All the Beautiful Girls

by Elizabeth J. Church

  She also made an even more committed effort to stay tuned in to the real world. So many changes, such upheaval had characterized the past year. Nina Simone was singing the desperation of the times, in response to King’s assassination, asking “What’s going to happen now that the King of Love is dead?” Sirhan Sirhan had gunned down Bobby Kennedy just two months after the King assassination, and Ruby remembered how overwrought she’d been when King was killed, how out of control. She felt such sadness over the hope that had been Kennedy, but at least when that killing happened she hadn’t found herself driving around Vegas in a drug-induced state of hysterical mania.

  Still, it was incomprehensible—the country’s growing propensity for endless bloodletting, the winnowing of leaders with vision and optimism. Buddhist monks set themselves on fire in Vietnam. And in the August heat, the Democratic National Convention had erupted into unfathomable violence. Ruby had watched the footage of Chicago cops with clubs, beating antiwar protesters until they bled. Those kids were her age. They were out there, doing something. While she did nothing.

  For the first time, she realized that Vietnam cast no shadows beneath the lights of Vegas; there were no flag-shrouded caskets, no hollowed, haunted eyes of returning soldiers anywhere near the casinos. How efficiently Las Vegas seemed to be able to keep hippies away from the Strip, where they might hurt business. The rest of the city was normal—trailer parks, grocery stores, shoe stores, schools, doctors’ offices, and churches—but tourists didn’t see those neighborhoods, and certainly Ruby had never been invited into any of those suburban living rooms. She’d been living in la-la land for far too long.

  * * *

  —

  “SLUT! BITCH!”

  Up to that point, it had been a good evening. Ruby and Chicago Johnny were leaving Circus Maximus at Caesars, where they’d sampled Chef Laszlo Dorogi’s famous sugar sculptures and sat back while Eartha Kitt purred her way through a performance. In one number, Kitt had worn a tight silver swirl of a cocktail dress, cut low, virtually strapless, and at last Ruby understood what Vargas meant about learning to drape—the dress had such superb folds; they followed the curves of Kitt’s body as she sang “C’est si bon.”

  “Cunt!”

  This time, the woman’s shriek caught Ruby’s attention.

  “Yeah, you, bitch!”

  Before Ruby could put up a defensive hand, the woman swung her purse at Ruby’s face and struck her across her nose and left eye. There was an audible crunch, and then the woman hit Ruby again, this time harder, before Johnny managed to grab ahold of the purse. The woman didn’t let go of the strap, and Johnny held on, too.

  Ruby put a hand to her face, saw blood, and felt her eyes watering. Her nasal passages stung sharply, and it felt as if her nose had been shoved a good two inches into her skull. Still holding the crazed woman’s arm, Johnny passed Ruby his handkerchief. She pressed as hard as the pain would permit and tried to stop the bleeding.

  “She fucks other women’s husbands!” the woman yelled, still in full battle mode. “Everyone! Everyone! Right here!” she yelled and pointed with her free hand. “This cunt here! Won’t cost you much, but you’ll have to get in line!”

  Ruby overheard a man on the sidewalk say, “Who wouldn’t want to sink his torpedo in that redhead?”

  “Ma’am,” Johnny said, using a calm tone to try to control the woman. “Please.”

  “Who’re you? The whore’s daddy? Maybe you’re her pimp!” the woman sneered. “Give me back my purse. Thief! Thief!”

  Ruby’s vision had cleared some, but the woman—a middle-aged blonde with dark roots, a thick waist of undulating hills, and red lipstick run amok—wasn’t the least bit familiar. God knows who her husband was, or if the woman even had the right showgirl.

  Johnny twisted the strap on the woman’s handbag until it dug into her forearm.

  “Ow!” she yelled. “Quit it!”

  “Cease and desist,” he said, making Ruby want to laugh. Johnny sounded as if he’d been watching reruns of Dragnet.

  “Let go of me!”

  “I’ll let go when you simmer down.” He kept the purse strap twisted so tightly that Ruby could see the woman’s skin folding. She couldn’t help but think that it was yet another example of Vargas’ draping lecture. And that’s when Ruby started giggling. This whole night—what a night! Soon enough, she was laughing so hard that it was difficult to catch her breath. She was standing there, in the parking lot in front of Caesars, a bloody handkerchief held to her nose, blood no doubt sprayed across the front of her strapless white beaded gown. Some loony woman was accusing her of taking her husband, and an aging mobster was holding the woman hostage via her purse strap. Jesus!

  “You think this is funny?” the woman spat at Ruby. “You think husband-stealing is a laughing matter?”

  “I don’t want your husband, whoever he is,” Ruby said. Her voice sounded stuffy, her nasal passages were full of blood, and she felt more blood sliding down the back of her throat. She also had a massive headache. “Let her go, Johnny.” Ruby sighed. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  He gave the purse one last tug as if to make his point, and then he let the woman go. “I think you broke her nose,” he told the woman.

  “Serves her right. That whore broke my heart,” the woman said, beginning to weep. “Took my Harry,” she sobbed.

  Harry, Ruby wondered. She didn’t remember any Harry.

  “Go home now,” Johnny said, using a firm tone.

  “What’s left of it after that hussy homewrecker,” the woman said, turning her back to them. She was wearing a dress made of some sort of sparkly polyester, and there was a huge run up the back of one leg of her pantyhose.

  The crowd began to disperse. Several of the women looked back at Ruby with disgust.

  “So much for innocent until proven guilty,” Ruby said, taking Johnny’s arm.

  “I’ll get you to the doctor,” he said, looking worriedly into her face. They stopped by a fountain, and he used the multicolored lights to inspect her injuries. “You’re going to have a pair of black eyes. And”—he gingerly touched the bridge of her nose, which crackled—“a broken nose.”

  “Lord,” Ruby said, and then she started laughing again.

  “You’re in shock,” Johnny said, using his most paternal voice.

  “No,” Ruby said, trying to catch her breath. The bleeding had yet to stop, and she refolded the handkerchief and pressed it back in place. “This is all just so unreal!”

  “Ruby!” It was Rose, jogging out the front doors of Caesars carrying a towel filled with ice. “Here,” she said, catching up to the two of them, taking the soiled handkerchief from Ruby and gently putting the ice in place. “Hold it like that,” she said, looking at Johnny as if he were the culprit.

  “Rose, Johnny. Johnny, Rose,” Ruby said from behind the towel. “How did you know?” she asked.

  “One of the bellboys told me. Jesus, Ruby.”

  “I’m taking her to the hospital,” Johnny said, sounding as if he were afraid Rose would steal Ruby and deprive him of his hard-won Sir Galahad role.

  “There’s a doctor inside she can see,” Rose told him. “There’s no need to drive her all over town.”

  “Now, you two. Don’t fight over little ol’ me,” Ruby said, watching the two of them face off—Rose in her tiny Caesars toga, Johnny in his fifties mobster get-up.

  They got on either side of Ruby and marched her back into Caesars, past the half-dozen people who were still milling about, watching the drama peter out. Johnny, ever the courtly gentleman, held the door for the two women, and Ruby lifted the ice from her face long enough to turn to Rose and say, “I think she had a lead brick in that purse. Or”—she paused, grinning—“maybe she managed to swipe a roulette wheel.”

  * * *

  —

 
RUBY’S FACE WAS in the final stages of healing when she met Tom Jones at a party in the Flamingo, where he was performing and getting ready to record his album Live in Las Vegas. He was still wearing one of his stage outfits—a white shirt cut nearly to his belly button to reveal a giant gold cross nestled in a frenzy of black chest hair. His shirt had French cuffs with jet black cuff links and was topped with a black sequined jacket. On his fingers, he wore large shouts of gold jewelry—a pinky ring on one hand, and on the middle finger of his other hand, a ring that looked as though it could knock out Muhammad Ali. Jones had clearly spent a good deal of time in a tanning bed, and Ruby couldn’t help but wonder if he had done so in the nude. It was no act—the man exuded raw, animal sex. She could feel his energy from across the room, and as she watched him she smiled and imagined gliding over to ask What’s new, pussycat?

  Vivid introduced them, and Ruby found her eyes straying down to Jones’ large silver-and-gold oval of a belt buckle, his narrow hips.

  “Earth to Ruby,” Vivid said, teasing.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Jones said, wrapping Ruby in his arms.

  He was damp with sweat from his performance, but it didn’t bother her. It was the first time in a long while that Ruby had been starstruck.

  “Show her,” Vivid commanded, smiling slyly.

  Slowly, as if performing a salacious magic trick, Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of pale yellow panties.

  “I’ve heard,” Ruby said. “I gather that at times you’re literally pelted with panties.”

  “Yeah, but look closely,” Vivid said, taking the panties from Jones and stretching them wide in front of Ruby’s face. In black marker, a woman had written her phone number. “And they throw him their hotel room keys, too!”

  “Ha!” Ruby laughed. She looked at Vivid. “How come that never happens to us?”

  “Boxers or briefs!” Vivid grinned. The image of white jockey shorts with illegible scrawls of men’s phone numbers was truly funny.

  “I’d write my number out for you, honey,” Jones said, looking intently at Ruby. They were just about the same height, and although he wore stacked heels, Ruby’s heels were taller—so he looked up slightly to meet her eyes.

  “Tom Jones, you are an incorrigible flirt,” Ruby responded. “I know you’re married.”

  “The whole world knows he’s married,” Vivid said.

  “Come perform with me,” Jones said to Ruby. “Even once. Just be on the stage with me.”

  “Singing?”

  “The others will cover for you. Just mouth it.”

  “An ornamental performance?”

  “Why not?”

  Ruby looked toward Vivid. This must have been why she’d brought her here tonight.

  “True confession,” Jones said. “I saw you onstage, and Vivid and I are old friends.” He put an arm around Vivid, pulled her close and winked. Duh, Ruby thought, realizing they must have slept together. “I asked Viv to introduce us. For purely professional reasons,” he added.

  “It’d have to be on one of my nights off. Is that worth it to you? To have costumes fitted for me for just a performance or two?”

  “He writes his own ticket,” Vivid assured Ruby. “He can do what he wants.”

  “All right then.” Ruby grinned. “It sounds like a kick in the ass.”

  And it was a kick in the ass, just the kind of jolt she needed. Ruby loved being onstage with Jones, the four backup singers lined up alongside her, and the enormous lit TJ hovering above them all like a constellation. The singers were surprisingly gracious, given Ruby’s relative lack of vocal talent. She guessed their loyalty to Jones reigned supreme, and she was right—he was known to be a decent, thoughtful employer, someone who understood what it was to come up from nothing by dint of hard, concentrated work.

  The women were eager to learn a few dance steps from Ruby, and together they concocted some minimal dance routines to add to the show. Jones was a tremendous performer—he genuinely enjoyed what he was doing, and in turn the audience responded enthusiastically. Sometimes he’d pull Ruby out front with him and force the band to ad lib while they danced together. Every pelvic thrust, every “Unh!” he uttered made Ruby grin. She was having fun again, and it was marvelous.

  Things snowballed from there. Through Jones, she met Charo, who was starring with Xavier Cugat in Nero’s Nook in Caesars. She met Mama Cass and Flip Wilson. Best of all, she met Sammy Davis, Jr., who told her he was planning a trip to entertain the troops in Vietnam. He asked if she’d join him, assuming he could pull it all together. Ruby screamed “YES!” and in her enthusiasm almost tried to lift the elfin man off of the stage. “Cool, man,” was all he said. “I’ll be in touch.” His proposal was perfection—at long last, she’d be able to do something in the real world.

  Ruby was well aware of the fact that no one wanted her for who she was, for what she read or thought. Other than the Aviator, they didn’t care about her opinions or hopes and aspirations. They didn’t care if she dreamed of becoming a fashion designer, or if—like Vivid—she dreamed of living in a glass-walled house looking down on the beach at Malibu. Not Tom Jones. Not Sammy Davis. Not Bob Christianson or even Daddy Evan Brashear, who asked her to think about returning to the Stardust. They wanted her looks, and to a lesser extent her talent as a dancer. To them, she was just like Vegas—all glitz and glamour. An anonymous blur, like a passing freight train.

  * * *

  —

  “YOU’RE ON FIRE!” Rose said. “Really, kiddo—you’re lit again. It’s the best thing I’ve seen in ages.”

  “Except that,” Ruby said, pointing to Rose’s fourth finger. Rose and Matt, the card dealer, were engaged, with no firm date yet set. Ruby refused to think about it—what it would mean if she lost Rose in her life, if the couple moved elsewhere, which was a distinct possibility.

  “Yeah, well,” Rose said, blushing.

  “But as for me, I’ll never fall in love again,” Ruby sang, à la Mr. Jones.

  “I double-dog dare you,” Rose said and punched Ruby lightly in the upper arm. “As a matter of fact, I triple-dog dare you!”

  Ruby didn’t foreclose the possibility of love. She’d never admit it, even to Rose or Vivid, but she fostered a secret, quiet hope that she might find someone. Or that someone might find her.

  They landed on the moon, and the world stopped to watch—even Vegas. Ruby pictured Kyle at home with his family, viewing the same live television coverage. Was he envious? Was he glad for his friends? Was he still writing his stories? She sent him her fondness and hoped that—somehow—he sensed her.

  In September of 1969, torrential rains pounded Las Vegas, and the weak desert sand could not hold the sudden abundance. Caesars flooded, leaving miles of saturated carpet a ready and willing breeding ground for mold. What had been carefully controlled landscaping flowed down the street in putrid gray gobs of dead and dying vegetation. Everyone made the easy connection to Noah, to God’s need to wash the world clean. Next, maybe frogs would fall from the sky or clouds of locusts would scream overhead. After a few days the floodwaters dried up, and all that was left was the lingering sensation of a wrathful but incomplete apocalypse.

  The year ended with arrests in the Manson murder spree, fatal stabbings at the Rolling Stones’ concert at Altamont, underground nuclear detonations at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-some miles from Vegas, and John and Yoko sponsoring huge billboards that told the world War is over! If you want it. In November of what was Nixon’s first year in office, 700,000 antiwar demonstrators took over the nation’s capital.

  Nearly oblivious, Vegas played on. Dean Martin’s opening night at the Sands’ Copa Room was a mob scene. At the new International Hotel, Elvis performed to sold-out audiences for $125,000 a week while in Mississippi, the median household income was just over $5,000 a year.

  Ruby thought t
he center could not hold. How could it? After less than three years in Vegas, she was herself earning far beyond anything Uncle Miles ever could have dreamed of depositing in his Salina bank account. Still not knowing what else she could do and admittedly not giving the issue any genuinely concerted effort other than a wistful New Year’s wish for 1970, she kept her head down, worked, and waited for the Fates or Sammy Davis to let her know when her life would hold some wider, less self-serving meaning.

  * * *

  —

  MAYBE RUBY WAS primed for love when she spotted the Spanish photographer standing at the foot of the stage apron that January night, when he refused to release her from his gaze. Perhaps Javier Borrero had been foretold all along, in the fine lines of her palm.

  He didn’t stare at Ruby in the lurid, covetous way of most men. He was immediately, obviously different. As she danced in the thrall of his powerful gaze, Ruby was flustered, had to watch her step and be conscious of her balance. She felt her headdress shift when she turned, and she had to resist the temptation to reach up and touch the sequined cap to be sure it stayed on her head. Each time she pivoted toward the audience, she saw him still transfixed by her, and only her.

  A light meter was looped around his neck, but he held his camera forgotten at his side. Ruby had heard that the watchful Spaniard was the Dunes’ new professional photographer, yet Javier Borrero hadn’t once raised the viewfinder to his eye or clicked the shutter. Instead, he seemed mesmerized by the lengths of pearls softly lapping at her thighs.