“Elvis was found on the floor of his bathroom. He was nude, and yes, it is believed that he slid off his black porcelain toilet.”

“Who found him?” Marino was entranced in an uneasy way.

“A girlfriend who was staying in the adjoining room. Or that’s the story,” I said.

“You mean he walks in there, feels fine, sits down and boom? No warning signs or nothing?”

“All I know is he’d been playing racquetball in the early morning, and seemed fine,” I said.

“You’re kidding.” Marino’s curiosity was insatiable. “Now, I never heard that part. I didn’t know he played racquetball.”

We drove through an industrialized area, with trains and trucks, then past campers for sale. Graceland stood in the midst of cheap motels and stores, and it did not seem so grand given its surroundings. The light gray, stone mansion with its columns was completely out of place, like a joke or a set for a bad movie.

“Holy shit,” Marino said, as he pulled into the parking lot. “Will you look at that. Holy smoke.”

He went on as if it were Buckingham Palace as he parked beside a bus.

“You know, I wish I could’ve known him,” he wistfully said.

“Maybe you would have, had he taken better care of himself.” I opened my door as he lit a cigarette.

For the next two hours, we wandered through gilt and mirrors, shag carpeting and stained-glass peacocks as the voice of Elvis followed us through his world. Hundreds of fans had arrived on buses, and their passion for this man was on their faces as they walked around listening to the tour on cassette. Many of them placed flowers, cards and letters on his grave. Some wept as if they had known him well.

We wandered around his purple and pink Cadillacs, Stutz Blackhawk and museum of other cars. There were his planes and shooting range, and the Hall of Gold, with Grammy showcases of gold and platinum records, and trophies and other awards that amazed even me. The hall was at least eighty feet long. I could not take my eyes off splendid costumes of gold and sequins, and photographs of what was truly an extraordinarily and sensuously beautiful human being. Marino was blatantly gawking, an almost pained expression on his face that reminded me of puppy love as we inched our way through rooms.

“You know, they didn’t want him to move here when he bought this place,” he announced, and we were outside now, the fall afternoon cool and bright. “Some of the snobs in this city never did accept him. I think that hurt him, in a way, might be what got him in the end. You know, why he took painkillers.”

“He took more than that,” I made the point again as we walked.

“If you had been the medical examiner, could you have done his autopsy?” He got out cigarettes.

“Absolutely.”

“And you wouldn’t have covered his face?” He looked indignant as he fired up his lighter.