KILL ME TENDER

Poor Elvis. First he was an unflattering postage stamp, now an unconvincing sleuth. With nothing much to do at Graceland except fend off the sycophants and down high-calorie breakfasts, the King decides to pay a condolence call when a young fan club member surprisingly succumbs to cardiac arrest. He's soon singing gospel on her church steps and being untrue to his intended, Miss Priscilla, with Miss Selma, a real fine black lady. Then two more fans die, a high-school gal pal now writing a tell-all book about Elvis follows, and all these deaths start to look suspicious. Could an Elvis impersonator be responsible—or a member of the King's inner circle? And who's taunting Elvis on those 45s delivered to Graceland? Elvis skips a recording session to investigate, consults a New York lesbian psychiatrist about possible motives (yeah, right), then learns about an instantaneously acting exotic poison from Miss Selma's boss, a medic treating po' black folk. He also runs afoul of a southern sheriff and manfully locks horns with many more cholesterol nightmares before he confronts the demented murderer in a scene as unlikely as his being named a spokesperson for the Vatican, or for Slim-Fast.

More clichés than a hound dog has fleas. Klein, coauthor of Where's Elvis? (1998), hits every wrong note, from bad dialogue to unfunny farce. Skip the book; play the records.