Daniel Klein by Blue Suede Clues: A Murder Mystery Featuring Elvis Presley Page A

himself to dance with a smile and a twinkle to rival any hog’s. Gene called, “Action!” and off they went. Elvis jumped to it like a teenager at a state fair, swinging and spinning and leaping over hay bales with his head tossed back and
his hips swiveling. It felt good to throw himself into it completely. Funny how not giving a hoot about the whole thing freed him up. They were done, close-ups and all, in less than an hour and half.
    As Elvis was leaving, LeFevre fell in alongside of him. “I’m going to miss this, partner,” he said, winking. “I just love being you, man.”
    Elvis gave him a bemused smile. On location up in Big Bear, LeFevre had made a pass at every female he came within ten feet of, regardless of whether she was attached or remotely interested in him—even pretty much regardless of how she looked. He’d beam that hundred-watt grin of his, tell the girl in question that she was the most delectable little thing he ever did see, and then, often as not, suggest that he was already seriously considering marrying her. If he struck out—which seemed to happen nine times out of ten—he’d just bow and grin and say that it was surely a terrible waste of a divine opportunity, then turn to the next one and start all over again. More than once, immediately after Elvis had politely spurned the advances of some chorus girl on the set, LeFevre had appeared in a flash, telling the girl how badly he felt for her, but to cheer up because he, himself, was her consolation prize. “Hey, I’m almost Elvis anyhow,” he’d tell her. “Except I got all the time in the world for you.” When it came to chasing women, one thing old Wayne had going for him was an utter lack of pride.
    â€œSee you again sometime, Wayne,” Elvis said.
    â€œHope so,” Wayne replied. He angled his large head—the exact same size as Elvis’s—to Elvis’s ear. “But not soon, I figure. You’re going back East tomorrow, right?”
    Elvis shot him a quizzical look. “Oh, I’ll be around for a bit,” he said.
    Wayne appeared distressed for a second, but then quickly resumed his boyish grin. “Well, you just keep sending the overflow in my direction, okay, pal?”
    Back in his dressing room, Elvis closed the door and slid the bolt shut. He picked up the phone and gave the switchboard operator a number in Alamo, Tennessee. A minute later, he heard a young
woman’s soft Southern voice say, “William Jackson Clinic. How may I help you?”
    Elvis couldn’t speak. It was not Selma’s voice. Of course, it wasn’t. But at that moment, those words and that soft voice warmed his blood and cradled his heart as if it really were Selma DuPres on the other end of the line, as if the one woman he had ever loved fully and unconditionally were still alive and working in his good friend Billy Jackson’s medical clinic in the colored section of Alamo. Elvis tried his best not to think about Selma any more. But truth to tell, he thought about her every day.
    â€œI’d like to speak with Doctor Jackson, please,” Elvis said at last. “If he’s not too busy, that is.”
    â€œWho’s calling?”
    â€œJust a friend,” Elvis said. “An old friend.”
    â€œIt’s Mr. Presley, isn’t it?” the woman said. Elvis could hear the easy smile in her voice and it made his heart ache even more.
    â€œYes, Ma’am, it is,” he said.
    â€œI’ll get him for you,” the woman said.
    While he waited, Elvis heard the familiar sounds of Billy’s waiting room in the background—the crying babies, the laughing mothers, even the rolling snores of the elderly folks who lined the chairs along the wall, folks who came in every day just because it made them feel safe and comfortable to be there. Probably even more of them were showing up since the air conditioning had been