would be best if Priscilla went back to Memphis tomorrow and waited for him there so that the Hollywood gossip machine would get off both of their backs until this Ann-Margret thing blew over. And then there was nothing for either of them to do but to get undressed and into bed.
It would have felt so right to make love to Priscilla after all of
the emotion they had just been through together. To take that moment to finally break his rule of chastity with her. And God knows, Elvis had the feeling. He wanted to scoop her young body up in his arms and kiss it all over. But something stopped him and it wasnât just the usual reasonâthat he wanted her to be a virgin when they got married. No, what stopped him this time was the image of a naked teenage girl lying dead on a cot in MGMâs stunt shack. It made his blood run cold and his sexual feelings go flat. He closed his eyes and nodded off to a dreamless sleep.
Joe knocked on the bedroom door at quarter to ten the next morning. Colonel was on the phone: Elvis was already an hour late for the reshoot. Elvis told Joe to tell the Colonel he was on his way, then made arrangements for Joe and his wife, Joanie, to take Priscilla to the airport for her flight back to Memphis. Joanie made him a stack of buttermilk pancakes and some sweet sausages, which he took out to the patio in the back.
It was another perfect sunny day on Perugia Way. The weather out here made Memphis seem positively frosty, yet there was something unsettling about it being the second week in November and not a yellow leaf in sight. It made it seem like time never passed, like he was trapped in a summer that would never end, and he missed the feeling that came with autumn, that feeling of gathering himself in like a caterpillar spinning itself into a cocoon, where he could sleep alone and dream of spring.
Trapped was the word, all right. Just about everything seemed like a trap these daysâeverything and everybody. Nibble the bait and the jaws snapped shut. Gotcha, Elvis! Gotcha in my arms! Gotcha in my movie! Elvis sawed off a chunk of sausage, dipped it in the melted butter, and stuck it in his mouth. But God knows, there was trapped and then there was really trapped. Now Freddy Littlejon, he was trapped for the rest of his life in a cell a quarter of the size of Elvisâs swimming pool. And for doing something that he swore on his motherâs grave he did not do. Of course, if he really was a murderer, swearing that he wasnât on his motherâs grave probably
would not present too much of a moral problem for him. You just couldnât tell.
Elvis reached for the phone on the glass-topped patio table and dialed information. âRegis Clifford in West Hollywood,â he told the operator. âItâs a business, maâam, a law office.â
There was only one Regis Clifford in West Hollywood, or in all of Greater Los Angeles for that matter. Elvis dialed the number and let it ring while he cut off a little wedge of pancake, mopped it around in sausage grease, and popped it in his mouth. The phone must have rung a good ten times before someone picked up, and then several seconds passed during which the receiver apparently dropped and bounced, then was picked up again, and a gravel voice said, âWhat?â
âIâm looking for Mr. Regis Clifford,â Elvis said.
âWhat for?â
âPersonal business,â Elvis said.
âWhat kind?â
âIâd like to tell that to Mr. Clifford personally.â
âWell, personally I am Mr. Clifford,â the voice said. âHold on a minute, would you?â
Elvis heard the unmistakable sound of liquid dribbling into a glass, then the strike of a match and a deep inhale.
âHad to get my breakfast,â Clifford said.
âYou sleep in your office?â
Clifford laughed. âThatâs right,â he said. âItâs one of the advantages of doing business with meâIâm