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the perfect movie script,” he said to Elvis, grinning. “Said you didn’t care who wrote it. And next thing I know, you’re calling me up on the telephone. If that’s not kismet, I don’t know what is.”
    â€œKismet?”
    Reardon produced a large, maroon bellows envelope stretched to its limit.
    â€œWell, you can stop searching now, Mr. Presley,” he said, handing Elvis the envelope. “Here’s your surprise—the script of a lifetime. True story. Nothing stranger than the truth, you know.”
    Elvis took it. “Thank you,” he said.
    Back in his car, Elvis took a quick look at the top page of the manuscript: The Singing Prison Warden: My True Life Story by Robert F. Reardon.

4
    Personal Business
    P riscilla was waiting up for him. Two in the morning and she’s sitting alone in their bedroom wearing that purple silk dress with the ruffled collar buttoned up to the neck, her black-dyed hair piled on top of her head like Mrs. John F. Kennedy’s, except that she’d left a couple of ringlets hanging down on her forehead the way teenagers do. The rims of her sparkling dark eyes were pink from weeping, and there was a sorrowful pout on her sweet lips, but she held her head proudly erect and looked Elvis in the eye as he walked through the door. It was enough to break a man’s heart.
    He had phoned Ann-Margret over in England and she had told him she’d never said those things to the press, but Priscilla would never believe that. Only one way to handle a situation like this: Start at full throttle.
    â€œGood thing that woman’s over in London!” Elvis bellowed, striding toward Priscilla. “Otherwise she’d be missing a few teeth by now!”
    Priscilla eyed him skeptically.
    â€œTalking trash like that where I can’t put a lid on her mouth!” Elvis rambled on, reaching out to wipe the tears from Priscilla’s cheek.
    Priscilla yanked back. “What else did you put on her mouth?” she snapped.
    â€œThat’s no way to talk, darlin’.”

    Priscilla balled her little hand up in a fist, then shot a finger into Elvis’s chest. “You’ve been with that woman, haven’t you, Elvis?”
    Elvis swallowed hard. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he said.
    â€œ What way then?” Elvis had never seen her sweet young eyes look so hard.
    â€œThe movie way,” he answered. He was improvising now. “Happens all the time when you’re playacting lovers in a movie. Gets kind of confusing. You can’t always stop dead in your tracks just because they put the cap back on the camera at the end of the day.”
    There was some truth in that—just not the whole truth. Priscilla stared at him, tears welling in her eyes again.
    â€œI … I’m going home,” she whispered.
    â€œAw, darlin’, don’t say that.”
    â€œI am. I’m going back to Daddy where I belong.”
    â€œPlease, darlin’.” Elvis kneeled down in front of her at the side of the bed. “I couldn’t even think of marrying a woman like Ann-Margret. Not when I got you waiting for me at home.”
    Priscilla’s face still looked awful grim but the sniffling had stopped, so Elvis kept on talking at a fast clip, saying that what he needed from a woman was complete understanding and trust, and he knew he could never get that from an actress like Ann-Margret, who always put her career ahead of her personal life. Finally, he promised that he would never see Ann-Margret again, never even accept a movie role if she was going to be in the movie too.
    â€œHonest and true?” Priscilla whimpered, raising her right hand in a kind of Scout’s honor gesture.
    â€œHonest and true,” Elvis replied softly, although he did not raise his hand.
    Priscilla settled down fast after that. They talked a while longer, deciding that the Colonel was probably right—it