“I know what you mean,” Elvis said. He looked up; Regis was sailing back in the office door with a smug expression on his face. “One more thing, Miss Spinelli. A few years back, you made a date with an attorney, man named Regis Clifford, to talk about Holly. But you never made it. In fact, you more or less disappeared after that. What happened?”
For almost a minute, Connie Spinelli did not say a word.
“Ma' am?”
“I was told to leave,” Spinelli said flatly.
“Who told you?”
“I didn't see his face,” Spinelli said. “He had a gas mask on and an army uniform. First World War. Actually, it looked kind of new,
like it was straight out of MGM wardrobe. But his gun wasn't hard to see.”
“I'm sorry you had to go through that, Miss Spinelli,” Elvis said.
“It's all right,” she answered. “I'm actually much happier out here.”
“We'll be in touch, ma'am. You take good care of yourself.”
“Mr. Presley?”
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”
Elvis put his hand to his forehead. He surely did not want to discuss the peculiarities of male sexuality with Connie Spinelli any more, but God knows, he owed her.
“What is it?” Elvis said.
“Is your friend, Dr. Jackson, married?” she asked, sounding just about seventeenâa
Tennessee
seventeen.
“No, ma'am,” Elvis answered, smiling. “Not the last time I heard, at least.”
The moment Elvis hung up, Regis presented him with a little blue booklet. It was a United States passport.
“Freshly minted,” Regis said proudly. “My pal Rodriguez at the travel agency just happened to have a blank on hand. We clipped a photo of you out of
Silver Screen
magazine and laminated it in. Looks perfect. The funny thing is, Rodriguez never heard of you and when he typed in your name, he spelled it, âEl Vez Perez-Lee.' Cuban Chinese. It's a good thing I caught it.”
Elvis opened up the passport. The photograph of him was a still from the prerelease publicity kit for
Viva Las Vegas.
You could see where Senor Rodriguez had scissored Ann-Margret out of the frame.
“I underestimate you, Regis,” Elvis said, smiling. “I was sure you'd gone out for a drink.”
“You don't underestimate me, Elvis,” Regis replied. “Rodriguez and I toasted our good work with a shot of tequilla.”
Hot Sauce
E
lvis brought Regis up to date between forkfuls of
barbacoa de lomo
at La Cucina, a tiny Mexican cafe on the same block as Regis's office. The Mexican barbecue was so hot you could feel it burning all the way down to your gut, but God knows, it was the real thing for a change, even if you did have to excavate it from some kind of moldy leaf to get at it. Elvis told Regis about Cathcart's death; his meeting with Nancy Pollard, and her insistence that she had been telling the truth on the witness stand; the man in the blue Beetle who had been following him; and finally about Holly McDougal's extracurricular activities as described by Connie Spinelli. Regis, who had only ordered a bowl of rice and a pitcher of sangria, grew increasingly excited with each piece of news.
“My friend, it's a puzzle wrapped in an enigma,” Clifford said. “But we are on our way. Yes, indeed, the hounds have picked up the scent.”
Elvis sawed off a piece of fried plantain and stuck it in his mouth to cool down his palate.
“I'll tell you, I can taste it already,” Regis went on rhapsodically. “We petition the court, get a new trial, Littlejon's exonerated. It's all over the papers. And old LeRoy has got egg all over his face.”
“Is that what this is all about for you, Regis?” Elvis asked. “Beating out your brother?”
Regis poured himself another glass of sangria and gulped it down before answering.
“I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a big chunk of it, Elvis,” Regis said. “I'm not saying it's pretty. But revenge is what makes the world go around. Basic human emotion. Did you ever read
The Count of Monte Cristo?
”
“Even if it's your own kin?” Elvis asked. “Your own twin brother?”
“
Especially
if it's your twin brother,” Regis answered. “How about a song about that, my friend? âThe Twin's Revenge.'” Regis winked, then called to the waiter in Spanish and in a flash another pitcher of sangria appeared. It was obvious that Regis was a regular at La Cucina; everybody called him, “Senor el Abogato,” which, he explained, meant “Mr. Lawyer.” But, for a nice change, nobody made a fuss about Elvis being there, nobody crowded him. Elvis had wondered if anyone even recognized him in the densely packed cafeâseeing as they were all immigrantsâbut now, in heavily accented English, the waiter asked, “Can I get you something, Senor Presley?”
“No, I'm just about full up, thank you,” Elvis replied.
“My pleasure, Senor Presley.”
Regis poured himself another glass of sangria. “There are three puzzles we need to unravel as soon as we get back from Mexico,” he said. “First, how Holly accumulated that small fortune. I find it hard to believe myself that it's just profits from services rendered. Second, I'd like get a first-hand account of how your rodeo friend bit the proverbial dust. Probably it was just a coincidenceâan accident at an inopportune time.”
“I thought you said there were no accidents,” Elvis said.
“I don't imagine Freud's theory applies to mad bulls,” Regis said, winking. “And the third thing is, from what you say, I'm starting to wonder if our friend Squirm was telling us the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about his sex life with Miss Pollard.”
“Why don't we just go up to Tehachapi and ask him?” Elvis said.
“It's worth a try.”
“I mean right now,” Elvis said, mopping his mouth with a paper napkin.
“For chrissake, it's seven o'clock,” Regis said. “I think it can wait. Squirm's not going anywhere.”
“Neither am I,” Elvis said. “My car's just outside.”
“Jesus, Elvis, we have to get up at three in the morning to catch our plane,” Regis pleaded.
“Best not sleep at all then.”
“Listen, my friend, visiting hours ended four hours ago.”
“I think I can get them to make an exception,” Elvis said. “Do they have a pay phone in here?”
“No, they don't,” Regis said emphatically.
“You can use our phone, Senor Presley.” It was their waiter, as he removed Elvis's plate. “At the bar.”
Regis rolled his eyes.
The bartender set the phone on the bar as Elvis approached. Next to it, he placed a shot glass of brandy. “Compliments of the house, Senor Presley,” the bartender said. “I enjoy very much âRubias, Morenas Y Pelirrojas.'”
“Much obliged,” Elvis said. He wanted to ask him what, exactly, that âRubias' thing meant, but it would have to wait. The operator put him right through to Warden Reardon's private line.
“Evening, Warden, it's me again, Elvis.”
“Well,
hello
, Elvis,” Reardon said. “I thought I'd be hearing from you pretty quick. It's perfect, isn't it?”
“Beg pardon?”
“
The Singing Warden
. Just what you're looking for, right?
Jailhouse Rock
with a new twist.”
Only then did Elvis realize what the heck Reardon was talking about.
“Yes, sir, it's a real original,” Elvis said. “Of course, I'll have to show it to a few folks before we can get started on it.”
“Hey, that's show business,” Reardon chirped. “But I've got a feeling you and I are going to be seeing a whole lot of each other.”
“You bet,” Elvis said. “How about tonight?” He told Reardon that
he needed another few minutes with Fredrick Littlejon. It was, of course, no problem at all for the Singing Warden.
As he got into his car, Elvis's ankle began to throb again, throb and burn like crazy, as if the jalapenos in the barbecue sauce had coasted down his leg and taken up a command post in his foot. He reached into his jacket pocket for his pills.
“There is no way I am going to ride in this car if you take one of those,” Regis blurted out, next to him.
“Just a half,” Elvis said. “I drove over here on a half and I was clear as a whistle.”
“That's what they all say, Elvis,” Regis said.
“You drive then!” Elvis snapped.
“Wish I could. But I was relieved of my driving privileges a few years back. Drunk driving.” Regis laughed. “You and I are quite a pair, aren't we?”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Elvis said irritably.
“I'm sure you don't,” Regis said softly. “But just do me a favor, will you? No pill, not now. Please.”
Elvis stuffed the bottle back into his pocket. Damn, for a fella with the health habits of a sewer rat, Regis sure was a prickly son of a gun about his driving conditions. Neither of them said another word until Elvis turned on to Route 14.
“Regis, there's something I been meaning to ask you about,” Elvis said finally.
“Shoot,” Regis said.
“It's this Dr. Freud you were talking about. He's got theories about sex, doesn't he?”
“A whole shelf full of them,” Regis said.
“So what do you suppose he would make of this business Miss Spinelli told me about? Men getting a special kick out of doing it in the stunt shack?”
“Damn good question, Elvis,” Regis said. “I imagine old Sigmund would have had a heyday with that one. It probably has to do with the danger factorâthe risk of getting caught. Freud says that sex is
both the strongest human drive and the biggest human taboo. You want to do it all the time, but you know you shouldn't. And somewhere along the way, the two get mixed up in your unconsciousâthe drive and the tabooâso that the bigger the taboo, the more exciting the sex. Kind of like the stunts themselvesâthe riskier they are, the more exciting they are to behold.”
“Well, a scared dog'll get a hard-onâI
have
noticed that,” Elvis said.
“Good point,” Regis said. “Freud could have used that for a footnote. When it comes to sex, we all ain't nothin' but hounddogs.”
Elvis had to smile. He hadn't thought old Regis was the type to know his songs. “We men sure are a sorry lot, aren't we, Regis?” he said.
“Dr. Freud certainly thought so,” Regis said, all seriousness again. “He says it all starts with our mothers. We love them so much that we want to marry them. But, of course, we can't and that's where all our problems begin. He says that's why we all end up with a Madonna-whore complex. We either treat women like our mothersâsainted ladies we wouldn't think of sleeping with. Or we treat them like whores. Nothing in between. That doesn't leave a whole lot of options for us, does it? Or for the women in our lives, for that matter.”
“Baloney,” Elvis said. “I think your Dr. Freud had sex on the brain.”
Regis smiled. “He'd call that a defense. A defense for something that's troubling
you.
”
“Well, maybe that's his defense for having sex on the brain,” Elvis snapped.
Regis laughed. “Elvis, you would have made one hell of a lawyer!”
“Yup, that's my problem all right,” Elvis said. “I missed my calling.”
Both men laughed, and then fell quiet again.
“I'll tell you one thing, Elvis,” Regis said after a few minutes.
“Freud or no Freud, Holly McDougal was a victim long before she was murdered. Men forced her into whatever kind of life she led because men make the rules. Men run the show.”
Elvis nodded. They had just passed the Lancaster town line and would be at the prison in less than ten minutes.
“How about you, Regis?” Elvis said, staring straight ahead. “You got woman problems?”
“I did,” Regis said. “But I gave them up for Lent. Or maybe they gave up on me. Whichever, I've kept pretty much to myself for four or five years now.”
“Don't you miss 'em?”
“Every minute of the day,” Regis said.
They had to spend a good ten minutes with Warden Reardon before they got to see Squirm. Reardon wanted to talk about casting. Elvis, of course, would play Reardon himself. But how about Grace Kelly for his wife? A lot of people said Phoebe Reardon was the spitting image of Grace Kelly. But most important, he had this really crazy idea for Bobo Boyle, the goofy character doing time for passing bad checks.
Jerry Lewis
! Brilliant, wasn't it? Jerry Lewis as a con! Elvis agreed with everything.
When Squirm Littlejon saw Regis trail Elvis into the conference room, his face fell. He gave Elvis an enthusiastic hello, but only flicked an eye at Regis and then looked back to Elvis again. Elvis told Squirm that they had already made some progress in the case, but he didn't give any details. Then he said that they had to go over a part of Squirm's testimony at the trial that didn't jell with other evidence.
“You said those dress-up games with Miss Nancy never happened,” Elvis said. “That she made the whole thing up.”
Squirm did his shrinking thing again.
“Look me in the eye, Squirm,” Elvis said. “You
did
play those games, didn't you?”
“I don't want to talk about it, Mr. Presley,” Littlejon murmured.
Elvis smacked the metal table between them. “What the hell is wrong with you, boy? Would you rather spend your life in here than talk aboutâyou know, talk aboutâ”
“Sex,” Regis chimed in.
“Right, sex,” Elvis said quietly.
Squirm raised his manacled hands to his face, then leaned as far as he could across the table. “Can't talk with them around,” he whispered, gesturing with his eyes toward the guards on either side of him.
Elvis looked at the guards, both of them burly men in short-sleeved shirts that revealed tattoos on their bicepsâone celebrating the U.S. Marine Corps, the other celebrating someone named Lily.
“Gentleman, I'd be much obliged if I could have a couple of minutes of privacy with my client here,” Elvis said.
“Can't do it, Elvis,” the ex-marine said. “Regulations.”
“Is it against regulations to accept my personal autograph?”
The guards conferred for a moment then headed for the door. “We'll be right outside,” Lily's admirer said.
Littlejon squirmed around in his chair, his eyes cast down, and then began. “We'd been together about two years, living out at the beach house, and things started to cool down between us,” he said quietly. “It's natural, I suppose. You still love each other, but the bed thing kind of loses its kick, if you know what I mean. So, after a while, you're doing it less and less. Kinda putting it off, like a chore. Well, that started to put Nanette in the dumps. She'd carry on about how I didn't find her attractive any more and I'd tell her I did, but, you know, actions speak louder than words.”