{"product_id":"little-elvises-isbn-9781616952792","title":"Little Elvises","description":"\u003cb\u003eJUNIOR BENDER UNTANGLES ONE OF THE WEIRDEST MYSTERIES IN TINSELTOWN\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e LA burglar Junior Bender has (unfortunately) developed a reputation as a competent private investigator for crooks. The unfortunate part about this is that regardless of whether he solves the crime or not, someone dangerous is going to be unhappy with him, either his suspect or his employer.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now Junior is being bullied into proving aging music industry mogul Vinnie DiGaudio is innocent of the murder of a nasty tabloid journalist he'd threatened to kill a couple times. It doesn’t help that the dead journalist’s widow is one pretty lady, and she’s trying to get Junior to mix pleasure with business. Just as the investigation is spiraling out of control, Junior's hard-drinking landlady begs him to solve the disappearance of her daughter, who got involved with a very questionable character. And, worst news of all, both Junior's ex-wife and his thirteen-year-old daughter, Rina, seem to have new boyfriends. What a mess.\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLittle Elvises\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Splendidly entertaining.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR Great Reads of 2013 Selection\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Could not stop  laughing.  Tim Hallinan is sharp as a blade, has a wicked eye for human  nature and keeps the reader guessing and rooting for Junior Bender all  the way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Helen Simonson, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMajor Pettigrew's Last Stand\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hallinan  introduces us to a drugged-out, pain-impervious hit man, a nonagenarian  puppet master who rules the L.A. underworld, a tabloid reporter who  uses his job as a cover to blackmail the rich and the famous, and a host  of other characters as dangerously outrageous as the murderous crew  obsessed with obtaining the black bird in Hammett's 1930 masterpiece.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eAssociated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Every  now and then a writer comes along with the imagination and skill to  make the whole thing feel fresh and new again. That's what veteran crime  novelist Timothy Hallinan has accomplished.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The first book in the series, 'Crashed' (2012), was great fun. The new one, 'Little Elvises,' is even better.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An intricate high-stakes plot [and] a compelling subplot.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMiami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Heart-pounding.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSalon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As the story opens, Junior is in a fix, or rather, a bunch of them...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHuffington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Featuring Junior Bender, full-time Los Angeles burglar and part-time private eye-style fixer for the city's criminal element.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSeattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"For decades I've been looking to scratch my Fletch itch, and \u003ci\u003eCrashed \u003c\/i\u003egave me hope -- it’s a well-written mystery with a smart, funny protagonist. I cracked open this sequel both hopeful that it would be as good and scared that I'd be let down. It didn't... Throw out everything you think you know about genre writing. Every word in this book belongs exactly where you find it.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Bill Barnes, \u003ci\u003eUnshelved\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If  Carl Hiaasen and Donald Westlake had a literary love child, he would be  Timothy Hallinan. The Edgar nominee's laugh-out-loud new crime series  featuring Hollywood burglar-turned-private eye Junior Bender has  breakout written all over it... A must-read.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Julia Spencer-Fleming, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eOne Was a Soldier\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rewarding.... Captures the SoCal milieu perfectly and impeccably.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003cb\u003eSeattle Post-Intelligencer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hugely,splendidly  entertaining... Full of delightful characters, and dialogue that  provides at least one good laugh on every page, the book is so hard to  put down you’ll swear it’s been glued to your hands.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, STARRED Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hallinan’s  characters and dialog are top-notch, with a lively plot full of witty  banter and comic scenes that will keep readers laughing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eLittle Elvises\u003c\/i\u003e begs comparison to Tom Doresey or Carl Hiaasen novels: It's quirky and hip, and often laugh-out-loud funny.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e, TOP PICK\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One  thing that immediately hits you about Timothy Hallinan’s writing is the  clarity and snap of his prose. Junior Bender isn’t a gumshoe, but the  cadence of his voice and his observations harken back to other great  detectives who were expert at landing a crucial, devastating remark, as  well as using their fists or a pistol. It’s a cliché, of course, to  bring up Raymond Chandler’s Marlowe, but the similarities are  nevertheless present in fitting ways.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Derek Hill, \u003ci\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A nifty plot...[that] takes a surprising and satisfying twist in the final chapters.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tzer Island\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for the Junior Bender Series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Junior  Bender is today’s Los Angeles as Raymond Chandler might have written  it. Tim [Hallinan] is a master at tossing out the kind of hard-boiled  lines that I wish I thought of first.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Bruce DeSilva, Macavity \u0026amp; Edgar Award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eRogue Island\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Timothy Hallinan's \u003ci\u003eThe Fame Thief\u003c\/i\u003e has everything I've come to expect in a Hallinan novel: indelible,  complex characters, fantastic plot, and moments of hold-your-breath  suspense.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Charlaine Harris, author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling Sookie Stackhouse series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Loved loved loved \u003ci\u003eCrashed\u003c\/i\u003e, Tim Hallinan's first Junior Bender  mystery.  Great narrative voice, complex plot, 3-D characters.  Hallinan’s deft comic tone and colorful characters \u003cbr\u003ehave earned him comparisons to Donald Westlake and Carl Hiassen. Check it out now.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Nancy Pearl\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Timothy  Hallinan’s affable antihero, an accomplished thief but inept sleuth  named Junior Bender, makes a terrific first impression in \u003ci\u003eCrashed\u003cb\u003e.... \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eBender’s quick wit and smart mouth make him a boon companion on this oddball adventure.\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This  is Hallinan at the top of his game. It's laugh-out-loud funny without  ever losing any of its mystery. It’s a whole new style and I love it.  Junior Bender—a crook with a heart of gold—is one of Hallinan's most  appealing heroes, rich with invention, and brimming with classic wit. I  can’t recommend it highly enough.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Shadoe Stevens, Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is one of those books you long for, wait for, and find once or twice a year\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Beth Kanell, proprietor of Kingdom Books, Vermont\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Timothy  Hallinan does everything a writer should do whose goal is to keep a  reader entertained from the first sentence to the last.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tzer Island\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The  writing is intelligent, relaxed, and fun to read. Crashed is a  pleasurable outing, without the personal risk, to the criminal  underbelly of Los Angeles, where moral ambiguity fills the air.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Read Me Deadly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If  you're in the mood for a mystery that's just plain fun, this is the one  for you... Timothy Hallinan knows how to write a smart aleck main  character who has his own set of morals and a heart of gold.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kittling Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for Timothy Hallinan\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Hallinan has a genuine ability to write effective prose, engaging repartee, sharp and witty characterizations.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hallinan is a stunning talent.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Gregg Hurwitz, author of \u003ci\u003eThey're Watching\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eTimothy Hallinan\u003c\/b\u003e has been nominated for the Edgar, Nero, Shamus, and Macavity awards. He is the author of twenty widely praised books, including \u003ci\u003eThe Fear Artist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFor the Dead\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Hot Countries\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eCrashed\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLittle Elvises\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Fame Thief\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHerbie’s Game\u003c\/i\u003e (which won the Lefty Award for Best Humorous Mystery), \u003ci\u003eKing Maybe\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFields Where They Lay\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eFools’ River\u003c\/i\u003e. After years of working in the television and music industries, he now writes full-time. He has homes in California and Thailand.\u003c\/p\u003eThe month’s motel was Marge ’n Ed’s North Pole at the north\u003cbr\u003eend of North Hollywood. The advantage of staying at the North\u003cbr\u003ePole was that even the small number of people who knew I’d\u003cbr\u003elived in motels since my divorce from Kathy would never figure\u003cbr\u003eI’d stoop that low. The disadvantage of staying at the North Pole\u003cbr\u003ewas everything else.\u003cbr\u003eGenerally speaking, motels have little to recommend them,\u003cbr\u003eand the North Pole had less than most. But they made me a moving\u003cbr\u003etarget, and I could more or less control the extent to which\u003cbr\u003eanyone knew where I was at any given time. I’d been divorced\u003cbr\u003ealmost three years, and the North Pole was my 34th motel, and\u003cbr\u003efar and away the worst of the bunch.\u003cbr\u003eI’d been put into Blitzen. In an explosion of creativity, Marge\u003cbr\u003e’n Ed had decided not to number the rooms. Since Clement\u003cbr\u003eMoore only named so many reindeer in “The Night Before\u003cbr\u003eChristmas,” Marge ’n Ed had pressed Rudolph into service and\u003cbr\u003ethen come up with some names on their own. Thus, in addition\u003cbr\u003eto the reindeer we all know and love, we had rooms named\u003cbr\u003eDydie, Witzel, Tinkie, and Doris.\u003cbr\u003eDoris wasn’t actually being passed off as a reindeer. She was\u003cbr\u003eMarge ’n Ed’s daughter. Marge, who grew confidential as the\u003cbr\u003eevenings wore on and the level in the vodka bottle dropped, had\u003cbr\u003etold me one night that Doris had fled the North Pole with someone\u003cbr\u003eMarge referred to as \u003ci\u003eMr. Pinkie Ring\u003c\/i\u003e, a pinkie ring being, in\u003cbr\u003eMarge’s cosmology, the surest sign of a cad. And sure enough,\u003cbr\u003ethe cad had broken Doris’s heart, but would she come home?\u003cbr\u003eNot Doris. Stubborn as her father, by whom I assumed Marge\u003cbr\u003emeant Ed, whom I always thought of as \u003ci\u003e’n Ed. \u003c\/i\u003eEd was no longer\u003cbr\u003ewith us, having departed this vale of sorrows six years earlier. It\u003cbr\u003ewas probably either that or somehow orchestrate a global ban\u003cbr\u003eon vodka, and death undoubtedly looked easier.\u003cbr\u003eThe string of Christmas lights that outlined the perimeter of\u003cbr\u003eBlitzen’s front window blinked at me in no discernible sequence,\u003cbr\u003eand I’d been trying to discern one for days. They sprang to life\u003cbr\u003ewhenever anyone turned on the ceiling light, which was the only\u003cbr\u003elight in the room. I’d tried to pull the cord from the outlet, but\u003cbr\u003eMarge ’n Ed had glued it in place.\u003cbr\u003e“YouTube-dot-com,” Rina said on the phone. “Y-O-U-Tube,\u003cbr\u003espelled like \u003ci\u003etube\u003c\/i\u003e. Aren’t you there yet?”\u003cbr\u003eSomething unpleasant happens even to the most agreeable of\u003cbr\u003eadolescents when they talk to adults about technology. A certain\u003cbr\u003ekind of grit comes into their voices, as though they’re expecting\u003cbr\u003eto meet an impenetrable wall of stupidity and might have\u003cbr\u003eto sand their way through it. Rina, who still, so far as I knew,\u003cbr\u003eadmired at least one or two aspects of my character, was no\u003cbr\u003eexception. She sounded like her teeth had been wired together.\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,” I said, hearing myself echo her tone. “I’ve managed\u003cbr\u003esomehow to enter the wonderland of video detritus and I await\u003cbr\u003eonly the magical search term that will let me sift the chaff.”\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDad\u003c\/i\u003e. Do you want help, or not?”\u003cbr\u003e“I do,” I said, “but not in a tone of voice that says \u003ci\u003eI’d better\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003etalk really slowly or he’ll get his thumb stuck in his nostril\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eagain.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e“Do I sound like that?”\u003cbr\u003e“A little.”\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry. Okay, the interview is called ‘Vincent DiGaudio\u003cbr\u003eInterview.’ Have you got that?”\u003cbr\u003e“Slow down,” I said. “Did you just ask me whether I can\u003cbr\u003efollow the idea that the Vincent DiGaudio Interview is called\u003cbr\u003e‘Vincent DiGaudio Interview’?”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh.” She made a clucking noise I’ve never been able to\u003cbr\u003eduplicate. “Sorry again.”\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe I’m being touchy,” I said. “Thanks. Anything else?”\u003cbr\u003e“Not on video. I’ll email you the links to the other stuff, the\u003cbr\u003ewritten stuff. There’s not much of it. He doesn’t seem to have\u003cbr\u003ewanted much publicity.”\u003cbr\u003e“Wonder why,” I said. I figured there was no point in telling\u003cbr\u003eher I was going to be getting involved with a mob guy. She might\u003cbr\u003eworry.\u003cbr\u003eShe said, “But the FBI files are kind of interesting.”\u003cbr\u003e“Excuse me?”\u003cbr\u003e“Somebody used the Freedom of Information Act,” said my\u003cbr\u003ethirteen-year-old daughter, “to file for release of a stack of FBI\u003cbr\u003efiles on the outfit’s influence in the Philadelphia music scene. Since\u003cbr\u003eDiGaudio’s still alive and since he never got charged, his name is\u003cbr\u003eblacked out, but it’s easy to tell it’s him because a lot of the memos\u003cbr\u003eare about Giorgio. The files are on the FBI’s site, but I’ll send you\u003cbr\u003ethe link so you don’t have to waste time poking around.”\u003cbr\u003e“The FBI site?” I said. “Giorgio?”\u003cbr\u003e“Wake up, Dad. Everything’s online.”\u003cbr\u003eWas I, a career criminal, going to log onto \u003ci\u003ethe FBI site?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s Giorgio?”\u003cbr\u003e“The most pathetic of DiGaudio’s little Elvises. Really pretty,\u003cbr\u003eI mean fruit-salad pretty, but he couldn’t do \u003ci\u003eanything\u003c\/i\u003e. Tone deaf.\u003cbr\u003eHe stood on the stage like his feet were nailed to the floor. But\u003cbr\u003ereally, really pretty.”\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t remember him in the paper you wrote.” I was taking\u003cbr\u003ea chance here, because I hadn’t actually read all of it.\u003cbr\u003e“I didn’t talk about him much. He was so awful that he kind\u003cbr\u003eof stood alone. He wasn’t an imitation anything, really. He was\u003cbr\u003ean original void.”\u003cbr\u003e“But pretty.”\u003cbr\u003e“Yum yum yum.”\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll check it out.”\u003cbr\u003e“You can look at Giorgio on YouTube, too,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e“Although you might want to turn the volume way, way down.”\u003cbr\u003e“Let me guess,” I said. “It’s under ‘Giorgio.’”\u003cbr\u003e“Try ‘Giorgio Lucky Star.’ That was the name of his first hit.\u003cbr\u003e‘Lucky Star,’ I mean. Little irony there, huh? If there was ever a\u003cbr\u003elucky star, it was Giorgio. If it hadn’t been for Elvis, he’d have\u003cbr\u003ebeen delivering mail. Not that it did him much good in the long\u003cbr\u003erun, poor kid. Anyway, search for ‘Giorgio Lucky Star.’ Otherwise\u003cbr\u003eyou’re going to spend the whole evening looking at Giorgio\u003cbr\u003eArmani.”\u003cbr\u003e“Is your mom around?”\u003cbr\u003eA pause I’d have probably missed if I weren’t her father.\u003cbr\u003e“Um, out with Bill.”\u003cbr\u003e“Remember what I told you,” I said. “Whatever you do,\u003cbr\u003edon’t laugh at Bill’s nose.”\u003cbr\u003e“There’s nothing wrong with Bill’s nose.”\u003cbr\u003e“Just, whatever happens, next time you see Bill’s nose, don’t\u003cbr\u003elaugh at it.”\u003cbr\u003e“Daddy,” she said. “You’re terrible.” She made a kiss noise\u003cbr\u003eand hung up.\u003cbr\u003eIt was okay that I was terrible. She only called me Daddy\u003cbr\u003ewhen she liked me.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve had more opportunity than most people to do things I’d\u003cbr\u003eregret later, and I’ve taken advantage of a great many of those\u003cbr\u003eopportunities. But there was nothing I regretted more than not\u003cbr\u003ebeing able to live in the same house as my daughter.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eI’d wanted to \u003c\/b\u003estay in Donder, but it was taken.\u003cbr\u003e“Donder” is a convincing name for a reindeer. “Blitzen”\u003cbr\u003esounds to me like the name of some Danish Nazi collaborator,\u003cbr\u003esomeone who committed high treason in deep snow. But Donder\u003cbr\u003ewas occupied, so I was stuck with either Blitzen or Dydie. I\u003cbr\u003echose Blitzen because it was on the second floor, which I prefer,\u003cbr\u003eand it had a connecting door with Prancer, which was unoccupied,\u003cbr\u003eso I could rent them both but leave the light off in one of\u003cbr\u003ethem, giving me a second room to duck into in an emergency, a\u003cbr\u003econfiguration I insist on. This little escape hatch that has probably\u003cbr\u003esaved me from a couple of broken legs, broken legs being a\u003cbr\u003estandard method of getting someone’s attention in the world of\u003cbr\u003elow-IQ crime. And as much as I didn’t like the name “Blitzen,”\u003cbr\u003ethere was no way I was going to stay in Prancer. It would affect\u003cbr\u003ethe way I thought about myself.\u003cbr\u003eBlitzen was a small, airless rectangle with dusty tinsel\u003cbr\u003efringing the tops of the doors, cut-outs of snowflakes dangling\u003cbr\u003efrom the ceiling, and fluffs of cotton glued to the top of\u003cbr\u003ethe medicine cabinet. A pyramid of glass Christmas-tree ornaments\u003cbr\u003ehad been glued together, and then the whole assemblage\u003cbr\u003ehad been glued to a red-and-green platter, which in turn\u003cbr\u003ehad been glued to the top of the dresser. Marge ’n Ed went\u003cbr\u003ethrough a lot of glue. The carpet had been a snowy white\u003cbr\u003efifteen or twenty years ago, but was now the precise color\u003cbr\u003eof guilt, a brownish gray like a dusty spiderweb, interrupted\u003cbr\u003ehere and there by horrific blotches of darkness, as though\u003cbr\u003ealiens with pitch in their veins had bled out on it. The first\u003cbr\u003etime I saw it, it struck me as a perfect picture of a guilty conscience\u003cbr\u003eat 3 a.m.: you’re floating along in a sort of pasteurized\u003cbr\u003ecolorlessness, and \u003ci\u003ewham\u003c\/i\u003e, here comes a black spot that has\u003cbr\u003eyou bolt upright and sweating in the dark.\u003cbr\u003eI have a nodding acquaintance with guilty consciences.\u003cbr\u003eWhen Andy Warhol predicted that everyone in the future\u003cbr\u003ewould be famous for fifteen minutes, he was probably thinking\u003cbr\u003eabout something like YouTube. What a concept: hundreds of\u003cbr\u003ethousands of deservedly anonymous people made shaky, blurry\u003cbr\u003evideotapes of their pets and their feet and each other lip-synching\u003cbr\u003eto horrible music, and somebody bought it for a trillion dollars.\u003cbr\u003eBut then all this idea-free content developed a kind of mass that\u003cbr\u003eattracted a million or so clips that actually \u003ci\u003ehad \u003c\/i\u003esome interest\u003cbr\u003evalue, especially to those of us who occasionally like to lift a corner\u003cbr\u003eof the social fabric and peer beneath it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eVincent DiGaudio Interview \u003c\/i\u003epopped onto my screen in the\u003cbr\u003eoddly saturated color, heavy toward the carrot end of the spectrum,\u003cbr\u003ethat identifies TV film from the seventies. Since I was going\u003cbr\u003eto meet DiGaudio in about forty minutes, I took a good look at\u003cbr\u003ehim. In 1975, he’d been a beefy, ethnic-looking guy with a couple\u003cbr\u003eof chins and a third on the way, and a plump little mouth that he\u003cbr\u003ekept pursing as though he had Tourette’s Syndrome and was fighting\u003cbr\u003ean outbreak of profanity. His eyes were the most interesting\u003cbr\u003ethings in his face. They were long, with heavy, almost immobile\u003cbr\u003elids that sloped down toward the outer corners at about a thirtydegree\u003cbr\u003eangle, the angle of a roof. His gaze bounced nervously\u003cbr\u003ebetween the interviewer and the camera lens.\u003cbr\u003eVincent DiGaudio had a liar’s eyes.\u003cbr\u003eAs the clip began, the camera was on the interviewer, a famished\u003cbr\u003ewoman with a tangerine-colored face, blond hair bobbed\u003cbr\u003eso brutally it looked like it had been cut with a broken bottle,\u003cbr\u003eand so much gold hanging around her neck she wouldn’t have\u003cbr\u003efloated in the Great Salt Lake. “. . . define your talent?” she was\u003cbr\u003esaying when the editor cut in.\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t know if it was a talent,” DiGaudio said, and then\u003cbr\u003esmiled in a way that suggested that it was, indeed, a talent, and\u003cbr\u003ehe was a deeply modest man. “I seen a vacuum, that’s all. I\u003cbr\u003ealways think that’s the main thing, seeing in between the stuff\u003cbr\u003ethat’s already there, like it’s a dotted line, and figuring out what\u003cbr\u003ecould fill in the blanks, you know?” He held his hands up, about\u003cbr\u003etwo feet apart, presumably indicating a blank. “So you had Elvis\u003cbr\u003eand the other one, uh, Jerry Lee Lewis, and then you had Little\u003cbr\u003eRichard, and they were all like on one end, you know? Too raw,\u003cbr\u003etoo downtown for nice kids. And then you had over on the other\u003cbr\u003eend, you had Pat Boone, and he was like Mr. Good Tooth, you\u003cbr\u003eknow, like in a kids’ dental hygiene movie, there’s always this\u003cbr\u003etooth that’s so white you gotta squint at it. So he was way over\u003cbr\u003ethere. And in the middle, I seen a lot of room for kids who were\u003cbr\u003ehandsome like Elvis but not so, you know, so . . .”\u003cbr\u003e“Talented?” the interviewer asked.\u003cbr\u003e“That’s funny,” DiGaudio said solemnly. “Not so dangerous.\u003cbr\u003eGood-looking kids, but kids the girls could take home to meet\u003cbr\u003eMom. Kids who look like they went to church.”\u003cbr\u003e“Elvis went to church,” the interviewer said.\u003cbr\u003eDiGaudio’s smile this time made the interviewer sit back a\u003cbr\u003ecouple of inches. “My kids went to a \u003ci\u003ewhite \u003c\/i\u003echurch. Probably\u003cbr\u003eCatholic, since they were all Italian, but, you know, might have\u003cbr\u003ebeen some Episcopalians in there. And they didn’t sing about a\u003cbr\u003eman on a fuzzy tree or all that shorthand about getting—can I\u003cbr\u003esay getting laid?”\u003cbr\u003e“You just did.”\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, well that. My kids sang about first kisses and lucky\u003cbr\u003estars, and if they sang about a sweater it was a sweater with a\u003cbr\u003ehigh school letter on it, not a sweater stretched over a big pair\u003cbr\u003eof—of—inappropriate body parts.” He sat back and let his right\u003cbr\u003eknee jiggle up and down, body language that suggested he’d\u003cbr\u003e16 timothy hallinan\u003cbr\u003erather be anywhere else in the world. “It’s all in the book,” he\u003cbr\u003esaid. “My book. Remember my book?”\u003cbr\u003e“Of course.” The interviewer held it up for the camera. “\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePhilly Miracle\u003c\/i\u003e,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e“And the rest of it?” Di Gaudio demanded.\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry. \u003ci\u003eThe Philly Miracle: How Vincent DiGaudio Reinvented\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eRock and Roll.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e“Bet your ass,” DiGaudio said. “Whoops.”\u003cbr\u003e“So your—your \u003ci\u003ediscoveries\u003c\/i\u003e—were sort of Elvis with mayo?”\u003cbr\u003e“We’re not getting along much, are we? My kids weren’t animals.\u003cbr\u003eI mean lookit what Elvis was doing on the stage. All that\u003cbr\u003estuff with his, you know, his—getting the little girls all crazy.”\u003cbr\u003eThe interviewer shook her head. “They screamed for your\u003cbr\u003eboys, too.”\u003cbr\u003eHe made her wait a second while he stared at her. “And? I\u003cbr\u003emean, what’s your point? Girls been screaming and fainting at\u003cbr\u003esingers since forever. But you knew if a girl fainted around one\u003cbr\u003eof my kids he wouldn’t take advantage of it. He’d just keep singing,\u003cbr\u003eor maybe get first aid or something.”\u003cbr\u003eShe rapped her knuckles on the book’s cover. “There were a\u003cbr\u003elot of them, weren’t there?”\u003cbr\u003eDiGaudio’s face darkened. “Lot of what?”\u003cbr\u003e“Your kids, your singers. Some people called it the production\u003cbr\u003eline.”\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, well, some people can bite me. People who talk like\u003cbr\u003ethat, they don’t know, they don’t know kids. These were \u003ci\u003ecrushes\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003cbr\u003enot love affairs. The girls weren’t going to marry my guys, they\u003cbr\u003ewere going to buy magazines with their pictures on the front and\u003cbr\u003ewrite the guys’ names all over everything, and fifteen minutes later\u003cbr\u003ethey were going to get a crush on the next one. So there had to\u003cbr\u003ebe a next one. Like junior high, but with better looking boys. Girl\u003cbr\u003ethat age, she’s a crush machine, or at least they were back then.\u003cbr\u003eThese days, who knows? Not much innocence around now, but\u003cbr\u003ethat’s what my kids were. They were innocence. They were, like,\u003cbr\u003edreams. They were never gonna knock the girls up, or marry them\u003cbr\u003eand drink too much and kick them around, or turn out to be as\u003cbr\u003egay as a lamb chop, or anything like guys do in real life. They\u003cbr\u003ewere dreams, you know? They came out, they looked great, they\u003cbr\u003esang for two and a half minutes, and then they went away.”\u003cbr\u003e“And they did go away. Most of them vanished without a\u003cbr\u003etrace. Are you still in touch with any of them?”\u003cbr\u003eIt didn’t seem like a rough question, but DiGaudio’s eyes\u003cbr\u003ebounced all over the room. He filled his cheeks with air and\u003cbr\u003eblew it out in an exasperated puff. “That ain’t true. Some of\u003cbr\u003ethem, they’re still working. Frankie does lounges in Vegas. Eddie\u003cbr\u003eand Fabio, they tour all over the place with a pickup band, call\u003cbr\u003ethemselves Faces of the Fifties or something like that. They’re\u003cbr\u003earound, some of them.”\u003cbr\u003e“And Bobby? Bobby Angel?”\u003cbr\u003e“Nobody knows what happened to Bobby. Somebody must\u003cbr\u003eof told you that, even if you didn’t bother to read the book.\u003cbr\u003eBobby disappeared.”\u003cbr\u003e“Do you ever think about Giorgio?”\u003cbr\u003eThe fat little mouth pulled in until it was as round as a carnation.\u003cbr\u003e“Giorgio,” he finally said. He sounded like he wanted to\u003cbr\u003espit. “Giorgio was different. He didn’t like it, you know? Even\u003cbr\u003ewhen he was a big star. Didn’t think he belonged up there.”\u003cbr\u003e“A lot of people agreed with him.”\u003cbr\u003eDiGaudio leaned forward. “What is this, the Cheap Shot\u003cbr\u003eHour? Even somebody like you, after what happened to that\u003cbr\u003epoor kid, even someone like you ought to think a couple times\u003cbr\u003ebefore piling on. Who are you, anyway? Some local talent on a\u003cbr\u003eTV station in some two-gas-station market. I mean, look at this\u003cbr\u003eset, looks like a bunch of second graders colored it—”\u003cbr\u003e“This is obviously a touchy topic for—”\u003cbr\u003e“You know, I came on this show to talk about a book, to tell\u003cbr\u003ea story about music and Philadelphia, about when your audience\u003cbr\u003ewas young, about a different kind of time, and what do\u003cbr\u003eI get? Miss Snide of 1927, with your \u003ci\u003ebleep\u003c\/i\u003eing jack-o’-lantern\u003cbr\u003emakeup and that lawn-mower hair—”\u003cbr\u003e“So, if I can get an answer, what are your thoughts about\u003cbr\u003eGiorgio?”\u003cbr\u003eDiGaudio reached out and covered the camera lens with his\u003cbr\u003ehand. There were a couple of heavily bleeped remarks, and then\u003cbr\u003ethe screen went to black.\u003cbr\u003e“My, my,” I said. “Touchy guy.” I glanced at my watch.\u003cbr\u003eDiGaudio lived in Studio City, way south of Ventura Boulevard,\u003cbr\u003ein the richest, whitest part of the Valley. I had another thirty-five\u003cbr\u003eminutes, and the trip would only take fifteen. I typed in \u003ci\u003eGiorgio\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLucky Star\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eAnd found myself looking at fifties black-and-white, the\u003cbr\u003efuzzy kinescope that’s all we have of so much early television,\u003cbr\u003ejust a movie camera aimed at a TV screen, the crude archival\u003cbr\u003efootage that the cameraman’s union insisted on. Without that\u003cbr\u003eclause in their contract, almost all the live television of the fifties\u003cbr\u003ewould be radiating out into space, the laugh tracks of the longdead\u003cbr\u003eprovoking slack-jawed amazement among aliens sixty light\u003cbr\u003eyears away, but completely lost here on earth.\u003cbr\u003eEven viewed through pixels the size of thumbtacks, Giorgio\u003cbr\u003ewas a beautiful kid. And Rina was right: he couldn’t do anything.\u003cbr\u003eHe stood there as though he’d been told he’d be shot if\u003cbr\u003ehe moved, and mouthed his way through two minutes of prerecorded\u003cbr\u003eearly sixties crap-rock. Since the face was everything\u003cbr\u003eand he wasn’t doing anything with the rest of himself anyway,\u003cbr\u003ethe cameras pretty much stayed in closeups, just fading from\u003cbr\u003eone shot to another. No matter where they put the camera, he\u003cbr\u003elooked good. He had the same classical beauty as Presley. Like\u003cbr\u003ePresley, if you’d covered his face in white greasepaint and taken\u003cbr\u003ea still closeup, you’d have had a classical statue, a cousin of\u003cbr\u003eMichelangelo’s \u003ci\u003eDavid\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eBut unlike the sculpted David, who stares into his future with\u003cbr\u003ethe calm certainty of someone who knows that God is holding\u003cbr\u003ehis team’s pom-poms on the sidelines, Giorgio had the look you\u003cbr\u003esee in a crooked politician who’s just been asked the one question\u003cbr\u003ehe’d been promised he wouldn’t be asked, in the athlete\u003cbr\u003ewho’s been told he has to take the drug test he knows he’s going\u003cbr\u003eto fail.\u003cbr\u003eGiorgio was terrified.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302207443173,"sku":"NP9781616952792","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616952792.jpg?v=1767731528","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/little-elvises-isbn-9781616952792","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}