Personal Stories * Elvis was always giving his rings away. Sammy Davis Jr. was a wonderful audience for Elvis, always jumping up and down in his chair, applauding wildly and shouting encouragement. They were great friends. During a 1970 show in Las Vegas, Elvis took off the fifty-two-carat black star sapphire he wore on his middle finger and slipped it onto Sammy's finger. That same year, we were flying back first class from a vacation in Hawaii. The stewardess told us that a singing group called the Young Americans was on board and that they were entertaining their fellow passengers in coach class. Elvis wanted to meet them. One of the group, a young African-American man, admired Elvis's ring with the three big diamonds. "One of these days I'll be able to afford a ring like that," he told Elvis. That was all Elvis needed to hear; it was the perfect setup for a great shock treatment. "You don't have to wait any longer," he said. He took off the ring and gave it to the astounded man. A week later, I received a call from the Beverly Hills police department. The young man had gone to a jeweler to have the ring appraised and, because he was black, the police were called. "This boy said Elvis Presley gave him the ring," the police said. I told the police to let the man go because it was true, and they let him go. * After February 1970, we began preparing to tour. Elvis held rehearsals for the musicians and singers in RCA's recording studio on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. When they had been hired, they'd each received a complete set of Elvis's recordings so they could learn all the songs. Another set was kept at the rehearsal studio for reference, along with recordings by other artists Elvis liked. One of my jobs was to make a list of all the songs they rehearsed during those sessions. Elvis never came with a list ready; he suggested whatever song came to mind, and they all ran through it until he was satisfied with the results. Elvis was in total control, telling the singers and the musicians where to come in with what type of sound. I particularly remember his instructions to the drummer, Ronnie Tutt, "Ronnie, you have to keep an eye on me at all times," he said. "I want you to accent every move I make." Elvis was always open to suggestions then decided whether or not to follow it. During breaks, the group discussed the song lineup. "I want the introduction number to be like something from another world," Elvis said. "I love 'Also sprach Zarathustra' from 2001: A Space Odyssey." Everyone liked that idea. Then Elvis wanted to segue into a tune that really rocked. He decided on "See See Rider," followed by some of his own records, such as "I Got a Woman" and "That's All Right." "We'll have a basic lineup," he said, "but I may change it anytime I feel like doing another song, so you guys have to be on your toes at all times." When we began playing live concerts, he'd occasionally call a change in a song, but except for the first few months, Elvis rarely altered the established lineup. Instead, he periodically removed a song in order to insert a new one in it's place. "When do you want to introduce the band?" Charlie asked. "After 'Suspicious Minds,'" Elvis decided. "I'll need a breather after that one." Following the introductions, Elvis performed his latest record release. "The show will always end with 'Can't Help Falling in Love,'" he announced. "That's my signature song." The atmosphere for those initial touring rehearsals was relaxed, and, typically, as the night wore on, Elvis began changing the lyrics and clowning around. But everyone worked hard, and after a few nights, I had compiled a list of more than fifty songs. Elvis planned the basic lineup he established in those few days of rehearsals--one he basically followed throughout his years on the road---on the basis of his feelings and on what he somehow knew the audience wanted to hear. After the dramatic introduction that would have been overwrought had it preceded anyone but Elvis, he came on fast and hard, toned down for a few ballads, surged back with strong vocals, and kept the energy going with a medley of his greatest hits: "Heart Break Hotel," "Teddy Bear," "Don't Be Cruel," "Blue Sued Shoes," "Hound Dog." He confided to me that he was tired of singing them, but he knew the fans had to hear those songs. He preferred the next phase of his show, when he seduced the ladies with swooning renditions of "You've Lost That Loving Feeling" and "Fever." The stage would darken for those songs, except for a warm, reddish spotlight that followed him as he stalked the edge of the stage, gazing directly into the faces of euphoric, screaming women. Then Elvis turned to stroll casually to the piano. Glen would move over on the bench while Elvis played and sang Roy Hamilton's hit, "Unchained Melody." The he sang his closing number, "can't Help Falling in Love," and that was it. Elvis would thank the by-now hysterical audience and exit the stage as they screamed their protest. "I like to leave them wanting more," he told me. The shows were always simple. That red spotlight for "Fever" was one of only six lights we used for Elvis's show. And there were no special effects. Elvis didn't need much of a production: supported by the band and background singers, he was the real show. * Our first booking was at the Houston Astrodome, where Elvis was event number eight in the Houston Rodeo for two sold-out performances a day from February 27 to March 1. "Hey, Elvis, you're on right after the cows!" we kidded him. We had to lighten him up. The venue had a capacity of almost 60,000, the largest audience Elvis had ever played to, and he was nervous. Kirk Kerkorian, the owner of the International Hotel, lent Elvis his private DC-9 jet to take us to Houston. The band flew by commerical airline. Red, Sonny, Jerry, Lamar, Charlie, Elvis, and I left Las Vegas on the afternoon of February 25 for a fun-filled three-hour flight. This was just before private planes became almost commonplace. Kerkorians's plane was divided into three rooms: a game room, a dining/conference room, and a bedroom. Elvis had never seen anything like it. When we landed, the Colonel was waiting at the airport, along with some of his Texan friends and a few thousand screaming fans held back by a tall fence. Elvis strolled over to sign autographs for twenty minutes or so, while the Memphis Mafia formed a protective barricade. Then we jumped into the limousines and headed to the Astroworld Hotel, accompanied by a police escort. We had police escorts everywhere we went for that date because Elvis was truly loved in Texas, going back to the early days when he played many small clubs throughout the state. During that first time in Houston, we set the pattern for a routine we followed throughout Elvis's touring years. The limos pulled up to the rear of the hotel. We walked through the kitchen and went up to the suite via the service elevators. That became our usual mode of entry. Elvis never did get to see the lobbies of the many swank hotels where he stayed. His luxurious western-style suite overlooked the Astrodome. We sat around the dining room table and poured ourselves glasses of Mountain Valley water, which we always had waiting when he arrived. The windows were outfitted with blackout drapes so he could sleep during the day. If, for some reason, the drapes weren't installed, we covered the windows with some opaque material. Sonny disconnected the bell to the phone in Elvis's bedroom. I had rented a spare room for his ten four feet by three feet by two feet custom-made wardrobe cases. The hotel operators were instructed to route all calls for Elvis to that room. The fans would hear it ringing and think they'd reached Elvis. Sonny and Red set up security at the elevator on Elvis's floor with a list of people permitted entry. All this became standard procedure. A Lear jet brought Priscilla; Judy West, Sonny's wife; and my wife, Joan, to Houston. Then Red, Sonny, Jerry, and I rode over to the arena to look over the backstage setup and check it's security. This was all new to us, and we were learning as we went along. After a few tours, everything fell into place and we ran things like a fine-tuned machine. Everyone knew his job and did it automatically. I simply told them when we were leaving for the show, and everything was taken care of. Elvis usually ate about two hours before the show. That first night in Houston, our wives joined us for dinner. Talk at the table focused on the immense size of the Astrodome. Elvis began dressing thirty minutes before we had to leave for the arena. Then Red and Sonny led the way, with Elvis and me following, and the rest of the guys bringing up the rear. Each night we left the hotel, we used a different exit in order to avoid the crowds that had been tipped off to our plans by the hotel staff. We got a big kick at winning that cat-and-mouse game with the fans. About fifteen minutes before Elvis was due onstage, we reached the Arena, so he didn't have to linger backstage long enough to build up a severe case of nerves. The Astrodome's revolving stage was proportionately small, so before the show, Elvis, a few bodyguards, and I circled the stands in a jeep to give the audience a closer look. Elvis stood up, hanging onto the roll bar with a white-knuckled grip, while Sonny, Red, Jerry, and I sat in the backseat awestruck. A ten-foot wall seperated us from the stands and police held the people back, but quite a few fans tumbled over as they tried to get closer to Elvis. The stands were approximately one hundred feet away from a stage that rotated back and forth. Elvis wasn't crazy about this setup, but the audience roared throughout his entire hour-long set. We climbed back into the jeep to circle the arena again before we left through the backstage area and returned to the hotel. After the last show, we flew back to Los Angeles with our wives, then left to continue the tour. That year, 1970, Elvis did one hundred thirty-seven shows. Over the next few years, the number of shows gradually increased. I never missed a single one of Elvis's live performances. In 1973, we peaked at one hundred sixty-eight shows, the most we ever did for a year. When we were on tour, we rarely took off a day: one show every night, and on weekends we did matinees. We'd finish the last show, go straight from the venue to the airport, and fly to the next city where we'd check into a hotel. The lobbies swarmed with women who'd been alerted to our arrival, so the guys went down to invite the prettiest ones to Elvis's suite. We always had more girls there than guys. We'd listen to music and talk, and if Elvis spotted someone he liked, he'd spend most of the evening talking to her. If there was no one special, he'd chat with a group of girls. * A few early engagements threatened to bring trouble. "Don't bring those black girls," a building manager warned Elvis. "If they don't come, I don't come," Elvis replied. We all went and no one ever tried that again. During a date in Mississippi, every time the Sweet Inspirations or the Stamps Gospel Quartet--who were white-- stepped forward to sing their parts, people in the stands threw pennies. Elvis was incensed at what he interpreted as a flagrant display of racism. After the show, he called all the women to his room. "We're flying out of here to Memphis 'cause these people are rude," Elvis said. "No way," Myrna objected. They were scheduled to do another show. "Elvis, the reason they were throwing the pennies was not that we're black but that every time we stepped forward, they couldn't see you." Myrna was right. We stayed and Elvis had the stage set differently for the next show. * Running the concert tours required extra help. So Tom Hulett, a concert promoter, and Jerry Weintraub, a promoter and manager, joined forces to form Concerts West, the company that worked with the Colonel through a mutual business friend, Steven Weiss, who was Jimi Hendrix's attorney. Weintraub and Hulett made an appointment with the Colonel in Las Vegas. They flew there and caught Elvis's show at the International. The morning after the show, they had a second meeting with the Colonel in his office. The Colonel struck a very tough deal. "I want one million dollars up front," he said. "Okay, you got a deal," Jerry replied, and he stuck out his hand to shake on it. But the Colonel's right hand stayed by his side. "We don't have a deal until I see a cashier's check for the million," he said. "I want it here by noon tomorrow." "We'll see you tomorrow," Tom promised. Somehow, they came up with the money. After seeing Elvis perform live, Jerry and Tom were confident of their investment. There's virtually no risk in promoting such giants as the Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stones, or Elvis Presley. The risk is in promoting middle-level acts. The Colonel had already set up one concert in Phoenix, Arizona. He dictated the rest of the cities: St. Louis, Missouri; Detroit, Michigan; Mobile, Alabama; and Miami, Florida. But when Jerry and Tom looked at a map, they realized that the Colonel's routing was nearly impossible if you considered all the heavy sound equipment that would have to be moved. When the Colonel and Elvis last toured it was a different era: Artists played with whatever public address system was already set up in the venue. They used the same PAs when they first came to the United States. When Elvis did that first Las Vegas International engagement, we used two small Shure speakers laid sideways for Elvis's monitors--the kind of equipment you find in a music business executive's office today--and Elvis and the band played through the house sound system. Tom Hulett, who was already actively involved in promoting major tours, routinely hired a sound company in Seattle, Washington, called Clare Brothers Sound, still one of the biggest outfits today. St. Louis was the first show in which Concerts West was involved. Not knowing any better, Hulett automatically hired Clare Brothers Sound for the date--a ten-thousand seat venue called Kiel Arena. Meanwhile, we were on our way to St. Louis from our first stop of the tour in Arizona, where two nights earlier, we sold out the fifteen-thousand-seat Phoenix Coliseum using the house sound system. We met Hulett and Weintraub in St. Louis. The afternoon of the show, Tom Diskin, the Colonel's assistant, walked into the arena just as band leader Joe Guercio's orchestra risers were being laid down. Then stagehands began wheeling in huge public address boxes. Diskin was irate, but finally agreed to try the system for one night if Hulett and Weintraub took the responsibility of telling Elvis about it themselves. If Elvis didn't like the sound system, they would have to cut it off. Roy and Gene Clare, the system's inventors, witnessed the scene. Roy agreed to be on the monitor system onstage. Gene would be in the audience, checking the sound from there. Hulett and Weintraub were waiting in the dressing room when Elvis and the guys got off the elevator. Suddenly, George Klein shouted out, "Tom!" He had met Tom Hulett about two months earlier in Memphis, when Tom was touring with Creedence Clearwater. Tom hurriedly told Elvis that he'd brought in a sound system and all the rock acts used them these days. Then he and Weintraub beat a hasty retreat. "How the hell do you know that guy?" Elvis asked George. George told him that Tom toured with Creedence and Jimi Hendrix, adding that with this promoter, Elvis had the best. The show began. Tom Hulett was standing in the wings onstage left with Roy Clare. Elvis began singing, and his eyes widened. For the first time in his life, he heard himself as he was singing onstage. "We're going to have one great show tonight!" Elvis promised the audience. He never admitted that he liked the system, but from that point on, Jerry Weintraub and Tom Hulett were okay, and Elvis used the basic Clare brothers PA, with monitors on himself, the band leader, Joe Guercio; the singers and the band. * Such present-day commonplaces as contract rider, renting an outside PA system, and providing hamburgers and Cokes backstage for the performers were innovations for that time. Most concert promoters of that era were local disc jockeys, so radio stations were promoting shows in the big cities. There was a need for a new breed of professional promoter who could handle a star of Elvis's magnitude. The Colonel and Concerts West initiated many of the changes that became today's conventions. Being the dictatorial force he was in business, the Colonel needed a buffer between himself and the facilities. Concerts West filled that need, softening the demands the Colonel made on Elvis's behalf. Tom Hulett had established relationships with major venue managers all over the country. Whenever they got a call from Tom Hulett or Jerry Weintraub, they knew it was about a major show. No artist before or since has ever toured like Elvis. As concert promotions became a full-fledged business and amphitheaters opened up, the venues began to promote concerts themselves, and promoters sprang up in every town like weeds. After Elvis died and Led Zeppelin lost their drummer, Concerts West left the business. What could possibly follow promoting concerts for Elvis and Led Zeppelin? Watching Tom Hulett and the Colonel book a tour was like watching a pair of master jugglers performing in the circus's center ring. Hulett flew down from his Concerts West offices in Seattle to the Colonel's office at MGM. After the Colonel conferred with Elvis and me, he and Tom sat across from each other, routing a tour with a map. Then they went to work on a bank of phones, playing what Tom called "building games." He'd start calling the buildings. "Are you open on such and such date?" he would ask the building manager in Greensboro or Roanoke. "If you aren't open, don't worry about it. We'll just play in Raleigh." That shook the hell out of the manager. All of a sudden, the date they wanted was open because a boxing match or a wrestling event suddenly had been canceled. The Colonel and Tom Hulett loved "good cop-bad cop," with Tom usually taking the good cop role. "Look, what kind of rent are we paying?" he would ask, let's say, Jim Ohsust, the building manager in Greensboro, North Carolina, while the Colonel listened on the extension. The percentage was cut down right from the start. This was Elvis, after all. "Jim, I think maybe I can get you an Elvis date," Tom would then say. "But you have to give us two dates in case we sell out one quick. I don't want to go to the Colonel with just one date. You have to make me a great deal, so I can go to him with it. And you have to agree to hold a press conference if he wants you to." "Tom!" the Colonel would hiss as he covered the mouth of the receiver. "Tell him we have to be able to go on sale this weekend." "Can you get all the news there?" Tom would ask Ohsust. "You and the mayor. Whatever you've got to get, get it." "Yeah, just tell the Colonel whatever he needs," Jim would agree. Those press conferences reaped ten or twenty grand worth of publicity before the Colonel and Concerts West even bought the first radio spot. Sometimes Tom told the manager, "Okay, it's Monday, can you make this conference Friday?" But the Colonel often changed his mind. "Have him announce it tonight," he would whisper to Tom. "Have him start accepting mail tomorrow." Tom would hang up and call the manager back five minutes later, pretending that he'd just talked on the phone with the Colonel. Then he'd ask the manager to push up the press conference. Even compared to the high fees today's stars command, Elvis's deals have yet to be paralled. If a building was getting 10 or 12 percent of the gate, Concerts West and the Colonel demanded a cut-off point at three thousand or five thousand dollars. That way they paid the equivalent of 2, 3, or 4 percent. But the Colonel and Concerts West knew the buildings were making plenty of money with parking, hot dogs, popcorn, and softdrinks. Everyone ended up with a good deal. Even the city wound up with tax revenue. Elvis paid less for rental of his facilities than any artist in the history of this business, and that saving went directly into his and the Colonel's pockets. Of course, there were expenses: We were a big show with a huge entourage, and we now traveled by airplane. Everyone involved received a bonus at the end of each tour. That was the Colonel's idea. The bonuses were figured into the tour expenses and taken out before the split between Elvis and the Colonel. "They did a good job," the Colonel told Elvis after the first tour. "We can write it off. We make a lot of money." Elvis agreed. After the second tour, the Colonel suggested bonuses again. "Well, Daddy don't think we should do it," Elvis said. "Let's have Vernon at the top of the bonus list," the Colonel suggested. Vernon was put down for the highest bonus, twenty-five hundred dollars. When Elvis showed his father the list, Vernon said, "I think that's a good idea." The Colonel promoted Elvis out of instinct. During Elvis's first tour in 1969, Tom Hulett, the Colonel, and RCA's representatives, George Parkhill and Pat Kellerher, were driving to the building in Cleveland where Elvis was to perform that night. About a block away, they spotted a bootlegger on a street corner selling Elvis albums for five dollars apiece. "Colonel! He's selling records!" Tom yelled, ready to leap out of the limo and collar the guy. "Keep going," the Colonel told the driver. Then he turned to Tom. "You don't see no one out here selling Paul Anka tapes and records, do you? If you're not hot, you got not bootleggers. Just be happy we got 'em. It means we're hot." George Parkhill explained that with the advent of tape cassettes, retailers were returning vinyl albums to RCA. The warehouses were full, so the bootleggers were probably buying the albums for two dollars apiece. He and the Colonel knew that the bootleggers were a healthy part of the Elvis moneymaking machine. The Colonel toured with us from 1969 to 1974. Elvis, the guys, and I stayed on one floor of the hotel. The band stayed two or three floors below, and the Colonel and his crew were on another floor. The seperation was necessary. The band members partied all night, and Elvis wanted quiet. By now the band included lead guitarist James Burton from Shreveport, Louisiana, a studio musician renowned for inimitable licks, nothing showy, but so smooth and fluid he made it look easy. Ronnie Tutt was hired after Elvis auditioned countless drummers, because he said Ronnie was the only one who watched every move Elvis made instead of doing his own thing. Jerry Scheff was the bassman. Elvis liked to introduce Scheff and Tutt as Teff and Shutt, making a pun of their names that sounded like "tough shit." Glen Hardin, they keyboard player, was a steady drinker. Whenever he wasn't onstage, he wandered around with a tall glass of bourbon permanently affixed to his hand. No matter how drunk he got, if Glen had to be up at six in the morning, he was there, even if he'd just gotten to bed at five. Rhythm guitarist John Wilkerson was the quietest. After the shows, he disappeared into his room with a bucket of ice, and you didn't see him again until the next day. Of course, the Stamps Quartet, led by six-foot-four-inch, basso-voiced J.D. Sumner, were the worst carousers. J.D. was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, and when he wasn't singing about Heaven, he was following the Lord's advice to "go forth and multiply," chasing anything female on two legs. Naturally, Elvis wanted to be quartered far from all the shenanigans, although when he didn't want to sleep, it was okay to make noise. But if he wanted an early night, everyone had to shut up. I didn't mind. A main part of my job was to make sure they guys fell in line with whatever Elvis wanted. When it was party time, we partied. When Elvis wanted to rest, we took the party elsewhere. For the last few years of touring, the Colonel didn't travel with us. He was always one town ahead of us. We'd get off the plane at some town's airport, and there would be the Colonel, waiting to greet us. "Hello, everything is all set," he'd say. Then he'd board his plane and go to the next date. Everywhere we went, he was one step ahead, making sure everything was organized, the concert was being publicized, and arranging for people to meet us at the airport. Many times we arrived in a city to find the mayor standing on the runway a few yards from a crowd of screaming fans, waiting to hand Elvis a key to the city. The newspapers were always there, of course, taking pictures. We never needed a publicist. * The Memphis Mafia had become Elvis's de facto security team of those tours. Elvis adopted the Secret Service's strategy of having everyone in the unit wear the same color jacket, so we could always spot each other in a crowd. When Elvis came off stage, I was usually the first to grab him. We were joined by the other guys and moved swiftly out of the building before the audience knew Elvis was gone. I never did get to hear the announcer tell the crowd that was screaming for more, "Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the building." We honed our security to the point where police departments were impressed. "You guys are so much better organized than us," they marveled. "It's amazing what you can do." We had to be good. Protecting Elvis was becoming more and more difficult. One night in August 1970, during our second Las Vegas engagement, I had just fallen asleep when my private phone rang. It could have been only one of three people: the Colonel, Elvis, or my wife, Joan. It was about six in the morning, and I thought it was probably Elvis or the Colonel. But it was Joan. "Joe, I just got a strange phone call," she said sounding very agitated. "This man wouldn't give me his name, but he said he had to get hold of you, that it was very important. He said he tried to reach you at the hotel but the operators said you had a 'Do not disturb' on your line." "What did he want?" I asked her. "He told me that he had important information about a man who is driving to Vegas to kill Elvis. He said he would give you the man's name for fifty thousand dollars." "What did you tell him?" "I told him I would try to reach you," she answered. The man had said he would call again in an hour. I told Joan I would call her back, then immediatley dialed the number of Elvis's lawyer, Ed Hookstratten. I told him the story and he called the FBI. They called my wife and told her they would send agents to our apartment. They arrived in less than thirty minutes and connected a tape recorder to our phone. Meanwhile, I called the Colonel in his room and told him what had happened. He asked me to keep him informed. The man called again and asked Joan if she had reached me. The FBI had instructed her to say she couldn't reach me, that I was out of the hotel. She asked him to call her back later and said that she would keep trying. He said he would give her just thirty more minutes. The FBI suspected the man was just trying to hustle a quick fifty thousand, and he never called back. We decided he was frightened off. The FBI stayed at my apartment until noon and showed Joan how to operate the tape recorder in case the man called again. This wasn't the first death threat we'd received that turned out to be nothing. That afternoon, I picked up the mail at the hotel's front desk and took it back to my room to look it over. AS I was wading through a mountain of fan letters, I found a large white envelope that handn't come through the post. I opened it to discover a showroom menu with a picture of Elvis on it. Someone had drawn a gun pointed at Elvis's head and written in large letters "Die." I called the hotel security and filled them in on the day's events. We contacted the FBI in Los Angeles and told them what I'd found. They sent two agents from the Vegas office, and we all met in the Colonel's office. The FBI said that we should consider the threat serious. Someone involved with the death threat was obviously here in Vegas. They took the envelope and menu to check for fingerprints. Elvis woke at about three that afternoon. We waited until he finished breakfast to tell him what was going on and that the FBI wanted to talk to him. He seemed to take it in stride, and I called down to the Colonel's office to have the FBI come up. The FBI suggested to Elvis that he cancel his performances for a few days until they investigated further. "I'm not canceling the show for that no-good bastard!" Elvis said. "I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of stopping me!" Then he turned to me. "Joe, call Ed Parker in Hawaii and Jerry Shilling in Los Angeles," he said. "Tell them I need them here. Then call Red in Memphis and tell him too. Make the arrangements to get them here." He was angry and becoming more so by the minute. "What could I have done that someone would want to kill me?" he kept asking. "I try to make people happy with my music!" That evening before the show, all the guys were armed and posted at various strategic spots. Some stood at the entrance with FBI guys, looking out for suspicious characters. Red and Sonny were stationed on opposite ends of the stage. Others roamed the showroom. We even had an ambulance parked right at the stage door. We could tell that Elvis's mind wasn't fully on his performance because he moved about more than usual, but I don't think the audience suspected anything was wrong. We all sighed in relief after the show, but in two hours we had another one. Things were tense for the next few days, but we heard no more from the telephone caller or the letter writer. Except for such occasional excitement, touring quickly became routine. What had first been so glamorous--traveling from city to city--eventually became tedious. Most of the time, all we saw were the backstages of arenas and hotel rooms. We were always on the move, so there wasn't time for anything else. It was hardest on Elvis. At least, we could steal a few moments for a walk outside, but fame kept him a virtual prisoner in his suite. Any diversion from the routine, no matter how trivial, was welcome. * We began the second tour of 1972 at Madison Square Garden in New York City. We flew from Memphis the night before the first show; the band and singers were already waiting in the hotel. That night, the Colonel had a brainstorm. Why not have Elvis do a live recording from the fabled Big Apple venue? RCA was hesitant about attempting such a complicated project on short notice, but the Colonel worked it out and the album was released only ten days after the concert. Elvis was always nervous about facing the notoriously tough New York audience. He calmed down by playing the piano we always had in his suites and harmonizing with the Stamps and the Sweet Inspirations on gospel favorites. The media were pressuring him for a press conference, and Elvis finally caved in. The room was packed with reporters and Geraldo Rivera, a big Elvis fan, acted as the M.C. Elvis sat at a long table, flanked by his father and me. "Are you satisfied with the image you've established?" one reporter asked. "Well, the image is one thing and the human being is another," Elvis observed. "How close does the image come to the man himself?" the reporter pressed. "It's very hard to live up to an image," Elvis commented obliquely. When they attempted to get a fix on his political leanings, Elvis demurred. "I'm just an entertainer," he said. The press was surprisingly tactful, refraining from questions about his personal life. We returned to the suite and Elvis retired to his bedroom to rest before the 8:00 P.M. show. By now, he adhered to a strict routine: At 6:00 P.M., dinner was delivered to the suite. Elvis came out of his room at 6:15 to eat and talk over that night's show. At 7:00 P.M., he went back to his bedroom to get ready. He brushed his teeth and gargled with warm salt water to prepare his throat, while one of the guys laid out a few costumes on his bed. Elvis finished with a few drops of eye wash, then he came out of the bathroom to get dressed, after which Charlie or Larry Geller was called in to do his hair, which took about fifteen minutes. After that it was time for Elvis to sort through his makeup case, picking out rings and necklaces for that night. By then it was eight o'clock, showtime. Comedian Jackie Kahane opened the show that night, struggling through twenty-five minutes of jokes while the stadium rang with loud demands for Elvis, who was due onstage at 9:00. I notified security, and we left for the venue, surrounded by police and hotel security. The hallways were lined with hotel employees, and Elvis shook hands as we went. Despite a police escort, the snarled Manhatten traffic held us up, and we finally arrived during intermission, eight minutes before Elvis was due onstage. To our surprise, George Harrison was waiting for us, but there was only time for quick hellos. I got Elvis into his dressing room, then set up a spot where George could view the show without being bothered. I ran onstage to see how it was laid out, so I could tell Elvis if he was entering from the right or the left, and which way to exit at the end of the show. I returned to the dressing room. "Are you ready?" I asked. "This time is as good as any," he replied, and I gave Tom Diskin, the Colonel's assistant, the high sign. He told the light man to bring down the house lights, and we waited in the dressing room until we heard the band begin "Also sprach Zarathustra," our cue to walk to the stage. I led the way the steps with the guys surrounding us. We stopped at the foot of the steps, waiting until we heard Elvis's new opening song, "That's All Right." As we chorused "Good luck," he climbed up to the stage, and the guys then took their positions around it. The crowd was on their feet, screaming; I'd never seen so many flash bulbs ignite at once. A huge wave of fans attempted to assault the stage, knocking over a few ushers in their progress. Elvis walked around, waving, then he approached the microphone to ask the crowd to be careful. He didn't want anyone to be hurt, he told them. He bagan singing ,every once in awhile flashing a big grin to me as I stood in the wings. He was having a ball. He gave out scarves to the fans and they threw gifts on stage: flowers, stuffed animals, notes. He sang twenty-one songs until "Can't Help Falling in Love," which the audience knew was his finale. They rushed the stage again to say goodbye, while the guys formed their end-of-the-show barricade. As usual, the let a few of the girls through, just to make it mor exciting, as Elvis paced the edge of the stage and shook hands. Whe he was ready to leave, he nodded to me and walked over to the side where I was standing. Blinded by the stage lights, his hand holding my shoulder, he followed me down the stairs, through the backstage, and into the limo, where someone handed him a quart bottle of water and a towel to dry his face. We were out of the building and on the way back to the hotel before the audience stopped applauding. During that night's post-show discussion, Elvis wore a huge smile on his face, a sure signal that he'd liked the show. If hadn't, his look would have been concentrated and serious. That show ws one of the few where Elvis had no complaints. He was so wired, he couldn't sleep that night. The band members and singers sat with him in the suite until 6:00 A.M., talking and singing "Bosom of Abraham," "Lead Me, Guide Me," "How Great Thou Art," and other favorites, while Elvis played the piano. He went to sleep at about seven in the morning. I knocked on his door at eleven; we had a 2:00 P.M. matinee. Breakfast with a pot of hot coffee was waiting, the TV was on, and the newspapers, full of rave reviews, were piled on the coffee table. If the reviews had been any less enthusiastic, they wouldn't have been there. We did four shows in New York that time. Elton John came to the second show and watched another great performance from the same spot George Harrison occupied the night before. We left the city on June 12 to fly to the Midwest for a touch-and-go in Fort Wayne, Indiana. We drove to the hotel where Elvis changed into a stage costume, the headed for the Memorial Coliseum. He did his show and went straight back to the airport, where we flew to Chicago, followed an hour later by the show plane with the singers and the band. We were going to be in Chicago for six nights, so we stationed ourselves at the Conrad Hilton, and took advantage of the time to send out our clothes to be cleaned and even unpack our suitcases. We also squeezed in some monotony-relieving antics. That first night, one of the band members had a few drinks too many and retired early to his room. Elvis suggested that we move a Coke machine in front of his door. We began yelling "Fire!" He jumped out of bed, opened his door, and ran straight into the Coke machine, much to our amusement. Then Elvis went to bed, but he stayed up reading. No one knew he was in town, so the lobby contained only the occasional businessman. No girls. I got up early the next day to visit my family and returned in the afternoon, as Elvis was having breakfast. We left for the airport at five to fly to Evansville, Indiana, for an 8:00 P.M. show at Roberts Municipal stadium. About five minutes into the show, Elvis told Charlie Hodge to ask the sound man to turn up the stage monitors. He couldn't hear himself sing. But every time the volume was increased, he'd get feedback. Elvis got angrier and angrier. In the limo on the way back to the airport, Elvis said, "Joe, tell Felton I want to see him after he gets to the hotel." Felton Jarvis was Elvis's record producer and supervisor for the sound engineers on the road. Elvis kept up his complaints all the way back to Chicago. But by the time Felton came up to the suite, Elvis had calmed down, realizing that some of these sports venues simply weren't constructed for the demands of music concerts. He asked me to call Kathy Westmoreland, on of his backup singers, to the room. They'd been having a little on-the-road affair. Kathy ws a sweet young lady with a beautiful voice and she seemed to have a good effect on Elvis. They disappeared into his bedroom, and the rest of the guys started up a game of hearts that lasted the rest of the night. The next day followed a similar routine. The only change of pace was that we took the limo, not a plane, to the Milwaukee Arena, about 120 miles from Chicago. Red, Elvis, and Charlie amused themselves singing oldies for the two-hour trip, and Elvis stayed in the Sweet Inspirations' dressing room until they had to go on stage. Luckily, the sound went off without any problems, or it would have been a long drive back. We returned at about one in the morning, and ate the meal I'd arranged to be waiting for us. We did three shows in Chicago, one Friday night, and two on Saturday. By Friday, the lobby was buzzing with beautiful women. My entire family attended that night's show, and, as usual, Elvis took the time to welcome them. He even dedicated a song to them, "It's Now or Never," and presented my mother with a TLC necklace. After the show, Elvis was ready to meet girls, so the guys escorted about twenty women t the suite and we ordered drinks. Elvis selected a cute, twenty-five year-old redhead with a bubbly personality for his special attentions. He enlisted Red to demonstrate karate. All the women were impressed. Soon after the demonstration, Elvis and his date disappeared into his room, while the rest of us partied a few more hours. At about 6:00 A.M, Elvis called my room to ask for a limo to take his date home and to make sure she had good tickets for the following night's show. The next day, he had a matinee. I let him sleep as long as I could, but he was dragging his feet. Once he got onstage, the energy from the fans galvanized him and he came to life. He tried to rest before the evening show, staying in his room and reading. The rest of the guys took naps. The second show was even better than the first. Night shows are always better, because Elvis woke up after the sun set. When we returned to the hotel, the redhead called up from the lobby. Some of the girls from the night before and a few new ones came up to meet Elvis. He joined us for a short while; he was more interested in spending time with his new girl. Meanwhile, that evening after the performance, Red learned that Rick Stanley, Elvis's stepbrother, was getting stoned in a band member's room in the two-story motel where we were staying. Red and a few of the guys pounded on the door, yelling, "Open the door! it's the police!" They heard muffled sounds of panic and confusion and people falling inside. Two minutes later, after the guys had flushed all their marijuana and pills down the toilet, the door opened. But Rick wasn't there. A few moments passed before Rick came off the elevator, wearing a "What's going on?" innocent look. The sight of him made us laugh all the harder. His arms were all scratched up, leaves were trapped in his hair from his quick exit out the window, and he was still stoned. We didn't tell Elvis about it because Rick would have been in serious trouble, but we laughed about that joke for a long time. The next day, we flew to Fort Worth, Texas, for a show at the Tarrant County Convention Center. Elvis loved playing Texas because it boasts the greatest concentration of beautiful women in the world, and we had many friends there. Elvis had arranged to meet his girlfriend Susie, a beautiful schoolteacher from Dallas, whom he'd met in Vegas through our good friend, Billy Bob Harris. After the show, Billy Bob, Susie, and other women friends visited for about three hours, and Susie spent the night with Elvis. The next day, we flew to Wichita, Kansas, for another touch-and-go at the Henry Levitt Arena. We left that stage to set out for our last city on the tour -- Tulsa, Oklahoma. We were all feeling pretty good. The tour was almost over, and Elvis planned to leave for Los Angeles directly after the show. That night, we arrived at the arena earlier than usual, so Elvis could say goodbye to the tour members. He planned to go straight to the plane after he walked offstage. He shook hands and thanked everyone for a good job. It seemed to me that the band played a bit faster and the shows tempo picked up that night. We were all eager to get home. Elvis waved goodbye again, then jumped into a limo. On board the plane, he changed out of his wet stage clothes and joined us in the front sitting room for a snack. He'd really enjoyed this tour, he told us and couldn't wait for the next one. We landed in Los Angeles at midnight, Pacific time. Three limos and a small truck for the luggage took us to Elvis's house, where Priscilla and the other wives were waiting. We sorted out our luggage, loaded our individual cars, and went home. Until the next one. * One of the biggest attractions of Vegas other than gambling, was of course it's gorgeous women. While Elvis was performing or during the breaks between his shows, the guys scouted the audience, bars, and casinos. If Elvis spotted a pretty girl in the audience, he walked off stage. "See that girl in blue, fourth table from the right?" he would say to one of the guys. "Find out if she's with anyone. If not, bring her back." Red or Sonny located her in the audience and asked her, "You want to meet Elvis?" The answer was invariably a breathlessly squealed "Yes!" And the lucky lady was escorted backstage for an up-close dose of the Presley charm. We always came in three of four days before the show, when the town wasn't that busy and there weren't many women around except for the hookers. Once we arrived an entire week early. "Joe, we're going to have a party tonight," Elvis said. "Call down for a bunch of hookers." The guys were elated. They'd been dropping hints for quite some time, and Elvis had finally come through. We were so jaded by this point that it had become too much trouble to go out to look for women. Once Elvis started performing, there'd be no problem. The women would come to us in droves. As I reflect on our behavior today, I'm mortified. But the truth is that we often sent out for prostitutes, and everyone switched girls. Elvis was not as involved as the rest of us. "I'd rather watch," he would say. They weren't pure enough for him. Elvis romanticized sex, and paying by the hour grounded it all too well. Only on occasion would he disappear into his room with one. We rarely saw daylight in Vegas. The ingenious hotels hung blackout drapes in the rooms to encourage guests to sleep all day and stay up all night gambling. We looked like zombies. But we had a fantastic time there, and all the shows sold out. Life was perfect. * In 1970, MGM shot a documentary of Elvis in Vegas. The Colonel made a deal for two documentaries: one to be shot in Vegas called, Elvis--That's the Way it Is and a later film called Elvis on Tour. Elvis wasn't exactly thrilled to have a film crew trail him everywhere. Naturally, he was careful of what he said. Even though Dennis Sanders, the director, did a fine job capturing Elvis and the Memphis Mafia in their element, Elvis was still "on," not completely at ease as the film would have you believe. And it couldn't have been easy for the crew to follow us around. They encountereed a lot of problems in the course of the project. For instance, whenever they shot audience reactions, they turned the house lights up and the audience froze. This annoyed Elvis, but it couldn't be helped. It took a lot of light in those days to film indoors. "We're trying to do a movie here for MGM, so don't let the cameras throw you," he tells the audience in one scene, "and I'll try not to throw the cameras." In another scene, the filmmakers had talked Elvis into using the first cordless mike. Unfortunately, the mike keeps cutting out. Elvis is clearly annoyed, but he jokes about it, clutching a cluster of four cordless mikes like a bouquet of flowers and muttering, "You can't lose with four of these bastards." He tests each of them with a "hello," then chucks one offstage, muttering "sonuvabitch" under his breath. "Two out of four ain't bad," he finally concludes. Meanwhile, the Sweet Inspirations are laughing at him. "I'm going to bring in the Supremes tomorrow night with Mahalia Jackson singing lead," he threatens. Finally, he switches gears and croons "Love Me Tender," stopping every few bars to plant kisses on the swooning girls in the front row. Elvis seems untroubled and nonchalant, but when he came off stage, his frustration exploded all over us. He was going to tell "these damn filmmakers" that they couldn't shoot another frame. By the next day, the storm had blown over, and Elvis didn't utter a word of protest. * Although some people think so, Elvis and the Colonel did not have a father-son relationship. Even when we were all together in Las Vegas, the Colonel and his crew rarely socialized with Elvis and the Memphis Mafia. We lived in two different worlds. The Colonel was much older and liked to go to bed early. He wouldn't have enjoyed hanging out with us. They were there for each other, but they were on two different wavelengths. The colonel was a businessman and not very comfortable in the entertainer's party world. Once in a while we had dinner together to talk business and kid around. But otherwise, there was little socializing. I became their middleman because I was easily located, whereas Elvis wasn't always available. If he said "Do not disturb," that was it. You didn't disturb him for anyone, except in a dire emergency. So the Colonel naturally fell into the habit of asking me to relay messages. Elvis and the colonel respected each other. When it came to an important business decision, the two of them withdrew into a room alone and hashed it out together. The Colonel was forced to speak for Elvis many times because Elvis hated interviews, so it often appeared that the Colonel exercised more control than he actually did. Despite his complaints, Elvis always reserved the final decision. If he followed the Colonel's advice more often than he should have, it was because he preferred that someone else take responsibility in case a decision turned out to be wrong. The bottom line is that Elvis would never have been as popular as he was without the colonel's brilliant management. Nor would the Colonel have had so much success with anyone else. * The Circle G era started when Elvis bought Priscilla a horse for Christmas in 1966. Elvis asked Jerry Schilling to locate horse ranches around Memphis, and he had Graceland's maintenance man prepare the stables out back. Then Elvis and Jerry took off to see what the ranches had to offer. In a few hours, they returned with a beautiful quarter horse named Domino, solid black except for one white sock. Jerry held the horse while Elvis went into the house to bring Priscilla out. He led her out the front door, right up to Domino, with his hand covering her eyes. When he took his hand away, she was looking straight at this gorgeous animal. "Where did he come from?" Priscilla gasped. "I bought him for you," Elvis said, very pleased with her surprise and delight. "He's your Christmas present." Priscilla went crazy, huggin and kissing Elvis. "I've got to ride him right now!" she said. The horse was already saddled and bridled, so Priscilla jumped on and took off for the pastures. She rode Domino every day she was at Graceland. Elvis decided he didn't want Priscilla to ride alone, so he asked Jerry if it would be okay to buy a horse for his wife Sandy, another animal lover. That started the ball rolling. Then Elvis rode Domino a few times. "I need a horse for myself," he told Jerry. "I want a golden palomino. Call around and see if anyone has one for sale." Jerry located a palomino stallion at a ranch not far from Graceland. His name, Rising Sun, was a good selling point, and he was a beauty. The moment Elvis set eyes on him, this was the one. Now Graceland housed three horses, and Elvis was having so much fun that he wanted everyone to share his enjoyment. He bought horses and equipment for all the guys and their wives, if they wanted one. We all worked on the stables, cleaning them out and painting the stalls. Elvis was beginning to fancy himself as a rancher, so he had to dress like one. We went to a western clothier and Elvis bought us all outfits: jeans, cowboy boots, sheepskin jackets, and of course, western hats and ranchers'gloves. Before we knew it, the horse population, now at sixteen, had outgrown Graceland's eight stalls. A few months past Christmas, Elvis and Priscilla were driving with Alan Fortas around Horn Lake, Mississippi, about fourteen miles from Graceland. They spotted a large ranch for sale, 160 acres with a large herd of Santa Gertrudis cattle. The property included a three-acre lake traversed by a white bridge. Next to it stood a twenty-foot-tall white cross that, for some reason, the cattle clustered around every evening. Scattered nearby were three barns, plenty of room for the horses. the ranch house was about one hundred years old, but it had been completely renovated to look like a home featured in a decorating magazine. Elvis asked Alan to go inside and find out what the owners wanted for the property. Alan came back a few minutes later. "They want $485,000, and that includes the cattle," Alan reported. "Let's go home and talk to Daddy," Elvis said. They drove straight to Vernon's house. "Daddy, I found the perfect ranch," Elvis said. "I want to buy it." He described the place and told him the price. "Now, wait a minute, son," Vernon said. "That sounds like to much money to me. Do we have to buy the cattle with it?" "I want the cattle," Elvis protested, his mind already spinning visions of himself as a rancher. "What's a ranch without cattle?" The next morning, Vernon drove to the ranch to see the owner, Jack Adams. They struck a deal, and Vernon went to his bank to borrow the money. Elvis was now a full-fledged rancher, the proud owner of a herd of cattle and sixteen horses. He named his new place the Circle G, and bought pickup trucks for all the guys. Vernon was tearing his hair out. Then Elvis decided we all should live with him on the ranch, so he bought six extremely large trailers. Of course, he wanted them delivered the very next day. He wasn't aware that he needed permits from the city and he had to pour cement pads, not to mention get hookups for water, electricity, and sewage. So Elvis cast himself in the role of ranch foreman. He no longer looked like a famous singer and movie star. Wearing a cowboy hat and sheepskin jacket and sitting tall in the saddle, he was a dead ringer for the Marlboro man. Every morning he saddled Rising Sun and rode out to issue instructions to the contractor on how to do things and where everything should go. Only one trailer was placed near the main house, the one designated for Alan Fortas --- who was supposed to be in charge of the ranch---and his wife. Finally, everything was ready. We moved into our trailers, Elvis had all the horses shipped over, and we settled into ranch living. Of course, Elvis was so tickled by the notion of living in a trailer on his honeymoon that he asked Alan to move into the main house. Lisa Marie was conceived in that trailer. When he tired of living in the trailer and moved back into the house, he and Priscilla saddled their horses every morning and rode out back to join us for a cup of coffee. On weekends, we threw giant barbecues. The wives prepared all the food, except for the meat, which I cooked on an open grill. We had great times. For a year and a half after the marriage, between making movies we headed straight for the Circle G. Elvis felt very comfortable in his own little ranch world and usually hated being torn from it. * By 1967, Priscilla had been living with Elvis---after a fashion---for five years. She was twenty-one, certainly old enough to become a wife. Elvis and Priscilla had been talking about getting married for over a year, discussing when to do it and how it would affect his career. It was time for him to get married, and he knew it. He had been with Priscilla since she was barely sixteen, and there had to have been pressure from her family. According to the Colonel, Elvis telephoned him in Palm Springs. "Priscilla and I want to get married," he announced. "That's fine," the Colonel replied. "I want to get married in Vegas," Elvis said. "Would you set it up?" The Colonel called Milton Prell, our friend who owned the Aladdin Hotel. Then he asked Marty Lacker and me to meet with him and Elvis to make arrangements. At about 4:00 A.M. on May 1, 1967, Elvis, Priscilla, George Klein, Joan, and I snuck out the back of the Palm Springs house to avoid the fans and press, some of whom seemed to have gotten wind of the marriage plans. We climbed over a small wall and into a waiting car that took us to the Palm Springs airport, another car was waiting to take us to the courthouse to fill out papers for the marriage license. I paid the fifteen-dollar fee because Elvis wasn't carrying money. Then we went to the Aladdin so Elvis and Priscilla could rest before the wedding. The ceremony, performed by by Judge David Zenoff, a justice of the Nevada supreme court, took place at ten the next morning in Milton Prell's apartment in the hotel. The guests included Milton and his family, the Colonel and his wife, Marie, Colonel Beaulieu and his wife, their son Don, George Klein, Billy and Jo Smith, Patsy Presley Gambil and her husband, Gee Gee, and Vernon and Dee Presley. Priscilla's sister Michelle was the maid of honor; my wife Joan was the matron of honor; Marty and I were co-best men. At the time Elvis decided to marry Priscilla, Marty was the flavor of the month. Elvis was like that. His moods changed and he was into different people at different times. There were periods when Elvis couldn't seem to get enough time with a particular person. Then, without any apparent reason, his interest would shift toward someone else. I was on the interest list more often than not, whereas Elvis and Marty had a love-hate relationship. After he'd asked Marty to be best man, he soured on him and asked me to be best man. That really upset Marty. "Joe, you be the best man," he said with a martyred air. "No," I said, "let's both be best man." That worked out fine. The ceremony was over in a few moments. I handed Elvis the three-karat diamond wedding ring and he slipped it on Priscilla's finger. Afterward, we had a huge reception with a five-foot-tall wedding cake. Then Elvis and Priscilla held a press conference, and the news was flashed around the world. They changed their clothes and we all flew back to Palm Springs where we enjoyed a group honeymoon for three or four days, beginning that night with a wonderful home-cooked wedding dinner. Elvis was in a rare romantic mood. That afternoon, he had gone out to the garden to pluck a rose for Priscilla, which he set next to here place at the table. He even carried her across the threshold. If Elvis was initially reluctant to get married, on his wedding day, he couldn't stop grinning. We were all happy, except for Red West, who was wounded deeply because he hadn't been included in the wedding party. Red and all the guys were in Vegas for the wedding, but the Colonel said there was only room for the family. "Well, damn it," Red said, "if I can't go to the damn wedding, then I shouldn't even be here." Some of the other boys were upset too. Red stayed in his room and didn't even attend the reception. He and Elvis discussed it later, in Los Angeles, but of course, Elvis blamed Red's exclusion on the Colonel. A few weeks after the wedding, we had another reception in Memphis for the rest of the family. * One stellar example of Elvis's shock treatment working along with his exceptional generosity must be his impromptu visit with President Nixon. Less than two weeks before Chrismas 1970, Venon and Priscilla complained to Elvis about his spending. Furious, he stormed out of Graceland and went straight to the airport, where he bought a plane ticket for Los Angeles under an assumed name. At the time, Jerry Schilling was living in Los Angeles, learning film editing at Paramount studios and barely making the rent on his tiny Culver City apartment. At three o'clock that morning, his phone rang. "Who's is this?" Jerry asked. "Me." It was Elvis. "Where are you?" Jerry asked. "I'm changing planes in Dallas," Elvis said. "I'm arriving on an American flight." "What do you mean you're going to be on an American flight?" Since 1960, Elvis never traveled without at least two people. "I don't want anyone to know where I am,"Elvis said. "Could you meet me at the airport? It's okay if you call the limo company. You can let Sir Gerald know," Elvis instructed. (He was referring to Gerald Peters, "Sir Gerald" to us, the English owner of London Towne Livery Service.) "Both of you come pick me up. Tell him not to say a word to anyone." Jerry was impressed. Whatever was happening, Elvis wasn't fooling around. Elvis gave him the flight number and arrival time, and Sir Gerald drove onto the runway right up to the plane. All the passengers had disembarked when Elvis finally came down the steps. His face was swollen and dotted with red spots, his hair and sideburns were especially long, and he was wearing a black cape and carrying a carved wooden cane. Now Jerry was really concerned. "I had this penicillin reaction," Elvis explained. "And then I ate chocolate on the plane. I guess it brought the reaction back." Jerry asked Gerald to call a doctor to Elvis's house. But then the Stewardesses showed up. Elvis had promised to take them home. "Elvis, we have a doctor waiting outside your house," Jerry pleaded. "It's 4:00 A.M.!" "But, Jerry," Elvis said, "I promised these people." They dropped each of the girls off at her apartment and then drove to Elvis's house on Hillcrest Drive. By the time they arrived, it was almost daybreak Sunday morning, and the Doctor was waiting outside. He gave Elvis medication for the penicillin reaction and Elvis went to sleep. Jerry grabbed a few hours of rest, then got up, planning to talk with Elvis a bit and then go home. But Elvis had other plans. "Jerry, I need to go to Washington," he announced. "I can't go," Jerry said. "I have to be at the studio for my editing job." "I'll get a private plane and have them fly you back," Elvis offered. "That won't get me back any faster than a commercial plane," Jerry pointed out. "It's just going to cost more money." "Okay," Elvis decided, "I'll go by myself." That was not a good idea. The flight to Los Angeles had not been easy, because Elvis boarded the plane with one gun in his waistband and a smaller one tucked in his boot. A steward told Elvis he would take the guns and return them after they landed. Already worked up from the argument with Priscilla and Vernon, Elvis stomped off the plane. The pilot found out what happened, and got off the plane himself to personally ask Elvis to reboard---with his guns. Another instance where someone couldn't say no. "You know what?" Jerry said after a few moments' consideration. "I'll go with you." At this point no one but Jerry knew where Elvis was---not me, not Priscilla, not Vernon, not the guys. And Jerry still had no idea why Elvis "needed" to go to Washington. Elvis had left Graceland with no cash, only a credit card, so he wrote out a check for five hundred dollars from the checkbook he kept at the Hillcrest house. Jerry called Sir Gerald to pick them up. It was Sunday evening, but Sir Gerald drove them right up to the plane, and Elvis and Jerry were preboarded three rows back in first class. Most of the passengers just walked by, but a few shook Elvis's hand and said hello. One young man, just back from service in Vietnam, became very excited. "Are you going home for Christmas?" Elvis asked. He was. Elvis nudged Jerry. "Where's that money?" "What money?" Jerry said. "We've only got five hundred dollars. "I need it," Elvis said. "I want to give it to this guy." "Elvis," Jerry protested, "we won't have a penny! We're going to Washington, D.C.!" Elvis shot him that look, and Jerry handed over the five hundred dollars. Elvis gave it all to the serviceman. After the plane was in the air, Elvis finally told Jerry that he planned to meet with President Nixon. But first, he said, he would visit John Finlator, head of the Federal Narcotics Bureau. Elvis had been collecting law enforcement badges for years. The first, a deputy sheriff's badge, was cajoled from a Memphis police officer. Gradually, Elvis worked his way up to a chief deputy's badge. Finally, he asked the Memphis sheriff for a sheriff's badge. The sheriff happened to be Jerry Shilling's brother, and there was only one sheriff's badge--his own. "You wouldn't want to run against me, would you?" Elvis became a honorary sheriff and got his badge. One night, Elvis, Priscilla, Charlie, Sonny, and I were having dinner at La Scala in Beverly Hills. Elvis rarely ate out, but the restaurant had given us a private room. Our party also included Ed Hookstratten, Elvis's attorney, and a private detective named John O'Grady. John was working for Elvis, gathering evidence for a paternity suit brought against Elvis by a a Hollywood waitress named Pat Parker. The case never got to court, because the blood tests proved Elvis was not the father, and the girl never even had a date with Elvis. That night at La Scala, O' Grady introduced Elvis to a man named Paul Frees. Frees did voices for many animation films, for such characters as Ludwig Von Drake, Captain Crunch, and the Pillsburry Doughboy. He was also and adamant anti-drug crusador who had been honored for his work with a badge from the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. Frees showed the badge to Elvis. It is the ultimate law enforcement badge, recognized throughout the world. One of Elvis's fantasies had always been to be a spy, and undercover type. And ever since that night at La Scala, Elvis had been determined to get that badge for himself. On the flight, Elvis composed a letter to President Nixon on American Airlines stationary, and he asked Jerry to proofread it. Jerry knew enough grammar to recognize that it was riddled with errors. But it was sincere and it was written by Elvis Presley, so Jerry thought it should be sent as it was. Elvis had written that he had a collection of law enforcement badges from Memphis, Denver, and other cities, and that he felt very fortunate to have done so well as a rock 'n' roll artis in America. He went on to write that he was very supportive of the White House. Many people confided information to him that they woudn't reveal to others, he said, and he would be willing to pass along anything pertinent. He felt a particular responsibility, he told the president, because rock 'n' roll was getting pretty crazy. The irony in his writing this, while he was becoming more and more enmeshed in his own drug habit, was completely lost on him. "It's fine," Jerry told Elvis. In his own way, he had known exactly what to say and how to say it. Elvis folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope, and scribbled "Confidential, For the President Only" on the outside. They arrived in Washington just before daybreak where a limo was waiting. By now Jerry had been up two nights running with barely any rest. But Elvis wanted to deliver the letter to the White House straight away. "Let's go to the hotel first and check in," Jerry suggested. "No, I want to go there now," Elvis insisted. There he was, his swollen face framed by long jet black hair and sideburns, wearing a voluminous black cape topped by an extremely high Nehru collar, carrying a large and elaborately carved cane, and getting out of the limo at the White House gates. A wary White House security man--who failed to recognize Elvis at first--was obviously trying to decide what to make of this apparition, while Jerry monitored the scene nervously from inside the car. Elvis just handed the guard the letter for the President and drove away. The he dropped Jerry off at the hotel to await the president's summons before going off to John Finlator's office at the Federal Narcotics Bureau building to get his badge. Jerry thought to himself, sure the President is going to call. An hour later, the phone rang. "The president would like to meet Mr. Presley in twenty minutes," an official-sounding voice said. Jerry called Elvis at Finlator's office. Elvis didn't sound happy. Finlator had refused his request for a Federal Bureau of Narcotics badge. "The president wants to meet with you in twenty minutes," Jerry said. "Fine," Elvis replied, "because I'm not doing any good here. Wait for me in front of the hotel. I'll pick you up on the way to the White House." By then, Jerry had convinced Elvis to allow him to return to his job in Los Angeles and to call Graceland. Sonny West was on his way to Washington from Memphis. Elvis's limousine was just pulling up to the hotel when Sonny came puffing up to the lobby. "Leave your luggage with the bellman. We're going to the White House," Jerry told him, and Sonny climbed into the limo. When Elvis had stormed out of Graceland, he had taken along a commemorative World War I gun in a case from his collection at Graceland, which he intended to present to Nixon. At the White House, Sonny, Jerry, and Elvis were briefed according to regulations. Elvis was asked why he wanted to meet the president. To present him with the gun, he said. Elvis was ushered onto the oval Office, and Sonny and Jerry were taken to a waiting room. After a few more questions, they were told that they couldn't join Elvis and the president. It's hard to say no to Elvis, Sonny and Jerry warned. Out of the question, the security men repeated. Anyway, it wasn't even their decision, because more Secret Service personell would be required. About ten minutes later, the phone rang. "The president wants to meet Elvis Presley's friends," someone said to the security man. "You know what?" the astonished man said to Jerry and Sonny. "A lot of people come to meet the president, and they never think about their friends," That was another facet of Elvis's generosity. A big part of the thrill he received from his fame and extraordinary powers of persuasion was sharing the fruits with his friends. Jerry and Sonny were led to the president's office, where Elvis was standing in the doorway, grinning hugely and inviting them in as casually as if he were standing at the entrance to Graceland. They peeked through the door and spotted Nixon seated at a desk at the far end of the office, signing papers. The scene is engraved in Jerry's memory: Elvis, poised at the door and obviously relishing his friends amazement, offering a hearty invitation to "Come on in!" as President Nixon, framed by the fabled arch of the presidential office, signed official papers. Elvis introduced Jerry and Sonny to the President, and they all had pictures taken. Nixen presented them with presidential key chains. "They've got wives too" Elvis said. So Nixon went back and got more. "I'm waiting for the badge," Elvis informed Sonny and Jerry. The situation had been resolved. It was simply a matter of going over Finlator's head. When the badge arrived, Elvis noticed the written credentials were missing, so Nixon got on the phone again to Finlator. "We must get someone here to fingerprint Mr. Presley," Nixon told Finlator. "He wants the credentials that go with this badge." By now the White House was buzzing. Word had spread that Elvis was on the premises, and everyone wanted to see him. They invited Elvis, Sonny, and Jerry on a tour. But as soon as the credentials arrived, Elvis had what he came for and he was ready to leave. "Let's just go back to the hotel," he said. Jerry flew to Los Angeles, and Elvis and Sonny returned to Memphis. The badge hangs on the wall of Graceland's trophy room today. But while he was alive, Elvis carried it on his person at all times. Every few months or so, the Federal Bureau of Narcotic's telephoned him, as they do all holders of the badge, making sure it was intact and still in his possession. Elvis may have been a big kid, but he was big enough to get what he wanted. Even the president stopped everything for Elvis. He knew how to reach anyone, but he gave as much attention to the serviceman on the plane as he did to the president of the United States. * Elvis loved playing games like policeman, fireman, and spy, and now his favorite was "master instructing the multitudes." He'd gather his friends and whichever girls were around and read from the Bible and preach. One late night, about fourteen people were at the Palm Springs house. We'd all been smoking grass, laughing and talking, when Elvis turned the conversation to religion. He had smoked a lot of marijuana by then. He asked us to turn off the television and began preaching. Every time he made what he considered a key point, he waved a cane he was using as his staff, then paused to gaze portentously at us before picking up the thread of his theme. At one point, he looked at the Bible he was holding, then exclaimed, "You gotta hear this!" One of the guys groaned under his breath, "Oh, no, not again!" But Elvis was oblivious, pacing the room as he read aloud: "'Verily I say onto you, except ye be converted and become little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven. And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.'" Elvis interupted himself. "Jesus! This is unbelievable. Listen! 'But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea!'" At this point, Elvis leaped up onto the coffee table. He pointed the cane skyward and still clutching the Bible, improvised: "And Jesus said, 'Woe ye motherfuckers!'" With that, we all fell out laughing, including Elvis, once he'd realized what he'd said. Everyone was rolling on the floor. * All those years we were carrying on in Hollywood, Las Vegas, Palm Springs, and on various movie locations, Priscilla was waiting in Memphis for Elvis's visits. She had graduated high school in 1964, after living there one year, but Elvis didn't want her to work, so she filled the empty hours shopping and talking to Minnie Mae. Elvis expected the same devotion in his future wife that he'd received from Glady's, despite the fact that he rarely spent time alone with Priscilla anymore. When they were together, Elvis treated her with tenderness and love, but otherwise she was left to her own devices. At fourteen, Priscilla had been timid and quiet, but she slowly gained confidence and started to pick up some of Elvis's cocky ways,even treating him to Memphis Mafia style barbs. Elvis's plan of molding himself an ideal, compliant wife--an unrealistic goal at best--was in jeopardy. His little girl was growing up. For her part, Priscilla knew deep down that Elvis had other women but didn't want to admit it to herself. Yet she hunted for signs of his unfaithfulness. She snooped through his makeup kit, searching for notes from other women. Whenever she approached Elvis with hard evidence, he would go on the offensive. "Don't you trust me?" Elvis always asked her, initially playing hurt and indignant. "Don't pay attention to what you read in the papers," he warned. "Oh, those are superimposed," he scoffed whenever she showed him photographs picturing him with other girls. If she pressed the issue, he exploded. Overpowered, she was forced to back down. Nevertheless, Priscilla couldn't stop checking up on him. Sometimes she tried to disguise her voice and called the Hollywood house. "Hey, boys! Any parties tonight?" Sonny answered the phone one time. "Yeah, big party tonight," he said. "Elvis is getting a haircut right now. Come over after nine!" That really got her. One time, years later, when we were in Las Vegas playing the Hilton, Jo, Smith, Billy's wife, and Priscilla drove from Los Angeles to Palm Springs on their own. There, they discovered notes in the mailbox left for us by various girls. One read, "Dear Sonny, I had a great time last weekend," and was signed "Lizard Tongue." There were a few others---luckily, none to me. Priscilla immediatley called Vegas, and I answered the phone. "I've got to talk to Elvis right now," she said. "About what?" I asked. "He's getting ready to go on stage. Is it really important?" "I have to talk to him right now!" Priscilla insisted. Elvis got on the line, and Priscilla told him what she'd found. "I'm in Palm Springs," she said, "and I've got all these notes from women you guys have been out with." Elvis took his usual tactic: a strong offensive. "I'm getting ready to go on stage," he said in exasperated tones. "There's two thousand people out there waiting for me! I'm supposed to be out there, smiling and happy. What the hell are you doing calling me at this time? Those notes are all bullshit. Tear them up and throw them away! They don't mean a thing! It's just fans trying to cause trouble." He hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Another night, Joe and Priscilla drove down from Los Angeles to Palm Springs where we were supposedly resting. They parked on a dark street across from the house and watched the parade of women inside the house as they moved back and forth and past the open windows. Then they drove to a pay phone and Jo called the house, trying to pretend she was one of our local girlfriends. "I've heard there's a party there tonight," she said. "Can we come over?" But Billy answered the phone and immediatley recognized his wife's southern inflected voice. "Jo! What are you doing calling here?" he asked. "Oh, I'm just kidding around," she said nervously. The girls hung up and drove straight back to Los Angeles. They were so frightened of provoking our anger that they never said a word about it. In fact, it was only a few years ago that Priscilla told me that story. We kept our women sheltered from the outside world, partly because of how the public behaved whenever they spotted Elvis. They would literally elbow and push Priscilla out of the way to get to him. But we also kept them isolated because that way we had better control. Priscilla once brought a friend home from her dance class. After the friend left, Elvis told Priscilla that the moment she'd left the room, the girl had made a play for him. He could have said that to keep Priscilla from making friends from outside the clan. For my part, I told Joan all about the other guy's extramarital exploits, and I'm sure Elvis told Priscilla about the rest of us. So Joan thought every husband cheated except hers, and Priscilla thought all the guys were unfaithful but Elvis. Except for Jo and Priscilla, none of the women voiced suspicions to each other because the Memphis Mafia and their women were a clan. Any individual dissenter automatically posed a threat to the integrity of the entire group. The girls barely talked among themselves, because no one wanted to be the troublemaker. Once, in Vegas, we were watching a show with our wives. Joan thought it would be funny if she sent me a not saying "Dear Joe, I'm the girl you met in blah blah," just to see what I would do. She excused herself and gave the note to a bellhop in the lobby, telling him to ring the bell in five minutes. When the bellhop rang and announced he had a message for Joe Esposito, Sonny went to get the note and bring it back to the table. But he didn't give it to me, and Joan realized something was up. "Sonny, didn't the bellhop give you a note for Joe?" she asked. "Yes," Sonny said, coolly enough. "Then why didn't you give it to him?" Joan wanted to know. Sonny didn't answer right away, and Joan became furious. "No one can even play a joke around here!" she complained. "This is ridiculous!" She stood up and stalked away from the table. Elvis hit the ceiling. I went after Joan and told her to apologize to Elvis for causing trouble. Joan thought she'd been playing a joke, but to us, it was serious. We were that paranoid and that ruthless, protecting each other because we were cheating so much. "Never, ever admit it," Elvis always told us. "The girl can be there, right in front of her eyes, but never admit it." Another time, Joan decided to fly to Tahoe to pay me a surprise visit. Elvis had a housekeeper named Henrietta who came to my house once a week whenever he was out of town. She noticed Joan packing and asked where she was going. "I feel I have to see Joe," Joan told her. When the coast was clear, Henrietta called Tahoe to warn us. Everyone, including Elvis, got rid of their girlfriends, except for Sonny, who was in bed with a girl and just locked his door. Poor Joan had no idea why everyone was so cold to her that weekend. Elvis was a devout follower of the old double standard. And it was convenient for the rest of us to fall in with his logic. * "Hello, I'm Elvis Presley," he said as he shook my hand firmly. "Glad to meet you." Everybody in the Western world and beyond knew who Elvis was, yet he acted as if he needed to identify himself. "Hello, I'm Joe Esposito from the Twenty-seventh Artillery," I blurted out. "You know, the outfit up the road from the Thirty-second Armored." This was the Army, after all, and that's how one soldier identified himself to another. A group of eight or so people from Memphis, were gathered in the living room of the house Elvis was renting in Bad Nauheim, Germany, a beautiful spa town about five miles from our base in Friedberg, where the streets bustled all day long with health-conscious Germans taking their constitutionals. I was here through my friend Wes Daniels, a photographer for Combat Command C, Public Information Office (PIO), whose assignment was to tag after the Army's top-ranking superstar and shoot him performing militarylike duties. "Elvis plays touch football on weekends. Why don't you join us? We need more players," Wes said one day. "In fact, let's drop by his house tonight." That's how I happened to be in Elvis's living room. Seeing Elvis Presley in the flesh was a jolt. On the strength of his physical presence alone, he commanded the room. He was the best-looking man I'd ever seen, startingly handsome, with classical, chiseled features and an undefinable quality that distinguished him from everyone else. He grew up around black children, and perhaps that influence gave him a stance like that of no white man I'd ever seen. He walked differently, kind of hip and relaxed. He had that snarl to his lip and an infectious laugh. Wes and I were wearing sports shirts, slacks, and windbreakers--standard civilian gear for off-base military personnel. But Elvis wore a striking maroon velvet shirt, opened at least two buttons down and with the collar turned up. It hung loosely over his green Army fatique pants. He was Hollywood on top and United States Army on bottom. It looked as if the only thing he'd changed that day was his shirt. He still wore his Army boots with the laces hanging out about ten inches. Introductions over, Elvis returned to his easy chair and settled into a characteristic pose: left ankle resting on right knee, with the left foot jerking back and forth as he talked. It moved so quickly I thought that any minute the bootlaces would crack like bull whips. Elvis carried a handkerchief that night, and he made a point of apologizing for his head cold. "Man," he said, "I feel like my head is the size of a pumpkin." "It is the size of a pumpkin," chimed in Lamar Fike. Lamar was big, 250 to 300 pounds encased in black slacks and a black turtleneck. "You oughta know about size," Elvis countered swiftly. "Man, your pants are bigger than the tents we use on maneuvers." Everyone laughed. Lamar was a friend of Elvis's from Memphis. If Lamar had been able to drop one hundred pounds, he would have been a good-looking guy. He just loved food too much. Whenever we went out to eat, he ordered two of everything. Instead of lifting his feet when he walked, Lamar shuffled. Like Elvis's other friends from Memphis, Lamar didn't have a specific job. He ran errands and did other favors like shining Elvis's shoes and taking his dates home. Most important was his role as court jester to the King, making Elvis laugh. Elvis felt sorry for Lamar because he had few friends. He kidded Lamar, but Lamar never seemed to get upset. I realized soon enough that Elvis and Lamar were enjoying their favorite sport, a fast-paced duel of quips and barbed insults. The room was arranged for conversation, with some chairs and a sofa forming a large circle. The sofa held two or three people. The rest of the guys and a few girls, mostly silent, occupied about half a dozen chairs, some of which looked as if they'd been brought in from the kitchen. Lamar had arranged himself directly opposite Elvis, as was his habit, probably to keep clear of a friendly slam to his arm, belly, or legs. A tall, red-headed guy with a long, powerful-looking torso paced the room like a muscular caged cat, sitting down for only a few moments at a time. That was Red West, Elvis's friend since they were students at Humes High School in Memphis, where Red was a star on the football team. Elvis never forgot that Red had saved him from having his long hair shorn off by a gang of school bullies. Red had suffered an even more deprived childhood than Elvis. He spent a lot of time at Elvis's home and became very close to Gladys Presley. When Elvis began performing in small clubs around the South, he asked Red to accompany him. Girls were already going crazy over him, and tanked-up boyfriends didn't take too kindly to the threat of his sex appeal. Elvis usually talked his way out of combustible situations, but with Red by his side, he felt more secure. Red was a genuine tough-guy and conferred tough-guy status on Elvis by association. When Elvis began to record with RCA Records and star in Hollywood movies, he took Red along so they could share the good times. Then Red joined the Marines in 1956. After Red finished his tour, Elvis invited him to Germany. That first night, Red showed little of his feelings or personality. He was polite, but not particularly warm or friendly. He remained silent, roaming the living room and occasionally helping Elvis demonstrate karate moves. Elvis rotated around the room for karate partners. He wanted to be fair and not hurt anyone's feelings by showing favoritism. He recruited several people: Rex Mansfield, a soldier the Army kept with Elvis from the time of their induction; Charlie Hodge; Wes; and even me. "Just come at me," Evlis urged as we hesitated, unwilling to attack full force and risk injuring him. "Go ahead, just come at me like you were going to put a knife in me." Despite his head cold, Elvis struck dramatic karate poses, demonstrating each move first in slow motion, then at normal speed. "Man, I'm going to get good at this stuff," he vowed enthusiastically. "One of these days, I'll be busting boards, maybe even concrete blocks." Then, to everyone's delight, he headed for the upright piano positioned along the wall near the front entrance of the house. As he walked over, he bent forward to peek out the front window at that night's crowd. He turned to Red, winked, and flashed his devilish grin. "Some nice stuff out there," he commented. "I guess I'll go out and a sign a few autographs later." A moment later, he'd changed his mind. "Nah," he said, "I'm not feeling all that good tonight, Elisabeth, would you go out and tell them I'm not feeling good and won't be able to sign autographs?" Elisabeth Stefaniak, Elvis's pretty assistant, was eighteen years old and lived in the house. She seemed to be always hovering within easy contact. Despite her loose-fitting clothes, I could see she had a voluptuous body. Elvis had met Elisabeth two months after he arrived in Germany, while on maneuvers for special training in Grafenwohr, in the hills near the Czech border. Elisabeth had learned that Elvis liked to go to the movies on base and that he always came in after the movie started and left just before it was over. One night, while Elisabeth was waiting at the back of the theater, Elvis entered with Rex Mansfield and another soldier. When Rex got up to go to the bathroom, Elisabeth asked him to deliver a note to Elvis. Rex passed the note, then came back to escort Elisabeth to a seat next to Elvis. After the show, Elvis walked Elisabeth to her family home, a few blocks away. It was cold, so he put his arm around her shoulders to keep her warm. But he was a gentleman, saying goodbye at her door and giving her a little peck on the cheek. He wrote down her telephone number and asked if she would meet him the next night at the theater. They became good friends. He even dropped by her home every so often to have dinner with her family and play guitar. A few days before Elvis was to return to Friedberg, he asked Elisabeth's parents to let her work for him as a secretary/interpreter and run his household. Two days later, Elisabeth was installed in the house in Bad Nauheim. After several visits to Elvis's house, I discovered that Elisabeth never joined the conversations. She was always in the shadows, available and waiting. Elvis became attached to certain girls, but if they weren't around, he'd just be with someone else. That someone else was often Elisabeth. The entire time he was sleeping with her, Elvis was having other affairs right in front of her. He would spend an evening with a girl in his bedroom, the girl would leave, and he'd call in Elisabeth to sleep with him. This arrangement continued even after Elvis became involved with Priscilla. Elvis never slept alone. He had a severe problem with sleepwalking and someone had to be there throughout the night to make sure he didn't injure himself. Even other guys and I slept in the same room with him on occasion. That first night I was there, Elisabeth didn't seem at all upset when he took a second look out the window and changed his mind again. "No, that's not right," he said. "Don't do that, Elisabeth. Go out and say I'll sign a dozen photographs or so at about nine o'clock." Then he settled himself on the piano bench. I thought he only played guitar, so I was surprised to see how skilled he was on the piano. Every so often, he stopped playing to pick up a handkerchief and blow his nose. "That's using your head," said Lamar. Elvis shot a glance at Lamar, struck a few chords for effect, then counterjabbed: "That's right fat-ass. I do use my head for something other than a food funnel." He laughed wildly at his own wit, while we provided the echo and Lamar emitted a nervous giggle. Elvis pounded out some more fast-chugging rock'n'roll. I couldn't help wondering if the fans crowded by the gate in the freezing cold could hear this rare live performance. Elvis didn't sing his hits like "Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel" that first night I met him. In fact, he rarely did offstage. Instead, he ran through a raucous selection of rhythm and blues, while Charlie Hodge, a musician and GI from the South whom Elvis met on the way over to Germany, tapped his feet, and Lamar slapped his enormous thigh. "Man, hit those keys, EL!" they yelled in encouragement. As you came to know Elvis, the progression went from "Elvis" to "El" to "E," the most chummy nickname. This first night, I used "Elvis," and over the months, I worked my way to "E." He pounded out and irreverent version of "Mona Lisa," Conway Twitty's big rockabilly hit. After he played it, Elvis seemed irritated. He was sure it would have been a big hit for him, he said. If only he wasn't stuck in Germany, far from RCA's recording studios. He consoled himself with a soulful rendition of "Danny Boy," milking every drop of sentiment from the classic, mingling delicacy of feeling with waves of emotional power. Having set a new mood, Elvis rose from the piano bench and walked across the room to a framed quotation on the wall: "The Penalty of Leadership," by Theodore McManus. It referred to the responsibility that weighs heavily on a leader's shoulders. Elvis gazed for a moment at the quotation then turned dramatically to address the room. "Man, when you're the guy on top of the pile, there's nowhere to go but down, and there's nobody up there you can talk to," he observed. "As it says on the wall right there, you're all alone..." He worked himself in even deeper, spinning out a depressing monologue on the distinction between being alone and lonliness, as everyone in the room leaned forward and listened closely. "You see," Elvis explained, "loneliness can happen to almost anybody. YOu can be in a crowd of people, and still feel lonely. It's just that you decided to be lonely. You can change that easily. But being alone. Man, that's something different. You have no control over being alone. I mean, really alone, like a general or some top dog leader. That’s really being alone because there is no one else up there with you. That’s the difference between being alone and being lonely.” “Yeah,” Lamar said, staring morosely at the drab gray carpet that covered all but the edges of the floor. “I know what you’re saying, man.” Lamar was taking his cue and feeding into Elvis’s mood. Elvis’s reaction was equally predictable. He leaned over and delivered a friendly whack to the top of Lamar’s head, hard enough to stir the raven-black hair. “Don’t worry, Lamar,” he quipped. “You’ll never be alone. There’s no way you’ll ever climb to the top of anything. There’s just too much of you to climb.” Suddenly, he turned serious again. “You see a lot of things and you learn a lot of things in Hollywood,” he went on, pausing to light up a Hav-a-Tampa cigarillo. “One thing I learned is that when you’re hot, you’re hot. Nothing is hotter than a hit. But look out! Nothing’s colder than a miss. Jerry Lee Lewis was hotter than a firecracker; the he got ice-cold. It can take a lifetime of trying, of hitting the road, playing any date you can get. You get lucky and you’re heading up the charts. Things look great. Then, bam! It’s suddenly quiet. Then it’s cold.” Elvis sighed, expelling a cloud of cigar smoke. “I hope it doesn’t happen to me, at least not now, when I’m so far from home and the fans. I love those fans, but they’re fickle. Two years is a long, long time.” Elvis was on a roll. “It’s a fickle world out there,” he concluded, shaking his head. “And it’s not much better in the record business. Man, if you can get to the top of the charts for a couple of weeks, you’re really doing’ something because they get tired and forget in just a couple of weeks. Two years is a long, long time.” He fell silent gazed down at his Army fatigue pants and the boots with their half-done laces. “Talk about weird!” Lamar burst out in a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood. “We met some real weird people out there in Hollywood. Right, E? How about that director with the riding crop? That guy paid a flunky to follow him around with a stool just so he could prop up his foot while he gave instructions to the cast or crew. Remember that guy, E? Wasn’t he something?” “Yeah,” Elvis agreed. “He was riding high at the expense of some poor slob. There ain’t enough money in this world to make me take a job like that. Here’s this big-shot director, walking around with a riding crop, whacking his leg and pointing to a spot on the floor. Then this guy runs over with the stool and sets it down. Christ, what makes a man so mean?” “You know who else is mean?” Lamar volunteered. “Uh-oh, now what kind of bullshit are we going to hear?” Elvis groaned, but he settled back in his armchair, and rested his left ankle on his right knee. “Frank Sinatra!” Lamar pronounced triumphantly. “You’re on your own there, Lamar,” Elvis said. “Don’t pull me into what you heard. I think it’s a bunch of crap.” Lamar heaved his bulk out of his chair, took the stage in the center of the room, and launched into this Sinatra impression. “First, nobody except a few close friends can call him Frank,” he said. “He tells people, ‘My name is Mr. Sinatra to you and don’t forget it!’ Mr. Sinatra!” Lamar snapped his fingers, trying to imitate Sinatra’s air of entitlement. “One guy has the job of carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels,” he went on. “Another guy has to see that there’s ice in a glass. And still another guy carries a white tablecloth. When Frank, I mean Mr. Sinatra, sits down, nobody is allowed to do anything until Mr. Sinatra snaps his fingers.” “You’d never see me do that crap,” Elvis commented. “Except maybe to keep Lamar in line.” He snapped his fingers. “Down boy, down,” he said with a grin. The room exploded in laughter. * One day in Germany, we got word that all the clerks had to go out to a rifle range and qualify with the carbine. The idea of leaving the office and hunkering down on the cold ground at the rifle range didn't appeal to anyone. But we followed orders and out we went. I couldn't have cared less whether I hit the target. Amazingly enough, instead of getting the white flag known as "Maggie's drawers" -- a signal that the shot was a total miss--- I got a signal that it was a bull's-eye. My slugs kept hitting the dust and the flags from the guys at the target zone kept signaling perfect shots. I guess the guys wanted to do me a favor, so I wound up with a perfect score in my record. On my next visit to Elvis's house, I told him about my perfect carbine score. He was impressed, clearly interested in guns and my supposed skill with them. I could see Elvis doing mental calculations about me, the italian kid from Chicago who turns out to be good with a gun. From then on, every so often Elvis would ask me questions about the Mafia. "Hey, Joe, do you know any of those Mafia guys from Chicago?" he'd ask. Or he'd make comments like, "Hell, I guess everyone in Chicago must be part of the Mafia." Now that I think about it, I gave Elvis other reasons to link me to the Mafia. My buddy George and I liked bragging to Elvis about our gambling adventures---good filler material between his much more exciting Hollywood stories. Elvis embellished our anecdotes when he repeated them to others. The difference between what we did and what Elvis SAID we did was about as great as the difference between me hitting the dirt halfway to the target and the flag coming up bull's-eye. One day, a few of us got to talking about killing. Elvis looked me straight in the eye. "Joe, tell me the truth," he said. "Could you kill a man?" It seemed like a strange question coming from a guy wearing a military uniform and serving on foreign soil. "Hell, yes," I answered. "We've been trained to kill. That's our job. I hope all of us are able to pull the trigger when the time comes. I'm ready." "Bullshit aside," Elvis said. "Could you look a guy in the eye and blow him away?" "If that's my job, then that's what I do," I replied. I thought he was talking about military duty. But now I realize Elvis was asking me a much larger question. I think he was asking a guy from Chicago whom he suspected of Mafia connections how he felt about killing someone. And the answer he heard was that if it was my job, I could kill. Just like the Mafia hit men. I'll never know, but I suspect Elvis asked me to work for him partly because he thought that if the situation called for it, I could be cold-blooded. He loved that notion; it fed straight into his hyperactive fantasy life. He often asked me about the personal lives of Mafia bosses. He was particularly intriqued by the way they segmented their lives into neat compartments. "They have it made," he said. "They have a safe, comfortable family life with a respectable wife who takes care of the house and raises the kids. And they have a wild life with beautiful women, fast cars, and lots of excitement. Man, that's living." Elvis was fascinated with the Mafia's code of strict but contradictory ethics, one he would later adopt for himself. He wanted the wife, kids, the warm security of family life, and the pride of being the head of the household. And when he finally married, he didn't abandon his pursuit of the "wild life." All of us would live double lives then: Our wives and children in one carefully insulated compartment, while we cavorted all over the country with many women who gathered around Elvis, attracted like gorgeous moths to his flame. At times, Elvis even seemed to model his entire lifestyle on the Mafia, modifying it according to my reluctant answers to questions like, "Hey, Joe, how do you explain a godfather who thinks it's okay to make lots of money from illegal gambling, prostitution, and loan sharking, but it's not okay to deal drugs?" "You're asking me?" I usually responded. "How do I know what goes through anybody's mind?" But he kept after me. "No bullshit, Joe. You know those guys, why do they draw the line at making money off drugs? Hell, I hear there's lots of money to be made." "Maybe the difference is that people don't get hurt as much, except for broken knees, when dealing with gambling, prostitution, and loans," I offered. "Drugs can do alot of damage." Elvis had a dark sense of humor, and the idea of broken knees struck him as comical. For the moment, he was satisfied with my explanation. But he returned to that subject from time to time. I suspect our conversations helped him draw his own boundaries, and later, create the rationalization for his own drug abuse. Elvis knew the sordid tragedy and humiliation of being part of a family that had suffered from the effects of drinking. Both parental lines were studded with alcoholics, and his mother died of liver disease after a lifetime of heavy drinking. The result was that Elvis was as adamant a teetotaler as a Puritan, even though he later became addicted to prescription drugs. In his mind and in the minds of many others, including doctors, prescription drugs were okay. Street drugs and alcohol were not. * The first time I assumed the role of organizer of Elvis's life was just before that leave in Paris. We were about to leave for the train, when Elvis couldn't find his military identification card. He couldn't cross the border without it, so I raced over to the office where I worked, typed out a fake card, and signed the commanding officer's name. As we walked out the door, his father handed all the money to me and asked me to keep an account of our expenses. I paid all the bills in Paris---hotel, restaurants, and shows. When we got back to Germany, I turned over all the receipts to Vernon. He was thrilled to death. He finally got receipts for his money, the first time ever. We had a private compartment on the train, and when we arrived at the station in Paris, we spotted two generals hailing a cab. Barely conceiling our laughter, we saluted them as we---a bunch of draftees---climbed into a limousine and drove through the streets of Paris to the Hotel de Galles. Here I was, a twenty-two-year-old high school dropout who'd never been out of Chicago until the Army took me out, luxuriating in a magnificent suite of rooms on the top floor of the finest hotel in Paris. "Order anything you want," Elvis said, flashing that crooked grin and executing a grand sweep of his arm. "Just order." Elvis instructed me to make reservations for the famed Lido show. A few German girls we knew from Frankfurt happened to be in Paris, as was another Army friend, Currie Grant, and we took them along. Elvis put on his blue dress uniform, proud to be a soldier. The rest of us didn't own dress uniforms, so we wore regular suits. AS we were leaving the hotel, I noticed the lobby was filling with young girls. Word had gotten out that Elvis was staying at the Hotel de Galles. But the girls didn't bother him, they just kept their distance and watched us leave. Elvis asked the driver to give us a little tour of Paris before we went to the Lido. "Look, Joe," he said, reaching from his backseat to the front and tapping my head, "there's the Eiffel Tower." The highest paid tour guide in the world was showing me Paris, the City of Light, the most romantic city in the world! We drove past Notre Dame Cathedral. "Hey, let's stop and see if the Hunchback's home," Elvis suggested. The chauffeur thought Elvis's remarks were very funny. After and hour's sightseeing, we arrived at the Lido, where the manager was waiting to escort us to our stageside center table. Everyone's eyes were on Elvis. It drove home what I'd nearly forgotten, that my Army buddy was a world-class celebrity---a strange feeling. We were mesmerized by the procession of long-stemmed, bare-breasted beauties onstage. Throughout the show, I noticed the dancers kept glancing at our table, stealing looks at Elvis. He leaned across to me. "What do you think of the show so far?" he asked. "I keep thinking this is just a wonderful dream and I'm going to wake up any time now," I told him truthfully. "This is only the beginning, Joe," he said. He was getting a big kick out of my enjoyment. Of course, we went backstage to meet the showgirls and the singer, Lynne Renauld, whose voice Elvis loved. The girls were thrilled to meet Elvis. To our suprise, half of them turned out to be English. "what are you girls doing after the show?" we asked. They usually frequented Le Bantu, a female impersonator club, they said, so we invited all thirty of them to meet us there after their second show. Le Bantu was a showbiz dive, packed from stem to stern with even more gorgeous women than the Lido. Unfortunately, they all turned out to be expert femal impersonators, including one of the most beautiful creatures I'd ever seen. As we sat around talking, a few of us, especially Cliff Gleaves, were knocking back drinks. "Elvis, don't you want a drink?" I asked. "Order me a Coke," he said. "Don't you want a real drink?" "No, I don't drink alcohol." "Not even a beer?" "NO," he said, "My relatives drink enough for me. I saw too many drunks in my younger days. That's why you'll never see alcohol in my house. I don't allow it." I thought about it, and realized that I hadn't seen any alcohol in the house, not even a beer. "I don't like to drink myself," I told Elvis. I could still remember getting drunk on beer with some neighborhood boys one night, then going home and crawling into bed as the room spun. At the other end of the table, Cliff was clearly feeling no pain as he grabbed a chair next to a magnificent girl and set about getting acquainted, whispering sweet nothings and nibbling on her ear. When the Lido chorus girls arrived, one of them told Elvis, "You know, the girl your friend is talking to is not a girl. It's one of the impersonators." Cliff was having a great time, so we enjoyed a romantic scene playing out before us for several moments before Elvis finally told someone to break the news to lover boy. When Cliff learned he was romancing and using his best lines to sweet-talk a man, he jumped from his chair as if he'd been stuck with a cattle prod or electrocuted, knocking it over. "Get away from me!" He screamed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" Elvis and the rest of us doubled over screaming and hooting with laughter. * In 1964, Elvis got to meet the great Jim Brown. The greatest running back in football history, who played for the Cleveland Browns. When Jim was playing for the Browns, I would contact their office and they would send a complete set of the past season's game films. Elvis just loved to watch Jim Brown run. We stayed up many nights watching those films. * By 1965, Elvis handn't scored a hit record in three years. Tickle Me, his latest movie, was a flop. The Beatles dominated pop culture the way Elvis had several years earlier. Every piece of music the Beatles put out burned up the charts. They were the hottest thing since...well, Elvis. But he would never admit they were good, which was unusual for him. They must have reminded him of his early days, and he probably was a little jealous of the intensity of their popularity. This was the first time someone other than Elvis had made such a powerful impact on the public. Obviously, they were a threat. The Fab Four were scheduled to play the Hollywood Bowl that year, and when they landed on the East Coast, they held a press conference. A reporter asked what they wanted to do most in the United States. "Meet Elvis Presley," all four Beatles agreed. The Colonel immediatly arranged for a meeting with Brian Epstein, their manager. We had just returned from location for Paradise, Hawaiian Style, and were in the midst of shooting interiors on the Paramount lot. The Colonel phoned me on the soundstage. "Joe, tell Elvis I need to see you. Come to my office." The Colonel always kept an office on the lot where we were making a movie. It was written into the deal, and the walls and ceiling of which were decorated in an Elvis motif, plastered with Elvis posters and photographs, and autographed photographs signed to the Colonel from presidents of the United States and such famous movie stars as Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra, Bette Davis, and Doris Day. When I walked into the Colonel's office, he was seated behind a large desk, a giant Havana poking out the corner of his mouth while he talked a mile a minute to a large man in a dark blue suit with long blond hair. "Joe, I want you to meet Malcolm Evans," The Colonel said."Malcolm is the road manager for the Beatles and a big Elvis admirer." We shook hands, and for some reason, I liked him immediatley. "Please take him to the set and introduce him to Elvis," the Colonel said. Malcolm's eyes lit up. He hadn't expected to meet Elvis right away. "Is this your first time in the United States?" I asked, as we walked to the soundstage. "No," Malcolm said. "I was here last year when the guys played. The Beatles were hoping to meet Elvis then, but I guess the Colonel and Brian couldn't work it out." "Well, you're going to meet him now," I assured Malcolm. He was actually getting nervous, talking more and more rapidly and asking one question after another. He asked how I liked working for Elvis,and before I could answer, he asked something else. He ducked into the bathroom twice before meeting his idol, and I noticed that, after the second time, he had combed his hair and straightened his tie. This man worked with the Beatles and hung around with rock 'n' roll superstars, but he was reduced to a quivering mass of nerves at the prospect of meeting Elvis Presley. "The Colonel and Brian are setting up a meeting for the boys," Malcolm said excitedly. "I think we're going to visit Elvis at his home." We paused for a few moments outside the soundstage. The red light over the door was on, signaling that cameras were rolling for a take. When the light blinked out, we headed for the set where they were shooting. I spotted Elvis in his chair. "Elvis, I want you to meet Malcolm Evans, a friend of the Colonel's," I said. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. "Are you from England?" Elvis asked. "Yes," Malcolm answered. "I'm here on business." "Malcolm is the road manager for the Beatles," I told Elvis. "Oh, right," Elvis said. "The Colonel told me that you guys are coming over to the house one night next week. I'm looking forward to meeting them." Elvis seemed as enthusiastic about meeting Malcolm as Malcolm was about meeting him. The assistant director called Elvis for a scene with his costar Suzanna Leigh. Elvis excused himself, shook Malcolm's hand again, and said that he'd see him again next week. I introduced Malcolm to the Memphis Mafia. We watched Elvis do the scene for a few moments, and then I walked him back to the Colonel's office. Actually, Elvis was just polite to Malcolm. He had no desire to meet the Beatles. A few days later, the Colonel called me into his office again. "Joe, I talked to Elvis about the meeting with the Beatles," he said. "He wanted me to get him out of it, but I told him no way. It's all set for next week. I'll get together with you tomorrow to make all the arrangements." On August 27, the evening of the meeting, I met the Colonel at Elvis's house at 525 Perugia Way in Bel Air. Two limousines would take the Colonel and me to the house the Beatles were renting in Coldwater Canyon, then we'd all come back back to Elvis's house. AS we left to pick them up, fans were gathering on the street in front of Elvis's house. Word of the meeting had leaked out. At around 7:30 P.M., we arrived at the Beatles' place, a modern house perced high in the hills with a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Security guards opened the gates and we drove through the crowd of girls screaming "John(and Paul and George and Ringo), we love you!" Malcolm met us at the door with Brian Epstein. We shook hands and Malcolm introduced the Colonel and me to the Beatles. The house was full of people I presumed were their friends or people working on their tour. In fact, it looked just like one of our parties. The Beatles seemed very nervous to meet the Legendary Colonel, who had a reputation of being unfriendly. They were so restrained and polite that I thought to myself, "These aren't the same hip, wisecracking guys I just saw interviewed on TV!" But the Colonel was very nice to them and offered each Beatle a cigar. After a few moments, we left. The Colonel rode in the first limo with Brian, John and Paul. I was in the second one with George, Ringo, and Malcolm. When we arrived, over a thousand kids were waiting, crowding the street that led up to the house and perched on the walls that surrounded it. Flashbulbs popped every few seconds, and the air was filled with screams. It felt like going onstage for a show. We dashed into the house and were met at the door by Alan Fortas, Marty Lacker, and Jerry Shilling. Elvis was waiting in the den with other friends and family: Priscilla, Joan, Sonny, Richard Davis, Billy and Jo Smith, Mike Keaton, "Chief" Ray Stitton, Pat Parry, and Tom Diskin, Colonel Parker's assistant. The Beatles walked in, and Elvis rose to greet them, wearing a short black jacket over a red silk shirt and black pants. John stretched out his hand, "Oh you must be Elvis." he said. Everyone laughed. "Oh, you guys must be friends of Malcolm's," Elvis came back. More laughter. Paul and John sat on the couch next to Elvis and Priscilla. Ringo went over to the bar and started a conversation with some of the guys. George floated around the room, trailing clouds of pungent marijuana smoke and enjoying a part of one. The television was on, but the sound was turned off. The jukebox was playing oldies: Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Jackie Wilson, but no Elvis or Beatles songs. No one was talking. Every time a song finished, an awkward silence hung over the room. It seemed as if no one wanted to start the conversation. Elvis was uncomfortable, John and Paul were just staring at him, as he sat on the edge of the couch, playing with the rings on his fingers. "This silence is killing me," he said, and he stood up abruptly. "I thought we were here to talk about music and maybe even play some. I think I have some guitars around the house." "We're a little nervous," Paul admitted, "but we would love it." Everyone was relieved after Elvis's outburst. The Colonel and Brian began talking in a corner, about managment I presumed. George wandered into the family room in the middle of the house where we had a pool table and hit some balls. Some of the wives talked with Ringo. People were beginning to enjoy themselves. The maid brought in snacks, and in honor or our visitors, we stocked beer in the bar---only for this night. The Colonel asked me to show Brian the coffee table that converted into a roulette table. I removed the top section to reveal a complete roulette wheel with all the chips. Brian, Ringo, and the Colonel decided to play, and I was the bank. I wound up a few dollars ahead that night. Meanwhile, Elvis, John, and Paul were playing guitars and singing in the den. The jam session---all rhythm and blues selections like Chuck Berry's "Roll Over Beethoven," "Promised Land," and "Maybellene," and Ray Charles's "What'd I Say" --- lasted about forty-five minutes. "When are you going on tour again?" John asked Elvis. "I have too many film commitments," Elvis said. "Maybe after that." "When are you going to come to England?" Paul wanted to know. "They love you there." "Someday soon," was the vague answer. It was getting late by now, and Elvis had an early call the next day. As the Beatles filed out the door, they invited Elvis and the guys to their house the next night. "I'll let you know tomorrow," Elvis said. "It all depends on my shooting schedule." With that, everyone said goodnight. We had a great time, but no one has one single momento--not a single photo or audiotape---of that historic meeting. The next day, I called Malcolm to tell him that Elvis wouldn't be able to make it that night because he had a very early call the next day. Elvis had told me he didn't feel like going. He said he was tired. His ego could have been the reason, but most likely it had something to do with his "no encore" policy. Elvis didn't do them. He always gave the audience the entire performance the first time out, holding back nothing for an encore. So the meeting with the Beatles was a kind of performance, and Elvis wouldn't do an encore. Having met them, Elvis decided that the Beatles were terrific. * I'll never forget December 8, 1970. I was at home with my wife Joan, and our two little girls, Debbie and Cindy. We'd just finished dinner and were watching television, when there was a knock at the door. I asked who it was, and heard, "It's me." Elvis, Jerry Schilling and Priscilla were standing there, with big grins on their faces. Elvis was wearing his usual outfit, a silk print shirt and black slacks and his gold framed sunglasses, even though it was dark outside. "What are you guys doing here?" I asked. "We've been riding around with a real estate person looking at houses," Elvis said. "What's wrong with your house?" "I'm not looking for a house for me, dummy," Elvis teased. "Priscilla and I decided that it's time you and Joan had a house." I was shocked, but managed to invite them in for a drink. "Where's Joan?" Elvis wanted to know. I told him she was taking a shower. "Well, tell her to get her wet ass out here," Elvis ordered. He was having a great time. I ran to the bathroom and told Joan that Elvis and Priscilla were here and Elvis and that they had found a house for us. She laughed, dismissing it as one of Elvis' jokes. "I don't think so," I said. "He's serious. Get dressed." I went back to the living room where Elvis was sitting with Debbie and Cindy on his lap. I couldn't hear what he was whispering, but they were both giggling in delight. Joan came out in a few moments and hugged Elvis and Priscilla. She told Elvis he was crazy, he laughed and agreed as we headed for the door. We looked at the house they had picked out for us. We were disappointed and tried hard not to let Elvis know. But he could tell. Elvis said to the agent, "Let's go back to the office and see what else you have." The next house was perfect. No one had warned the owners that Elvis Presley was coming, but they were pretty cool, and Elvis signed an autograph for one of the children. The house was perfect. It was freshly painted and we loved it. Three bedrooms, two baths, a big backyard, and a two car garage. Even with Elvis paying the down payment, we couldn't afford the mortgage payments and I told Elvis we'd have to refuse. "Don't worry about it, Joe," he said. "I've got it all figured out. I'll give you a raise, and you'll afford it." Joan and I hugged him, We were at a loss for words. I wrote out a check for a ten thousand dollar down payment, and Elvis signed it. The house cost forty-five thousand dollars, and I wanted to bargain the owners down. Elvis refused, saying that the owners needed the money. * Just as we were preparing to travel to Hawaii to film "Blue Hawaii" in 1961, the Colonel learned of a stalled attempt to build a memorial for the USS Arizona, the battleship that was sunk on December 7, 1941, killing thirteen hundred crew men, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The Colonel came up with the brilliant idea of doing a fund-raising concert. Elvis would do anything for his country. "Man, America is the best country in the world," he was always saying. We arrived at the airport in true Colonel Parker style by an entourage of Hula Dancers, a Hawaiian band hundreds of lei's- the works. The next day we did the concert and raised $67,000.00 a great deal of money in those days for a single concert. Thanks to Elvis and the Colonel, the USS Arizona Memorial is one of the largest tourist attractions in Hawaii. Part of the reason that the show made so much money is that the Colonel made everyone buy their own tickets. Even Elvis had to buy a ticket. * Elvis related to guns and knives like a kid playing the tough guy, If he didn't like a television program, he shot out the set and cracked up. Sometimes he used the glasses lined up at the bar in his suite for target practice. He thought that this was hilarious. Myrna, one of the Sweet Inspirations, said she will never forget a hair-raising spin around Memphis in his little yellow Detomaso Pantera."He was a great driver but I knew he was trying to scare me," she told me. "He thought it was funny." When they finally screeched to a stop in Graceland's driveway, Elvis completed the "shock treatment" by pulling out a gun and shooting the dashboard as he castigated the car for not running right. "He thought that was funny too," Myrna said. * Elvis bought Graceland in 1957 for his parents. Today the beautiful antebellum mansion is shaded by tall graceful trees. When I arrived at Graceland, the seedlings had yet to be planted; it looked quite different. Elvis always loved coming home to Memphis and Graceland. We'd see old friends, we'd catch up on all the movies. We would rent the theater at night, so we'd see the first run pictures. We'd go to the amusement park, rent the park, and bring all our friends there and just do relaxing, crazy things in Memphis. * "One day we were walking down the street in Beverly Hills and I started handing out one-hundred dollar bills to total strangers," Elvis said "No questions. Just hand them the bill. They looked up, recognized us, and in a few moments, a crowd had formed. ...We had to high tail it out of there, but We got a big kick out of their expressions. Elvis was telling me later, Man; you know they were telling their friends and families about that for weeks, maybe months. God, I loved those double takes.!" "My fans expect me to do the things they wish they could do; if they'd had the breaks that I've had," he said. "A lot of my fans have a rough life. They see me as someone who was lifted from poverty and dropped in a world of glamour and excitement. My job is to share that glamour and excitement with them. When I'm onstage, I want to create excitement. I want each person to feel I'm performing for him or her, even when I'm off-stage, the show goes on. The clothes I wear, the cars I drive, my style of living- they're all part of what my fans expect of me." "Most people get kicked around in life," he continued. "They just don't get the breaks. I love the idea of overwhelming a total stranger with a gift like a new car, just because they happened to be nearby. It's an incredible kick. No drug can get you as high. It's the same thing I feel when I'm onstage and every eye is on me. I'm giving it all I've got and they're loving every move, every sound. Man, there's nothing better!" * The first few years I worked for Elvis, things went amazingly smooth. Elvis seemed to appreciate the way I handled his business. But in August of 1964, we had our first argument. On our way back from completing "Girl Happy" for MGM, we stopped over in Amarillo, Texas, and I called the Colonel to let him know where we were. We slept all day, and when we awoke that evening, there were thousands of fans around the motel. A local radio station had announced Elvis' presence and Elvis was steamed. The only way they could have known was if the Colonel had tipped them off. But Elvis blamed me for having called the Colonel. He knew that I always called the Colonel and checked in with him so that he could find us in an emergency, but he chose to ignore that fact and jumped all over me. I was just as angry, and quit on the spot. I left the room, packed my bags and put them in the car. Elvis drove the bus to Memphis and I drove the car. When I reached Memphis, I checked into the Howard Johnson's down the street from Graceland, and stayed an extra day hoping that Elvis would want to talk. But he didn't. Elvis never, ever admitted he was wrong. At least I never saw him make an open admission. He preferred to find another way to make things right- usually with a spectacular gift- without admitting his error. I flew back to LA and called everyone in Hollywood I knew. I did extra work in several films and television shows, and those four months were probably the closest I ever came to being a real husband and father. At Christmas, Elvis sent me a small check as a present, and I called to thank him. "What are you doing? Elvis finally asked. "Extra work," I said, I swallowed my pride. "Do you think you could use me in the same job?" "Sure," Elvis said. "No problem." When I returned to Graceland, I must admit, I was glad to see Elvis. I know he was happy to see me too, but he never said it. He liked everybody to think they were expendable. That, too, he probably learned from the Colonel * Gambling- Story told by Cindy Esposito When Elvis played in Las Vegas, the "girls" (my mom, Priscilla, my sister-Debbie , Lisa and I) got to come and visit. When we arrived the first thing we would see at the Hilton was hundreds of slot machines. But, children are not allowed in the casinos and this rule is seriously enforced. What could be more appealing to a child than lit up machines with spinning wheels, bells and money flowing from them. It was always really lame that we practically had to run through the casino's. Well, since Elvis couldn't hang out in the casino's a lot and he always had a lot of people around, the hotel would bring some slot machines up to his suite. They did this for all the celebrities, probably in hopes that they would win back some of the money they were paying them, haha! Since we were in our own room, there was nobody to say that the kids couldn't play. My dad would get roles of nickels, dimes and quarters, we would pull up 3 big bar stool and fight over who got to play first. There were 2 machines and 3 kids. It kept us occupied for a while, at least until we lost all of the money. But we had a really great time. * One time when we were in Las Vegas, I received a showroom menu in an envelope that was stuck in with the mail, with a death threat written on it. We called in the FBI. They took the envelope and the menu and checked it for fingerprints. The FBI suggested that Elvis cancel the show for a few days until they could investigate further. Elvis would not even consider it. He said: "I'm not canceling the show for that no-good bastard. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of stopping me!" Then he turned to me and said "Joe, call Ed Parker, Jerry Schilling in Los Angeles and Red West in Memphis, and tell them I need them here." Elvis was angry and getting more so by the minute. He kept asking, "What could I have done that someone would want to kill me? I try to make people happy with my music!" * Elvis understood that problems with scripts couldn’t be resolved by consulting the director or rehearsing with his co-stars. He was usually one of the best actors in the movie, with the notable exception of King Creole. Supported by such fine actors as Walter Matthau and Jan Shepard, and directed by Michael Curtiz, Elvis’s acting in that movie was nuanced and subtle. He had a great respect for Curtiz, who was almost as famous for his cruelty to actors as he was for the brilliance of his direction. Curtiz was furious when he learned he had to work with Elvis, by the time the movie was completed, Curtiz had nothing but compliments for him. The last day of shooting, Elvis approached Curtiz. “Mr. Curtiz, now I know what it’s like to work with a great director,” he said. Elvis also like Norman Taurog, the seasoned Hollywood veteran who had won an Academy Award in 1931 for Skippy, starring Jackie Cooper, and directed G.I. Blues and nine other Elvis vehicles. Elvis and Taurog became very close, and after Taurog retired, Elvis stopped by his house from time to time to visit. In 1969, home on Hillcrest Drive in Beverly hills, while the guys followed in one of Elvis’s Cadillacs. We all approached the front door together and Elvis rang the doorbell. “Elvis, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Taurog asked in surprise. Normally, he called before a visit. “We came by to show Mr. Taurog a new car I just bought,” Elvis insisted. Elvis always addressed elders and people in positions of authority as “Mr.” “Come on in,” Mrs. Taurog invited. “Well, it’s better if both of you come outside,” he demurred. She went back into the house and brought out her husband. “Elvis, it’s good to see you and the boys,” Taurog enthused. “It’s nice to know I’m still remembered in this town.” Elvis gave him a big hug. “I won’t ever forget you,” he said. Then Elvis walked Taurog to where he’d parked the brand-new burgundy-and-black Cadillac. “Well, what do you think of my new car?” Elvis asked. Taurog said it was beautiful. “Sit in the driver seat,” Elvis invited him. After Taurog was comfortably settled, Elvis reached into his pocket and handed him the keys. “It’s yours,” Elvis said. “Just a little something for helping me through those movies. I know it was just as hard for you to make those pictures as it was for me.” The articulate director was at a loss for words. He got out of the car and hugged Elvis with tears in his eyes. * In January 1968, the Colonel hit on the idea of doing a televised Christmas special. “Let’s do it!” Elvis agreed happily. The Colonel negotiated a package deal with NBC for the show and another movie, Change of Habit. Work on “Elvis,” the comeback special, started that June. The Colonel proposed a Christmas show for Elvis’s comeback in order to establish a precedent for an annual television event. But NBC wanted a one-time special that would showcase Elvis as the archetypal guitar man and reprise the highlights of his career. The Colonel was adamant, so the director, Steve Binder, went behind his back to Elvis. At first, Elvis was apprehensive about Steve and the others. They were strangers, telling him what to do. But gradually they won him over to their idea. The Colonel was furious. He confronted Binder, and long, heated discussions ensued between the Colonel, NBC, and RCA. In the end, Binder’s concept prevailed. “Who do you want for Elvis’s guest stars?” the network asked the Colonel. “No one,” he replied. “Elvis is the star.” The Colonel didn’t have to consult Elvis to know he didn’t want to share the spotlight that night. The network wanted Elvis to done a white engineer’s coat and do a commercial for the sponsor, Singer Sewing Machines. “ Well, let me talk to Elvis about it,” the Colonel said. He didn’t even bother mentioning the commercial to Elvis. Two days later, NBC approached the Colonel again. “We have to know,” they urged. “Okay,” the Colonel improvised. “Well do th