LAS VEGAS — Elvis drives a temperamental pink Cadillac with no seat belts and unreliable brakes. He’s sweating — a lot — and foundation has spread from his face to the lapels of his white jumpsuit. He is running late for an appearance in a Mexican Independence Day parade. This may be my fault.
That afternoon, Elvis, né Jesse Grice, had obligingly received us at home, wearing only mesh shorts, so that we — Globe photographer Erin Clark and I — could witness his transformation into the King. I apologized for being late. “It’s OK,” he said. “I keep Elvis hours.”
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