Column One

GETTING THE FULL PICTURE

The king wanted to meet the president. A famous photo was snapped,
and the rest is history. But wait, there's more.

The National Archives is like a safe-deposit box for America's really
important papers -- the Bill of Rights, the Declaration of
Independence, the $7.2-million canceled check for the purchase of
Alaska, the picture of Richard Nixon and Elvis Presley shaking hands
in the Oval Office.

Copies of that photo -- the president in his charcoal suit, the king
of rock 'n' roll in his purple velvet cape -- are requested more than
just about any of the archives' treasures, including the Constitution.

Yet the story that led to their improbable meeting on Dec. 21, 1970,
is as little-known as the picture is famous. In honor of Elvis' 75th
birthday last week, one of the president's men, Egil "Bud" Krogh, and
one of the king's most trusted friends, Jerry Schilling, met for the
first time in almost 40 years at the National Archives to recount the
day Elvis came to Washington. A crowd waited in the frigid cold for a
seat. (Even in the imperious capital, Elvis can still pack a house.)

It wasn't the glitzy birthday party other cities threw, no giant
birthday cards, all-night film festivals or flashy displays of the
white jumpsuit called "Snowflake." An Elvis exhibit at the National
Portrait Gallery is more Washington's speed. As was this forum, which
offered an hourlong window into a simpler time, before Watergate or
terrorist attacks, when the world's most famous man asked the world's
most powerful one to grant him a wish, and got it.

The story begins Dec. 19, 1970, at Schilling's home in the Hollywood
Hills. The phone rings. A voice says, "It's me."

Elvis is at the Dallas airport on his way to Los Angeles and wants
Schilling to pick him up at LAX.

"Who's with you?" Schilling asks.

"Nobody," the king says.

It should be noted that Elvis was a man who almost never did anything
alone. He wanted at least five guys around him just to sit and watch
TV. So Schilling is understandably concerned, all the more so when
Elvis proceeds to recite his flight number and arrival time, which is
akin to the queen doing a load of laundry.

Schilling heads to the airport and takes Elvis to the singer's
mansion on Hillcrest Drive in Beverly Hills. The next morning, it
comes out that Vernon, Elvis' father, and Priscilla, his wife, were
bugging him about how he spent his money. This aggravated the king,
so all by himself he got on the first plane going out, which happened
to be bound for Washington. Things did not go well.

For starters, a "smart aleck little steward" with a mustache
discovers Elvis is carrying a gun -- it was his habit to carry at
least three -- and informs him he cannot bring a firearm on the
airplane. Elvis, unaccustomed to being told what to do, storms off
and is chased down by the pilot: "I'm sorry, Mr. Presley, of course
you can keep your gun." Elvis and his firearm reboard.

Upon arriving in the nation's capital, Elvis decides he wants a
doughnut. While waiting for his order, he encounters some unsavory
types who notice his five big gold rings and three necklaces.

"That's some nice jewelry," one thug says.

"Yeah, and I aim to keep it," says Elvis, raising one leg of his bell
bottoms to reveal a snub-nosed revolver strapped to his right ankle.

At some point, Elvis has enough of this traveling alone stuff and
heads to Los Angeles, intent on returning to Washington with one of
his Memphis Mafia, namely Schilling.

Schilling, who first met Elvis playing football when he was 12, is
accustomed to odd requests from the king. But this one is
particularly weird because Elvis is bent on going to Washington but
won't say why. Still, because "you don't say no to Elvis," Schilling
agrees to go, even though it means missing a day at his new job as an
assistant editor at Paramount, which took him a year to get.

They book two first-class seats, but still need cash, and it's a
Sunday night in 1970. No ATMs. Elvis' limousine driver, Sir Gerald,
arranges for a check to be cashed at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.
Schilling writes one for $500, which Elvis signs. Before they leave
the house,Elvis, a history buff, takes his commemorative World War II
Colt 45 revolver off the wall, bullets included, and stows it in his bag.

They cash the check and head for the airport. A small group of
soldiers on leave from Vietnam for Christmas are on the same flight,
and Elvis wanders back to coach to talk with one of them. Soon he is
back up in first class, nudging Schilling, "Hey man, where's the $500?"

Schilling knows what's coming. Elvis is an unusually generous man.
After learning that Schilling was a year old when his mother died,
Elvis bought him the house in Hollywood so he would "always have a
home." He still lives there today.

OK, so Elvis is on the plane, asking for the $500.

"Elvis, we're going to Washington. That's all we've got," Schilling cautions.

"You don't understand. This man's been in Vietnam," Elvis says, then
heads straight to coach and gives the soldier all their cash.

While he's back there, though, Elvis bumps into George Murphy, a
song-and-dance man turned U.S. senator from California. They chat for
awhile, and Elvis comes back to his seat asking for stationery, which
a stewardess gets him. Elvis, who has written only three letters in
his life, all while stationed with the Army in Germany, sits down to
write the fourth, to the president of the United States.

"Dear Mr. President, First I would like to introduce myself. I am
Elvis Presley."

In five pages, Elvis explains he loves his country and wants to give
something back and, not being "a member of the Establishment,"
believes he could reach some people the president can't if the
president would only make him a federal agent at-large so he can help
fight the war on drugs.

"Sir, I can and will be of any service that I can to help the country
out. . . . I will be here for as long as it takes to get the
credentials of a federal agent. . . . I would love to meet you just
to say hello if you're not to [sic] busy. Respectfully, Elvis Presley."

He asks the president to give him a call at the Washington Hotel,
Room 505, where he will be staying under the alias Jon Burrows (a
part he played in one of his movies). He provides six private numbers
that any one of his fans would have killed for, to his homes in
Beverly Hills, Palm Springs and Memphis, as well as three lines for
his manager, the Colonel.

The plane lands before dawn and they get in a limo Sir George had
arranged before they left, which is a good thing because they have no
money. Elvis wants to personally deliver the letter to the White
House. "I don't think this is such a good idea," Schilling says,
noting the hour.

Next scene: The limo pulls up to the northwest gate. Elvis gets out
and hands his letter to a security guard, who sizes up this guy in a
cape. Schilling, realizing that in the dark Elvis looks a lot like
Dracula, jumps out and explains. The guard agrees to deliver the
letter to the president. Elvis and Schilling retire to the Washington
Hotel to wait.

Early that morning, the letter finds its way to the desk of Dwight
Chapin, special assistant to the president. After a moment of
head-scratching, he decides this meeting has to take place. Nixon had
already tried to enlist Hollywood's help in fighting the war on drugs
by approaching luminaries such as Art Linkletter; Elvis is a definite step up.

So Chapin fires off a memo to Krogh, which Krogh dismisses as a
practical joke. Deciding to play along, he calls the hotel, asks for
Schilling and is impressed that Chapin has found someone to
impersonate an Elvis lackey.

The more they talk, however, the more Krogh realizes this is no joke.
He shoots a memo to White House Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman,
suggesting this could be a real boost for the drug war effort, which
isn't going so well.

"You must be kidding," Haldeman scribbles in the margin before
approving the request. The meeting is on.

Krogh, a big Elvis fan who "never went on a date without him," makes
sure he's in the room. "This is history," he thinks to himself.

White House schedulers find five minutes at 11:45 a.m. for Elvis,
who, on time for once, enters wearing tight purple velvet pants, the
matching cape, a white pointy collared shirt unbuttoned to reveal two
enormous gold chains, and a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island.

At 12:30 p.m., the president meets the king. Elvis is taken by the
eagles on the ceiling, and Krogh has to give him a little steer toward Nixon.

Soon, though, Elvis is pulling out pictures of his wife and baby,
along with photos of assorted police and security badges he has
collected over the years. The allotted five minutes pass, and they're
still going, bonding over their lowly beginnings -- poverty,
challenging childhoods. They commiserate about the burdens of fame,
what a hard gig Vegas is (which, weirdly, Nixon seems to know about).
Elvis offers to help Nixon fight the war on drugs and restore respect
for the flag. Nixon admires Elvis' big cuff links.

Then Elvis asks for what he's been after all along, a big gold badge
to add to his collection, the thing that would make him a federal
agent at-large for the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs. He
had tried to get one from an agency head but was turned down, which
is why he decided to go straight to Nixon.

"Can I be one?" Elvis asks his new friend.

"Well, federal agents at-large -- we just don't have those," Nixon stammers.

"I'll look into it," Krogh promises.

Elvis is crestfallen, visibly wilted under the weight of all that
gold, a man who could have anything -- cars, women, houses -- except
the one thing he wants most.

Nixon takes one look at him and caves.

"Get him the badge."

Elvis is so excited he gives the president a big hug.

"Will you meet my friends?" he asks. Schilling and Sonny West,
another of the Memphis Mafia who somehow showed up at the hotel that
morning, are waiting in an outer office.

"Come on in, you guys," Elvis says cheerfully. He introduces his
rather tall friends to Nixon, who sizes them up, hands on hips, and
says, "You got a couple of big ones here, Elvis." They all pose for pictures.

Then it's time for gifts. Elvis pulls out the commemorative Colt 45
he had taken from his wall and carried into the White House, to the
dismay of the Secret Service. ("We've got a little problem here;
Elvis has brought a gun.") He presents it to Nixon.

The president moves over to a drawer of presents he keeps on the left
side of his desk, its contents organized in order of increasing
value: golf balls, pens, paperweights in front, and way in the back,
16-karat gold pendants, lapel pins and brooches. Nixon peruses the
drawer with Elvis peeking over his shoulder. He pulls out gifts for
Schilling and West.

"You know, Mr. President, they have wives," Elvis says. Nixon goes
back for more. Elvis motions to the 16-karat stuff. (Schilling's wife
still has her brooch.)

It's time to go. The two men agree their meeting is best kept a
secret. Nixon is sinking in the polls, Elvis is working on his
comeback, and neither of their constituencies was likely to
understand. The Leader of the Free World and the King of Rock 'n'
Roll say their goodbyes.

For 13 months, the secret is safe. Not a security guard or a staffer,
not any of the men with whom Elvis shook hands or the women he kissed
when aides took him down to the White House mess for lunch afterward,
breathe a word.

It wasn't until columnist Jack Anderson got hold of the galleys of a
memoir by Deputy Narcotics Director John Finlator that the news
broke: "Elvis Presley, the swivel-hipped singer, has been issued a
federal narcotics badge."

Epilogue: Nixon resigned from office under threat of impeachment 3
1/2 years later, on Aug. 9, 1974. When he was subsequently
hospitalized with phlebitis, Elvis called to wish him well.

Elvis died at age 42 on Aug. 16, 1977, of a heart attack; 14
prescription drugs were found in his system. Nixon later noted in his
friend's defense that those were not illegal drugs.

Schilling wrote a book, "Me and a Guy Named Elvis."

Krogh wrote one too, but "The Day Elvis Met Nixon" is mostly
pictures. He also spent four months in prison for his role in the
White House plumbers scandal.

Chapin served nearly eight months and Haldeman 18 months for their
part in the Watergate coverup.

The commemorative gun is on display at the Nixon Library in Yorba Linda.

The badge, specially prepared by the Bureau of Narcotics and
Dangerous Drugs with Elvis' name on it, hangs in his home in
Graceland, on the Wall of Gold.