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ribs, if I’m not mistaken.”
    â€œWhen they’re done right,” Elvis said reluctantly. He didn’t add that the few times he’d tried ribs in California restaurants they had
tasted more like Swiss steak out of a pressure cooker than the real, smoked thing.
    â€œOne o’clock then. All right, Mr. Presley?”
    â€œI’m looking forward to it,” Elvis said.
    He set down the phone and walked to the window. Out on the lot, an entire battalion of extras in World War I infantry uniforms was ambling by. Several had bloody-looking bandages bound around their heads; one was naked to the waist with a half-dozen simulated bullet holes in his chest; another was on wooden crutches with one pant leg pinned up to the knee. A one-legged man could probably make a decent career as an extra in Hollywood. Like Squirm said, Everybody’s got a God-given, special talent, but it’s only the lucky ones who figure out what it is.
    Elvis took the stairs down to the first floor and was strolling on the lot before he realized that he was still wearing Jodie Tatum’s hillbilly costume and blond wig. Not that it mattered. One good thing about life in this dream factory was that no one took any notice of you whatever you were wearing or not wearing, or whoever you were. It was an unwritten rule on the lot that nobody could approach you for an autograph or a handshake. Actually, the extras and chorus girls and boys seemed to like that rule: for at least a few minutes each day, it put them on equal footing with the stars.
    Elvis figured it for the stunt shack the minute he saw the small building at the far end of the lot. It looked a lot like a moonshine hut back home—no windows, low on one side and high on the other where the still would be—and leaning against the side wall were all manner of weapons: muskets, machine guns, lances, Samurai swords. But the telltale clue was the mini trampoline in front. A rangy, unshaven man in a cowboy shirt, leather vest, dungarees and chaps was bouncing up and down on it in stocking feet, effecting a half turn while drawing two six-guns from hip holsters on every other upward vault. It was a marvel to behold. The man had the easy grace of a dancer, but the weathered face and muscular build of a Green Beret. Elvis watched until the stuntman finished up with an airborne somersault
and landed on his feet, right in front of Elvis, his six-guns pointing straight at him.
    â€œYou’ve got yourself a real talent there,” Elvis said.
    â€œI’ve heard the same about you, Mr. Presley,” the man replied with a sly grin. He holstered both guns and extended his hand. “Name’s Cathcart. Will Cathcart.”
    â€œPleasure to meet you, Will,” Elvis said, shaking his hand.
    â€œPleasures all mine,” Cathcart said. “You just poking around or is there something I can do you for?”
    Up close, Cathcart looked no more than nineteen or twenty. He had only appeared older because his skin had taken a real beating from the sun, but underneath the leathery tan and the stubble was a lingering case of acne that neither could camouflage. He was not a good-looking boy, but it didn’t much matter in his line of work—you were never supposed to see the stuntman’s face.
    â€œJust poking,” Elvis replied. “I’ve never been out this way before. I always wondered where you guys hung out.”
    â€œWant me to show you around?”
    â€œI’d be obliged.”
    Elvis had to stoop to follow the young stuntman through the door into the low end of the shack. Save for the daylight streaming in through the open door, it remained dark as a cellar in there until Cathcart snapped on the overhead lights. The place looked like a toy and sport store gone crazy, every inch of space covered with beach balls, harnesses, lariats, padded vests, padded overalls, Stetson hats, horse whips, snorkeling gear, a staircase that went up