El Deora, CA. August 1977 -Part 2 Elvis was dead. Overdose, the tow truck driver had told us while taking us back to the car. Roy pulled the worn cassette of Black and Blue out of the tape machine and scanned the AM band for some news. There was none to be found, but the fact that there was nothing but Elvis songs playing read as clearly as a special edition newspaper headline. Nora sat impassively in the back seat of the big Lincoln while we sweated in the heat, swapping out the blown tire and wrong wheel for the new set. She wasn't going to lift a finger, and no one was going to ask her to. She hadn't so much as shifted her steely gaze when Roy had asked if she might have any tissues in her purse to help stop the blood pouring from Danny's hand. She wouldn't speak a word until that evening at the Whiskey, and it wouldn't be to any of us. . . 77 El Deora Oblique Americana: a verbis ad verbera