All the Beautiful Girls

by Elizabeth J. Church

  “What?”

  “Newmeshico.”

  “New Mexico?”

  “Sright.”

  “Sure.”

  “Impordundecishuns,” he continued, undeterred.

  Ruby looked pleadingly toward the bartender, who mouthed, Your problem and smiled wickedly.

  “Bill?” she tried. “Billy Artie Virgil Alphonse?”

  “Johnshun.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the deal,” Ruby said, thinking maybe she was starting to sound a little drunk herself. “I’m not interested. No matter how big and important you or your johnson might be. Okay?”

  “Misshingout.”

  “My tough luck, your honor.”

  He started to slide off his seat, keeping his eyes on her.

  “Sayonara,” she said, and saluted.

  “Semper fi.” He returned her salute and staggered off toward the roulette tables.

  Ruby ordered a third daiquiri.

  “Judicial conference,” the bartender said when he put the fresh drink before her. “Not exactly rocket scientists.”

  “No kidding.” She looked toward the gaming tables and imagined a room full of black judges’ robes, gavels pounding. She giggled.

  “Cuttin’ you off,” the bartender said when she raised her hand a fourth time. “You’re gonna fall off the barstool, Red.”

  “Ruby.”

  “Ruby Red.”

  “Okay.” Ruby reached into her purse, and her fingers found the surprise of the poker chip Bob Christianson had slipped into the pocket when she wasn’t looking. She held it up, evaluated the sexy sultan’s biceps. She had to admit—the sultan was pretty.

  “You got lucky at the Dunes today,” the bartender said, eyeing her chip.

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Looks that way to me,” he said, and then waved off her money. “Just come back and see me sometime. And do me a favor before you hit the street.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop by the buffet. Get some food in your stomach, soak up the alcohol.” He must have read her face, because then he added, “It’s only $1.99. All you can eat. Just do it, Ruby Red.”

  She stood, unsteady. And then she laid a dollar bill tip on the bar and looked for the women’s restroom. The earth was spinning faster than it did in Kansas. Of that—and maybe only that—Ruby was certain.

  Ruby nursed her first-ever hangover by floating on her back in the pool, occasionally opening her eyes to watch clouds travel in wisps above her. The air held a noticeable layer of desert dust whipped up by overnight winds. She listened to the glug and slurp of the skimmers and tried to muster an appetite so that she’d have energy for the noon audition at the Sahara. When a child’s beach ball hit her square in the face, she got out and quickly dressed to catch the bus for the trip to the Sahara, way on the north end of the Strip, past Caesars and the Flamingo, past the Desert Inn, the Riviera, and the Thunderbird.

  As Ruby descended from the bus in front of the casino, she thought, The Beatles played here, and wondered if she would ever get used to brushing against the famous—or at least their wakes. Next to the tall, vertical sign that said Sahara, palm trees rose like huge lit torches, and the new, high-rise section of rooms towered over the city. She passed the camel sculptures with their Bedouin riders, thinking of the movie scene where Ann-Margret and Elvis stood beside the very same camels, talking. Bird of paradise flowers nodded their sharp, subtly threatening orange-and-blue heads at her as she crossed the parking lot. Inside, she saw signs for the Congo Room, where she knew Dinah Shore performed, but she was looking for the Casbar Lounge. Posters announced upcoming shows for the Smothers Brothers and Buddy Hackett.

  Some of the girls backstage were familiar from previous auditions. Still, everyone kept to themselves, and no one uttered a word, although one girl had the hiccups.

  Ruby broke the rules, smiled encouragingly at the girl. “Wish I had some peanut butter for you.”

  “Why?” The girl hiccupped again, covered her mouth.

  “That’s what my mother always used. A spoonful. And it worked.”

  “Stand on your head,” another girl suggested.

  “Hold your nose and drink a glass of water without stopping,” someone else advised.

  “It has to be sugar water,” said another.

  Every hiccup remedy known to mankind was mentioned, and for a few minutes, there was camaraderie amongst the competitors. It made Ruby feel good to think that she’d gotten the ball rolling, that being kind was still an option, even in this setting.

  But the rest of the audition went exactly as the previous ones had: Ruby danced her heart out and was one of the first girls cut from the line. Afterward, as she finished dressing and cramming her dance heels back into her bag, the hiccup girl joined her.

  “You got cut too?” Ruby asked.

  “Story of my life,” Hiccup Girl said, slumping into a folding chair beneath the wall phone.

  “How long have you been at it?”

  “Too long.” She hiccupped.

  “Don’t give up,” Ruby said, running a brush through her hair.

  “No, this is it. I decided last night. No more after this.”

  Ruby sat down beside her, saw that the girl’s roots were dark brown and her pink nail polish chipped. “What will you do?”

  “Go home.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It’s okay. I have a fiancé,” the girl confessed, looking into Ruby’s face. “The deal was that I could try this for a month. And then, if it was a no-go, I’d come back.”

  “Where’s back?”

  “Colorado.”

  “I liked what I saw of Colorado,” Ruby said. “From the bus.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Kansas. Salina.”

  “Cool.”

  They sat there, neither one inclined to work any longer at conversation. Finally, Hiccup Girl got up, stripped off her dance attire, dropped a Hawaiian-print muumuu over her head, and slipped her feet into mustard yellow flip-flops.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Ruby asked, remembering the poker chip in her purse. “At the Dunes?”

  “Why the Dunes?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, not wanting to reveal that that she’d been on the receiving end of such a huge gift. Or bribe. Or maybe it was bait.

  “Actually,” the girl said as she picked up her bag, “I’ll buy. It’s my last night here. Might as well.” She sighed.

  “Okay,” Ruby said, thinking that the girl shouldn’t be alone. Besides, it would be nice to have someone to talk to, other than a bartender or a drunk, middle-aged loser in a toupee. “Let’s go to Caesars.” Ruby was suddenly inspired. “I have a friend who might be working tonight.”

  “Okay, sure. At least I haven’t bombed there.”

  “Me, either,” Ruby said. “Yet.” Then, thinking she might have jinxed herself, she quickly added, “And I’ve been wanting to see it.”

  “Georgia,” the girl said, extending her hand.

  “Ruby.”

  “Figures,” Georgia said.

  “What?”

  “My hiccups finally stopped.” Georgia gave Ruby a lopsided smile.

  * * *

  —

  RUBY SPOTTED ROSE on duty behind the reception counter. She was wearing a short white toga, gold sandals, and a gold belt. Gracefully curved gold bracelets circled her upper arms, and her hair was piled into a gold barrette, with loose tendrils framing her face. Ruby felt tacky, sweaty, and considered skipping the hellos, but Rose saw her and waved her over.

  “We’ve been calling you!” Rose said, giving her a hug. “Hey,” she said to Georgia.

  “Rose, Georgia. And vice versa,” Ruby said.

  “Daddy and I want to take you to
dinner before he leaves town. And tomorrow’s his last night.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to.”

  “You don’t have a choice. He was going to have me drive him over to the Bombay Court and camp out if we didn’t get ahold of you soon.”

  “We’re on our way to drown our sorrows,” Ruby said, trying to bring Georgia into the conversation.

  “No luck?” Rose looked genuinely concerned.

  “Not yet,” Ruby said, wanting to ward off pity. “But I’m learning.”

  “Hah!” Georgia blew out a breath, and Rose gave Georgia a puzzled look. “I just mean,” Georgia said, fumbling. “Just…I just meant me. I was thinking about me. Not a comment on Ruby. She’s good.”

  “Georgia’s going back home,” Ruby said by way of explanation. “She’s getting married.” Ruby tried to sound enthusiastic, as if she believed marriage weren’t Georgia’s consolation prize.

  Rose looked back to the reception counter and nodded at one of the other toga-clad women. “I gotta go. Listen,” she said, touching Ruby’s elbow lightly. “We’ll come get you at six tomorrow. Okay? Daddy hates eating any later.”

  “Sure.”

  “Dress up.”

  “Is that a comment about my present attire?” Ruby tugged at her cutoffs and grinned.

  “He’ll wanna take us someplace special. Steak. Prime rib. Prawns.” Rose smiled.

  “I’ve never had prime rib. Or prawns.”

  “Good.” Rose kissed her on the cheek. “So glad you stopped by,” she said, and Ruby felt a melting in her chest, as if distrust could take a break for a while.

  Georgia was a talker. She didn’t seem to expect Ruby to do anything other than listen, which suited Ruby fine. From their table against a wall in the bar, Ruby was enjoying watching people, imagining their stories and conversations. Awkward men in J. C. Penney suits, their wives with cultured pearl necklaces, scuffed handbags, sometimes an abbreviated fur stole despite the summer heat. The women had careful curls, mascara, and penciled eyebrows but no eye shadow—eye shadow was apparently too slutty for denizens of Minneapolis or Des Moines or Savannah. Ruby saw lapel pins on the men—Rotary Club, Masonic emblems, American flags. Women leaned in to have their cigarettes lit and trotted off in sadly dependent pairs to find the ladies’ restroom. She saw the men in their wives’ absence, easily won over by cocktail waitresses and cigarette girls flashing tan thighs and perky breasts from beneath their perfunctory Caesars togas. She saw them all so eager to glimpse glamour, their hungry eyes roving in search of even a minor celebrity—someone they could tell everyone back home they’d seen In the flesh, this close!

  Ruby didn’t want to live her life in anticipation of one precious, boredom-cracking week a year, a vacation planned for Vegas or Our Nation’s Capital or Disneyland. She sipped tonight’s foray into alcohol—a rum and cola—and squeezed extra lime into the drink before licking her fingers. She looked at Georgia as she nattered on about domesticity, clearly trying to convince herself that she was headed back to something she genuinely wanted. Ruby imagined Georgia in a few years, seated with her husband in the bar at Caesars or trying to spot Tony Curtis pulling up in his Rolls-Royce, telling anyone who listened that she’d danced in Vegas, that she’d lived the neon life before she settled down.

  Settled. That was the key word, wasn’t it? As long as I don’t quit, everything will be all right, Ruby told herself as Georgia described her fiancé, Sam, the long-haul truck driver. Georgia was worried about having to endure her mother’s I told you so, and she dreamed of owning her own Laundromat, maybe a children’s clothing store. Or, she might manage a shoe store.

  I’m not Georgia, Ruby swore to herself. I’m not Georgia. I won’t quit.

  Besides, there was nothing—no one—for Ruby to go home to. No Sam. No mother. No home.

  * * *

  —

  ROSE AND HER father seated Ruby between them at a table in the least expensive section, farthest from the stage. Still, it was the Sands’ Copa Room, where Sinatra performed and an omni-tan, pomaded Dean Martin sashayed his way through “Volare,” a tumbler of amber liquid perched atop his piano. This, too, was the theater where Red Skelton clowned, his hands animatedly flying about. But what Ruby could not believe was that she was on the verge of seeing—in person, live, sharing the same stale refrigerated air she breathed—Sammy Davis, Jr., and the world’s greatest drummer, Buddy Rich.

  Ruby carefully laid the linen napkin across the gold of the dress she’d worn to her Tah-Dah! Dance Studio fundraiser, and she relished each mouthwatering bite of the prime rib that oozed deep red juices. Much to Mason’s amusement, she blew clean her sinuses with a hefty dose of horseradish and dabbed at her teary eyes, laughing along with him. There were haricots verts—which turned out to be green beans in disguise—and a baked potato packed with butter and sour cream. She sipped a glass of the bold, nearly chewable cabernet sauvignon Mason had ordered, and when the lights dimmed and the band struck its initial chords, Ruby looked to Rose and Mason, sending pulses of gratitude to them for their kindness. She felt a near crazy grin on her face, and she whispered, “My dream come true. You made my dream come true.” They smiled, obviously pleased by her joy.

  Nothing could have prepared her for how small Sammy was. He was a constantly moving, high-speed sprite, with a sharply pointed chin and long, thin nose. Short, black suede boots that on him looked right. A gold chain circled one vulnerable, bird-boned wrist, and he peppered his conversation with baby and dig and chick and cool and right on and that cat. He held them spellbound from the moment he speed-walked himself onto the stage, through his verbal riffs, his über-cool slides and glides, and his head-nodding, thigh-rapping accompaniment to Buddy Rich’s drum solos.

  Cigarette in his right hand, microphone gripped in his left, Sammy sang “That Old Black Magic.” Then, without pausing he grabbed a long shoehorn, slipped into tap shoes, and performed his syncopated version of “Me and My Shadow.” Ruby tried to memorize the fluidity of his technique, to think of her feet flying at Sammy’s Morse-code speed. At one point, the band cut out, and in the silence all she could hear, other than an occasional smoker’s cough, was the rhythm he created. Sammy made it look easy. His skill, his sheer athleticism, fueled her love of dance. She felt her dancer’s heart revitalized, despite the recent string of failures and disappointments.

  Sammy Davis, Jr., was a hepcat seducer who lured with junkie, fast-talking patter. He fed on applause, attention, and like Ruby he was determined to take the audience captive.

  He succeeded. They were his. A vast sea of enraptured white faces watched the Negro-Cuban boy who had climbed so high that he could audaciously, publicly caress and marry a gorgeous white woman. At the same time, Ruby knew that until just a year ago he’d been forced to enter and exit Vegas casinos through the kitchen—“with the garbage,” as he put it. Tonight, in the middle of one routine, he used a falsetto voice to slip “Two, four, six, eight, we don’t want to integrate” into his riff, and then he kept dancing as if someone else had spoken. Ruby heard nervous, scattered laughter, and she thought about his courage. Sammy Davis, Jr. was winning. Despite the odds.

  Ruby adopted Sammy as her god that night. She had all the advantages he had not—she had her savings, her above-grade femininity and beauty, her peaches-and-cream skin, and her automatic, white-girl acceptability. How dare she contemplate failure? How dare she imagine following Georgia off of the stage, quitting?

  No more doubts, she promised herself. No more.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN THE LIGHTS came up and people started making their way out of the Copa and into the main casino for a night of serious gambling, Ruby couldn’t stop talking. She hadn’t felt this animated in—well, maybe forever.

  “You made my day, kiddo,” Mason said, patting her shoulder. “To see you smile like this. Rose said you were pretty down.�
�

  “I was.”

  “But we took care of that?”

  “You and Sammy.” Ruby grinned. “Baby,” she said, cocking her head in imitation of the hipster.

  “Dig this, chick.” Rose pointed, à la Sammy.

  Mason held out an arm to each girl. “Shall we?”

  They linked arms and walked with Mason through the smoke of the gambling tables, the incessant clanging of the slot machines, and out into the desert night to stand in the parking lot where the asphalt exhaled an endless sigh of unrelenting heat. Ruby imagined the over-warm air filling her skirt, lifting her like a hot air balloon over the Strip.

  “I’d miss the stars if I lived here,” Mason said, looking up. “Can’t see a damned thing with all this neon.”

  “No Big Dipper to scoop ice cream,” Rose said, looking at her father’s upturned face, sharing a childhood memory with him.

  “I know you love it here, Peanut Blossom. But me…” He shook his head. “I prefer the real world.”

  Ruby lit a cigarette and watched them. She envied them their closeness, the fact that they could touch each other—physically, or with words, ideas. Rose could ask her father about his childhood or what he thought about the civil rights movement or if he liked ground pepper in his tomato juice. Or lemon juice. Or both. Despite her gratitude, her genuine like of the Maddoxes, Ruby felt a pang of envy.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEWSPAPER HEADLINES screamed the sensational death: Jayne Mansfield, thirty-time Playboy playmate, film star, and beautiful blonde bombshell, was dead at thirty-four, killed in a horrendous car wreck on a Louisiana highway in the small hours of June 29, 1967. The article was accompanied by a photo of Mansfield, her light-blonde hair teased and piled high, her cleavage a joyous shout of sexual promise. Mansfield’s car had rear-ended, and then traveled beneath, a tractor-trailer truck; the three adults in the front seat were killed outright. Mansfield’s three children, who’d been sleeping in the backseat, survived.