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

something he can play on crutches,” Parker snapped back.
    â€œNow there’s a brilliant touch,” Regis replied sarcastically. Elvis was beginning to realize that one big problem with Regis Clifford is that he never knew when to stop.
    â€œHow long are you going to be laid up, son?” Parker said, suddenly sounding genuinely concerned—although his chief concern was undoubtedly Elvis’s schedule.
    â€œJust a week,” Elvis answered.
    â€œWell, that’s not too bad,” Parker said. “But maybe you should be in a hospital where they can look after you properly.”
    â€œI’m fine here, Tom,” Elvis said.
    â€œWell, since you’re going to have a little time on your hands, I brought you some reading matter.” Parker signaled to Joe in the doorway who promptly lugged in a peach crate full of scripts. And then another and another. After the final one had been set against the bedroom wall, the Colonel turned to Clifford and said, “No offense intended, of course, Mr. Screenwriter. But there just might be something in there with the universal themes of rock and roll.”
    Parker touched Elvis in the middle of his forehead with his forefinger, like some kind of benediction, and started to leave, but then
he abruptly turned to one of the crates and lifted off a small soft package covered with butcher’s paper and tied with string. He set it on Elvis’s bed.
    â€œAlmost forgot,” he said. “This came in for you just as I was leaving the studio. Has ‘personal’ written on it and you know how I respect those things.” Then he left, closing the door behind him.
    Elvis held his hand over his mouth for as long as he could, but then he couldn’t hold it back any longer: he burst out laughing. Laughed so hard that he was popping up and down on the bedsprings. And pretty soon, Regis was laughing along with him just from the sheer infectiousness of it.
    â€œTh … that man,” Elvis sputtered through his laughter. “If he ain’t the devil himself, he surely is his warm-up act. The devil’s own comedian.”
    Regis took out his handkerchief and patted his mouth. “Perhaps I should be leaving now too,” he said.
    â€œNot yet, Regis,” Elvis said. “There’s something I need to ask you about. It’s the reason I wanted to see you tonight—you know, face-to-face. You see, I’ve got this picture in my mind of you and your brother in that courtroom. You’re identical, right? Now how the heck did that look to everybody? I mean, it must’ve been confusing for the jury and all.”
    Regis took his time doing more work on his face with the handkerchief. Finally, he said, “LeRoy and I don’t really look that much alike. Not since we were kids.”
    â€œHow’s that? The way you dress and wear your hair? That kind of thing?”
    Regis walked over to the window opposite the bed and looked out. “I sure could use a little nip about now,” he said, his back turned.
    â€œSorry, Regis. Like I told you, I keep a dry house here,” Elvis said.
    â€œI, uh, I brought a flask with me,” Regis murmured, his back still to Elvis.

    â€œDo what you got to do, Regis,” Elvis said. “But it can’t be good for you.”
    Regis swiftly withdrew a flat silver flask from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, screwed off the top, and drained the contents in two swallows. Again, he took out his handkerchief and mopped around his mouth, then returned to the side of Elvis’s bed and sat down.
    â€œLeRoy’s face is deformed,” he said quietly. “Misshapen.”
    â€œBorn that way?”
    â€œNo,” Regis said. “He had an accident. When he was ten years old. BB gun accident that blew out his right eye and took a piece of his cheekbone with it.”
    â€œGod Almighty!”
    â€œSo people do not have any problem telling us