Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

The man laughs. “You know who this is, right?”

  “It’s Hans Finkelmeister. Dredged from the canal at the Rialto Hotel.”

  “Exactly! And you’re Happy Pennington.”

  Even in my semi-comatose state, I saw that coming. Hans wouldn’t have been able to call my room unless he figured out I’m not Harriet Pierce. How did that happen?

  “I’ve got something you’ll want to see, Ms. America,” he says.

  He knows all about me. In my current state I can’t put my finger on why this is bad but I know that it is.

  He goes on. “You’ll want to see it before I release it to the media. So meet me at the convention center in half an hour. Where we met before.” He hangs up.

  I don’t for a moment consider not going. I throw on my Juice Couture tracksuit, dash a note to my mom, and make for the Cosmos Hotel cab line. I arrive at the appointed location in time. Hans is already there in his convention ensemble of black trousers and white dress shirt, with his man purse in tow. Almost nobody else is around.

  “You like nice just out of bed,” he tells me. “All fresh and dewy.”

  “What’s this about, Hans?”

  “I made a little video of you and me yesterday.” He looks very proud of himself. “You want to see it?”

  He holds up his smart phone and cranks the audio. I see myself in the gondola, wearing my blue and green halter-style maxi dress, with Hans next to me. We have flutes of champagne in our hands. His arm is stretched along the banquette seat and we’re looking mighty cozy. In short order I see Hans’s hand alight on my thigh. I do nothing to stop it. Then I hear my voice. You’re very naughty. My tone is coy. Hans responds. You’re here, aren’t you? I’m guessing you want me to be naughty. And I don’t say a darn thing back.

  “Stop that video,” I say.

  Hans acts surprised. “Don’t you want to see the rest? It’s very good.”

  “How did you shoot this?”

  He holds up the man purse hanging from his shoulder. “This has a lipstick camera mounted inside. You’ve heard of those, right? I would think a beauty queen like yourself would know all about lipstick cameras.”

  I remember that man purse of his lying on the banquette opposite us in the gondola. Now I know why. So Hans could set me up. It wasn’t just me maneuvering to get him to reveal something. He had a secret plan for me, too.

  “You have to see the rest,” Hans says. “It only gets better from here.”

  That depends on what is meant by “better,” because as the video goes on it shows Hans’s hand disappearing under my dress. And I am heard saying things like: I’m surprised you want to talk about my husband. And: What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him. It’s intercut with video of the gondolier and of the boutiques lining the canal and has audio of a woman giggling that I don’t think is me. There is even audio that sounds like a couple kissing, over video of the gondolier keeping his eyes averted.

  Anyone watching it would think that Hans and I ended the evening doing what Sin City is famous for.

  I have to struggle to keep from trembling. “It’s fake,” I declare. I’m trying hard to sound forceful and sure. “You went back yesterday and shot video when I wasn’t even there and spliced it in. Anybody can see that.”

  “So maybe I used artistic license in a few places. But, lovely lady”—he steps closer—“you and I both know it’s not fake.”

  I step back. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because when I saw you, I knew who you were. I saw you on the news. When you came up to me, I figured you were playing detective like you did in Hawaii. I figured you found out it was me who punched that Danny guy. Am I right?”

  I see no point denying it.

  “Well,” he goes on, “I knew it would make money for my station to have this kind of video. Whenever you beauty queens make some scandal, well”—he chuckles—“people like hearing about it. It’s news.”

  “Your station?”

  “Back in Austria. I work for a TV station.” He gives me a look like how much of an idiot can you be? Right now I don’t have a good answer to that question. “Don’t you even know what convention I’m here for?”

  N.A.B., I’m thinking. What’s that?

  He answers my unasked question. “National Association of Broadcasters. People come from all over the world looking for shows to syndicate, among other things. People like me.” He smiles.

  I want to deck him. I’m imagining my title, my crown, and my prize money evaporating. All too easily I can picture my reputation cratering, along with my marriage. Then Hans infuriates me further by laying out his nasty proposition.

  “You don’t have to worry your pretty little head about any of this, though, Happy Pennington. If you play your cards right.”

  “How do you figure?”

  He runs his finger along my cheek. His touch makes me want to scrub my face until it’s raw. “You and I have a nice little get-together in my hotel room and you can forget all about this video. I’ll give it to you and it’ll just disappear, like a bad penny. Isn’t that the saying in America? Like a bad penny.” He laughs again.

  “You may think I’m stupid, Hans Finkelmeister, but I’m not that stupid. Obviously you have copies of this videotape that you manufactured.”

  He spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I’ll give them to you, as I said.” He runs his eyes up and down my body. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

  “For your information, there is no way I would cheat on my husband.”

  “You’re sure singing a different tune than you did the other night. But I still think it’s cute how you play like a detective.” He lowers his voice. “Maybe we can play cops and robbers when you come to my room. I’ll be sure to take my gun out of its holster.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Just because I wasn’t straight with you? You weren’t straight with me. That’s what happens in Vegas.”

  “It’s not the same thing. I thought—I still think—you may have committed murder. You’re just trying to take advantage of me.”

  “Why would I bother killing that lowlife?”

  “Killing him is a way to get back at his girlfriend, who made a fool out of you and stole your stuff.”

  He shrugs. “What goes around comes around. She’ll figure that out.”

  What I’m figuring out is that I made a bad mistake. Not only am I no closer to knowing whether Hans Finkelmeister shot Danny dead, now he’s blackmailing me.

  “Think about my offer,” Hans says. “Take 24 hours.” His beady brown eyes bore into mine, then he lurches forward and kisses my lips. “I bet once you mull it over, you’ll come to the right decision. Especially because if you don’t”—he raises his smart phone in the air—“I’ll go public.” He walks away, then calls over his shoulder. “24 hours. You’ve got my number.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The number I do call rings in Trixie and Shanelle’s room. We schedule an emergency powwow at Starbucks. I’m hoping that magical combination of caffeine and sugar will move my brain cells in a positive direction.

  “One thing is for damn sure,” Shanelle declares. She and Trixie are already in their rehearsal outfits, reminding me just how busy today is going to be. “You must not give in to that jackass.”

  “No chance of that.” I set down my cappuccino and pull off a piece of apple fritter. “But how do I stop him releasing that video? If it goes public, my crown could go bye-bye.” After all, the Ms. America pageant is for married women. No way could the titleholder get away with cheating on her husband, which is for sure what that video makes it look like I’m ramping up to do.

  “That old moral turpitude thing again,” Shanelle says, and I’m reminded of my bikinied poolside dance Sunday afternoon, also captured on video. Now I know Mario Suave saw it. I wonder who else did.

  “We beauty queens do have to be super careful.” Trixie licks latte foam off her upper lip. “This is in the racy pictures category
and you know what happens when those come out.”

  Queens lose their crowns. That’s what happens.

  Trixie goes on. “Do you think if you got Hans’s stolen stuff from Cassidy and gave it back to him, he might give you that video?”

  “The problem is,” Shanelle says, “he can always keep a copy.”

  I only half hear her. “Wait a minute.” The caffeine and sugar do seem to be working. I get an actual idea. “You’re right, Trixie. Cassidy has some of Hans’s stuff. Like his laptop.”

  Trixie gazes at me wide-eyed. Shanelle shakes her head. “Do not even think it.”

  “Why not? We’ve done it before. And lived to tell about it.”

  “Lived to tell about what?” Trixie wants to know. “What are you talking about?”

  I dig my cell out of my handbag. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before.”

  “Do not call her,” Shanelle says.

  “Call who?” Trixie asks.

  “It’s ringing,” I say. Then, “Cassidy? Hope I didn’t wake you up.” I don’t wait for her to inform me that I did. “Listen, I need something from you.” A few minutes later, having succeeded in my task by again threatening to tell Detective Perelli about Cassidy’s trick-roll career, I hang up.

  “I get it now.” Trixie smiles at me. “Good thinking, Happy.”

  “I did not say I’d help you,” Shanelle says.

  “I know.” I also know she will help me when it comes down to it. I return my cell to my handbag. “No wonder both Hans and Danny got into blackmailing. It can be darn effective.”

  “Danny was blackmailing somebody?” Shanelle asks, and I realize she and Trixie don’t have the 411 on what I learned last night from Cassidy.

  I fill them in as we go upstairs so I can change for rehearsal. My mother is sufficiently rejuvenated to accompany us. “I wish you had the show next weekend, too,” she says as we pile into a cab, courtesy of her senior discount coupons. “Then we could stay longer.”

  “Aren’t you getting homesick, Mrs. P?” Trixie asks.

  “What have I got waiting for me back there?” my mother wants to know.

  “Maybe you should consider some kind of volunteer work,” Shanelle suggests. “My mom does a lot of that through her church.”

  My mother spins around in the cab’s front seat. She looks as horrified as if Shanelle suggested she start robbing banks to pass the time. “Have to show up someplace all the time and not get paid a dime? I need that like I need a hole in the head! I’d rather get a job.”

  I have an idea where this is coming from. Pop’s new lady friend cum nail salon owner no doubt has Hazel Przybyszewski in a jealous tizzy. “I’m not sure you’d like the 9 to 5 grind,” I tell her. Not that I think she could land a job anyway, in this economy and with zero work history. “Shanelle makes a good point. You help out with bingo at church. That’s volunteer work.”

  “That’s different. Bingo is bingo.”

  I can’t dispute that. When we arrive at rehearsal, make the introductions, and settle my mother in a prime viewing position, we discover that we three newbies will begin by practicing costume changes. We’ll change twice during the show.

  “In one case you’ll have 78 seconds,” trainer Elaine tells us. “In the other, 92.”

  Both of which sound long enough until I realize we’re talking a minute and a half give or take, way shorter than the time frame we face in pageant competition.

  “Liberace would change six or seven times in a show,” my mother calls out from her seat in the theater. “Some of his costumes weighed as much as two hundred pounds, more than he did. One was nearly that weight in turkey feathers dyed all shades of pink. He wore it to perform at Radio City Music Hall.”

  Elaine takes a moment to process these Liberace factoids. I am thinking she might be regretting that she extended my mother an invitation to watch the rehearsal.

  We Sparklettes will eschew pink turkey feathers in favor of a sexed-up version of Top Hat and Tails, then change into eighties-style Madonna-style get-ups with bustiers and fishnets. We’ll finish off in the so-called Diamond costume, which features black spandex and silver lame and enough sequin detailing to do any beauty queen justice. And in one number Trixie, Shanelle, and I will sport our Ms. America sashes: Trixie Ms. Congeniality, Shanelle Ms. Mississippi, and me Ms. America. I’m so proud of mine, I never tire of wearing it. Sometimes I put it on just because.

  I quickly learn it’s not easy changing costumes with a speed clock running. I conclude that the key is to dispense with modesty. I nudge Shanelle. “Can you believe that tomorrow night we’re actually performing?”

  “No. But ready or not, it’s happening.”

  I’m panicked on more than one level. In just a few days our Sparklettes performances will be history. I’ll have to leave Vegas. And at the rate I’m going there’s an excellent chance I’ll do so without having figured out who shot Danny Richter.

  After a more traditional warm-up, Elaine arranges us in our show positions. “Taller girls on the inside and shorter on the outside.”

  We’re all within a fairly narrow range—given that the required height is between 5-6 and 5-10 and a half—but this means that Shanelle and I are closer to the middle and Trixie is halfway down one side.

  “This is almost our last chance to focus on exact positioning,” Elaine reminds us. “Even a gesture as simple as placing your hands on your hips can be done in all kinds of ways. We want every girl to do every gesture the same way.”

  No individualism here.

  “There are no stars in this show,” Elaine goes on. “The goal is to have no girl stand out.”

  Talk about another mongo difference from pageant competition.

  Elaine strolls behind the line as each of us fastens her arms around the dancers to her left and right. “This is called linking up,” she tells us, adjusting my arms slightly.

  Doing eye-high kicks in such close proximity to one’s fellow Sparklettes is no easy trick, especially for us rookies. All three of us feel bludgeoned by the time we’re released for the day.

  I am myself again once showered and wearing my black and white polka dot tank dress. I trot down to the casino to find Cassidy. She gets another corset-clad server to cover for her while we conduct our handoff. It happens in the hotel parking structure.

  “Thank you for doing this, Cassidy,” I say as she pops the trunk of her Corolla and hands me Hans’s Mac.

  “You gonna give it back to me?”

  “I don’t think so.” Not that I know what I am going to do with it.

  “I got too much stress in my life,” she tells me, and slams her trunk closed.

  After stowing the booty in my room away from my mom’s prying eyes, I call Samantha and invite her to lunch. Maybe I can rev up this investigation by getting her to divulge something more about her interactions with Danny.

  “Lunch is a lovely idea, dear.” She sounds even more whispery than usual. “But my Cadillac made a funny noise and has to go to the shop. Will you pick me up?”

  Danny must have had his hands full if Samantha requires so much escorting she won’t even hire a cab to take her to the Strip. “Sure.” I’m willing to go the extra mile, so to speak, for investigative purposes.

  “Come in an hour. I have to wait for the tow truck. Ring the doorbell and I’ll come out.”

  It seems she doesn’t want to let me in her house again. I guess we’re not BFFs. I phone another gal I wish were my BFF.

  “You wanna talk, come catch me while I wait for my takeout,” and Detective Perelli names a greasy spoon close to the Cosmos.

  I arrive to find her wearing a black check pencil skirt with a white shirt. She’s also sporting a really cute eyeglass leash made of black beads and tiny seashells.

  “You ever had disco fries?” She opens a paper bag under my nose and I extract a French fry from a pool of melted cheese and brown gravy. “ ‘Course they’re not as good here as they are in Jersey.”
/>   “How do you eat like this and look like that?” If I weren’t on the Sparklettes eye-high-kick regimen, I’d never burn off the calories I’m ingesting in Vegas.

  “It’s all I’ll eat all day.” She makes for the exit and I follow. “So what’s up?”

  “Have you run across a Travis Blakely?”

  “Nope.” The Strip’s sunshine hits us and she sets her sunglasses on her nose. “Who’s he?”

  “A friend of Danny’s. A drinking buddy, more like.”

  “How’d you hear about him?”

  “From Cassidy. I thought he might be another lead to pursue.” Then I relay Cassidy’s assertion that Danny was blackmailing somebody and segue into Samantha telling me she gave Danny access to her bank accounts. As usual, I can’t tell from Detective Perelli’s questions whether she’s already heard all this elsewhere.

  She halts at the curb. “By the way, I paid Hans Finkelmeister a visit.”

  I wish I’d been a fly on that wall. “He must’ve enjoyed that.”

  “Especially since I caught up with him at the bar on the top floor of the Cosmos where he hangs out with his convention buddies.”

  I wonder if he tried to pick her up before he realized she’s a cop.

  “His alibi checks out,” Detective Perelli tells me. “He was at the Hoover Dam Saturday afternoon and has the photos on his cell to prove it.”

  Those photos would include date and time. So Hans is a blackmailer but not a murderer. That raises him only slightly in my estimation.

  Detective Perelli eyes me. “Still, it was a good tip.”

  I preen. “Anything more on the counterfeit-money guy?”

  “We got confirmation he fled the state. We’re after him. A few other leads I’m pursuing, too.” I’m concluding she won’t be sharing those with me when a black-and-white rolls to a stop in front of her and she gets in. “I appreciate what you’ve done and all, Happy, but I don’t want you getting more mixed up in this. It’s nasty.”

  “I’m being careful.”

  “Until you got a gun and a badge, you gotta steer clear. I mean it.”

  I watch the cop car roll away and imagine having a gun and a badge. Just like Pop did.