind the driver's seat and was trembling. “Really. He could have a gun.”

BOOK: Daniel Klein

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