by John Farris
“Is Sydney still roving the airport?”
“Yeah.”
“Get her. This could be juicy. Have Brinkman back Syd up at the hotel, stake out the sneak route on the sub-basement level at Mandalay Bay. He knows the drill.” Virgie swiveled back to her visitors, deposited a crummy half inch of cigarette remains in a smokeless ashtray, and accepted the gift of homemade fudge with her jutting gold-lined grin.
“Sean and Justin?” Devon said, wide-eyed. “Really? Where might they be staying?”
“The Four Seasons. Under their usual aliases. Sorry to disappoint, but I mayn’t give those out. My sources are unimpeachable, but it’s very hard to gain a competitive edge in this town.”
Harlee, who had clapped a hand over her mouth, released it and sighed ecstatically. “I am hot to death for both of them!”
Virgie said, lighting up a fresh gasper, “But when last you came wasn’t it Josh you were hot for?”
“No, Josh is so last month. Jason’s my real pash, if I had to choose. But didn’t I read in Teen People that Jason is going to marry what’s-her-name? On the Disney Channel? With the flam dimples?”
Virgie enjoyed a clearing-out cough before taking her first drag on her Virginia Slim. “Talking about Pyxis O’Rourke? Don’t bet on wedding bells: Pyx is acey-deuce but he wears the Victoria Secrets in all of his relationships. It’s strictly PR, luv.”
“Omigod! Jason? Those beautiful abs? Just can’t believe it!”
“Oh, yes. Jase has been beaten bloody behind more than one leather bar in Twinkie Town. I do have a great set of pix, but I won’t sell them until someone else outs the lad. I seldom wear a scruple on my sleeve, but he is a dear. We may only hope the unthinkable doesn’t happen, and they fail to dump him in time outside Cedars emergency department when next he has the urge to be savaged by gangbangers.”
“I’m nauseous,” Harlee said, swallowing hard as if it were true. Using that breathy Monroe voice she knew full well made Virgie desperate to cuddle her. “Oh, well. Suum cuique.”
Devon gave her a look with a slightly raised eyebrow. Nobody said that anymore.
“ ‘To each his own,’ ” Deborah translated. “You’ve studied Latin.”
“Once upon a time.”
“Where do you go to school, Bishop Gorman?”
By way of a further reply Harlee provided Deborah with a flat LD/YD stare (Lie Down/You’re Dead) that returned Deb to her multiple phones in short order. Chicken-hearted in spite of her piercings and Goth facade.
Virgie was on another call and didn’t pick up on the swift change in Harlee’s demeanor.
“Okay . . . okay. But caution is our watchword. He’s mobbed up and the entire state is posted off-limits to him. You know they will smash more than your camera at Figaro. But, I agree, it’s much too juicy to pass up. How many times has she been nominated? And five kids back home in Connecticut, including that cunning young dwarf she adopted whilst she was filming in Thailand last year? Let me think. At auction, conservatively, should you catch them locking lips, thirty dimes. But you are not worth ten cents to me in a body cast, so do take care.”
“It is ever so amazing to me,” Devon said when Virgie returned her attention to them, “how you know just everything about anyone who is someone in Las Vegas.”
“Make that the whole wide world,” Virgie amended. “At a certain status level, of course. Sooner or later they all come trooping through our pleasure palaces. And none of them would feel at home—neglected, actually—if flashcubes were not constantly going off in their pampered faces.” Virgie broke open the gift box, made appropriate sounds of delight, then offered fudge to the girls, who quailed at the thought of patches and declined the treat. Virgie made no offer to Bluesie or Deborah, who cast a petulant look at the other girls. “Due diligence, lambs,” Virgie said, chewing on one side of her mouth to avoid suspect bridgework. “From this humble listening post I cast a wide net.”
Deb’s pucker was tighter than ever as she stared at Harlee. For now there was a lull in the trailer, computers at the ready and humming for more action. Female voices spoke in near monotones on the police scanner.
Harlee said, “Three nights ago at Treasure Island I recognized someone you probably don’t know about.”
Virgie smiled, mildly curious, confident that she was wrong.
“We were at the first show of Mystere.” Devon nodded. “And she was standing next to us at one of the concession stands. I didn’t place her right away, because she’s wearing her hair different than when she was on the cover of People.”
“Oh, a cover girl,” Virgie said. “Pro?”
“Do you mean in show business? No. Anyway her hair is way cropped now but cute—oh, when was that? She hasn’t been in the news for—”
“Months and months,” Devon said with a shrug.
“Almost as if she’s been, you know, in hiding.” Harlee and Devon having a dialogue now.
“Certainly couldn’t blame her, after all the notoriety,” Devon said, choosing the exact buzzword to gain Virgie’s full attention.
Deborah had scooted her chair close to Bluesie and was saying something in an ear that had what looked like a miniature Fabergé egg dangling from the lobe.
“Notorious, is she?” Virgie said, licking a bit of fudge from her fingertips before picking up her Virginia Slim from the ashtray.
That prompted a perplexed frown, Harlee shaking her head, still looking to Devon for guidance. “I never forget a face, but—”
“And I’m so good about names,” Devon said. “Something to do with paradise, that was the association I—”
“Eden!” Harlee exclaimed. “It was Eden Warren—no, I mean, like that; War-wear—Waring!”
Virgie was at a loss, for all of three seconds.
Deborah said, “That girl in California who had a premonition, a DC-10 about to crash—”
“Oh, yes. The psychic. If you care to believe such twaddle.”
“Oh, I definitely believe she’s for real!” Harlee said. “She saved the lives of everyone at her graduation.”
Remaining dubious, Virgie said, “Her PR may have exaggerated her prowess. When I was younger I often had remarkably accurate hunches that always seemed to coincide with my monthlies.”
“I’ll bet the Enquirer or the Star would still be interested. Or how about Sixty Minutes?”
Virgie nodded, preoccupied.
“So how many, um, dimes could Eden Waring be worth?”
“Well—she isn’t news anymore, but I grant you the tabloids have always been keen on certain subjects. For tab readers the paranormal probably ranks as high on a list of obsessive fixations as celebrity face-lifts and who’s gay. Especially if there’s a religious angle. Catholics adore gory stigmata and plaster madonnas that shed tears. Is Eden Waring the goods? Who knows? But I shall give her a shot on what has been a slow evening thus far.”
“Bitchin’,” Harlee enthused.
Virgie grinned at the girls. “Should your tip prove out, there would be a nice gift certificate for each of you.”
“Dolce and Gabbana?” Devon said, her ordinarily mild gray eyes afire as if she had glimpsed the Holy Grail.
“One never knows, does one?” Virgie said teasingly. “Let me get to work on this.” With fluent mousework she soon had stripped every mention and image of Eden Waring from several Internet sites. She iso’d three magazine cover photos of Eden, including a blowup of her in cap and gown from the Cal Shasta graduation-ceremony video.
DOES THIS GIRL POSSESS GODLIKE POWERS? the Enquirer had boldly speculated at every supermarket checkout line in America. Her photo paired with a shot of the smoking ruins of a DC-10.
Virgie said, “If Eden Waring is still in Las Vegas—could she be hoping to cash in by putting together a lounge act? Ah, the fifteen minutes of fame. If she is here, we will all know before the sun has risen.”
“She could be using an alias,” Devon pointed out.
“And she’s definitely ch
anged her look.” Harlee peered critically at the People cover. “I suppose they don’t have killer makeup boutiques or decent stylists in that small town she’s from.”
“Spare me a few minutes and make a rough sketch of the ‘new’ Eden, and Bluesie will composite a revised portrait. Within the hour we will have ten thousand pair of eyes on the streets of Vegas eager for a glimpse of our heroine. Devon, my sweet?”
“Yes, Virgie?”
“Poor Snowjob had all of his yearly shots today, and I fear he’s still half out of it; but he must go for his walk. If you would be so obliging.”
“Not to worry. Is he in the house?”
“Snoozing in his little bed at the foot of my bed. Mind you don’t stray from my immediate neighborhood. Some of the apartment people are trash, and they keep the most ferocious dogs imaginable.”
“Oh, I’m good at looking out for myself,” Devon said.
When she returned from walking Virgie’s bichon frise, Deborah the Goth girl was out of the trailer, lounging against the side of Devon’s powder-blue Jag in the driveway, toking.
“On my break,” she explained, staring at Devon through a domino mask of eyeliner, a hint of mischief or devious purpose in her small smile. “Want a hit?”
“No, thank you.”
“Didn’t think so. What are you guys into, Teen Virgins for Christ?”
“Don’t lean on my car like that. I just had it detailed.”
“Don’t worry,” Deborah said, a spike-rimmed leather bracelet on her left wrist resting on the trunk, “I won’t scratch it.”
“It wouldn’t worry me if you did; but it could be a matter of considerable anguish to Y-O-U, dipshit.”
Deborah shrugged, then took a step away from the Jaguar.
“I’ve wondered why you two keep coming around, sucking up to ol’ Virg. Like long-lost whatever. Harlee and Devon. I never caught her last name, but I ran the Jag plates so I know a lot more about you. Probably not news, but Virgie is worth a mean chunk of change in spite of this sore-thumb place. But I figured you’re not running some sort of scam. Don’t have to. The Jag’s not a rental, it’s all yours. A nice gift from your daddy? R. Duke Wisdom. Guarantor of your black Amex card. Big in real estate. Not as rich as Kerkorian or Wynn, but Duke can pee in their pools. Oh, wait a minute. He can’t be your father. You were born in Ireland.”
“Yes, I was.”
“So what’s with the Czech passport?”
“You’ve had busy fingers since last we visited.”
“It’s what I do. I delve.”
“Clever Debbie. You see, my history is a bit complicated.”
“Tell me about it. Not that I really care. So what is your angle? You can’t be in love with Virgie’s winning personality. All the goddamn fudge and trinkets for the pooch, just setting her up. What for?” Deborah inhaled deeply from the remnant of roach in her clip and waited. Feathery lavender hair and tarbrush eyelashes, enough silver rings in one ear to hang a shower curtain.
Devon sighed. “I must put Snowjob in his bed. Good night, Deborah.”
Deb exhaled, winks of fire in her glossy pupils. “Let me leave you with a message. I got here first. Virgie won’t be around all that much longer, not with that coal miner’s cough and her sewer-pipe arteries.”
“Oh, I see. Is that the message, sweetie?”
“Part of it. The rest is, don’t bother coming around anymore. It’s my territory.”
Devon picked up Snowjob for a flurry of kisses, and murmured, “I do hate to see you fall into the wrong hands, Snowie.” She looked regretfully at Deborah. “I’m afraid you’ve become rather a nuisance to us.”
“Oh . . . big woo. I’m intimidated. My knees are knocking. Listen, bitch. I’m tight with guys; when they get through with you, you’ll feel like you’ve had a jackhammer up your ass for two days.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
Harlee was saying goodbye to Virgie in the doorway of the caravan. “I’m glad we had this little talk, Deborah,” Devon said with a pleasant smile. “Now I know why I don’t L-I-K-E you.”
She went into the house to tuck Snowjob in for the night, Deb smirking behind her back. Devon felt the smirk like a cigarette burn.
9:35 P.M.
Because Eden was new to Las Vegas, Cody Olds suggested Picasso for dinner to his date, then phoned for a reservation at halftime of the Lakers–Spurs game. Waiting time for a table at Picasso could be three weeks. For Cody, no problem.
They were met at Bellagio by a senior-staff casino wrangler named Angelique, who was so smartly turned out that Eden momentarily felt like a candidate for a fashion mercy killing. Then she decided she probably wasn’t all that pathetic. Some of the looks that appeared to be for her alone validated an afternoon of shopping. She was wearing a brown corduroy pants suit and a shirt from Versace with butternut lace-up boots. She hadn’t been rich long enough not to be chilled to the bone by what she’d paid.
Her major fashion statement was Simba, the rugged walking stick Tom Sherard had left in her keeping. The gold lion’s head, big enough to fill her hand like a baseball, glittered in the lights of Bellagio’s canopy, which resembled a nineteenth-century European train shed. The lion’s head was solid, anciently wrought gold. Eden had explained her need for the cane with a telltale limp; an old knee injury aggravated during her early-morning workout. Both the lion’s head and the mopane wood had spiritual and supernatural qualities, which she didn’t attempt to explain to Cody. She had tried, for a few larky moments, to imagine what his reaction would be (this no-nonsense, straight-shootin’ son of the West) if she described one use the stick had been put to a few days ago at the Apostolic Palace in the Vatican. Oh, sure. Maybe in their sunset years side by side in rockers at the old-folks’ home—“Cody dear, did I ever mention the time I killed some demons and saved the Pope’s life?” But growing old together wasn’t in the picture. She hadn’t decided yet, in spite of acute loneliness and confusion of the heart, whether she cared to see him again. But the night was young.
(Having touched on the subject of ancient things with strange and otherworldly properties, it might be an appropriate time [while Cody and Eden enjoy a relaxed dinner with a warm aura of mutual attraction at their table] to bring up Mickey the Mechanic from Paramus, New Jersey, who accidentally [yes, accidentally; Mickey was always gifted with his hands but just did slide through high school] built a time machine in his garage one weekend when the oak and sumac leaves were turning a deep red in his side yard. The year was 1973.)
When asked in another time and another place how he had done it, Mickey tugged in distraction at a few strands of hair on his otherwise bald pate and said, “Must’ve been the goddamn spark plugs.”
Mickey was speaking of a set of what at first had appeared to be ordinary auto plugs, eight of them, that were the prizes in one of his wife, Annette’s, flea market “Crackerjack boxes,” as Mickey called them. Annette was a devoted collector of bargain objets. This box was oblong, eight inches by six by two and a half inches deep. She had picked it up from the back of a cluttered card table at a bazaar in Old Tappan. The bronze box was heavily inscribed with minute pictographs. One that could be identified without a magnifying glass depicted a man in breastplate and regal headdress standing in a horseless chariot as it overflew the sun.
Annette suspected that the box had something in it, perhaps valuable, probably not. Anyway the box had been carefully soldered shut. She paid four dollars for it and, when she arrived home, asked Mickey if he could get the box open. Mick glanced at it, said sure, maybe tomorrow, he was busy right now.
* * *
Regardless of how many hints Annette laid on Mickey, the bronze box remained untouched on his workbench until, two Saturdays later, a neighbor who taught metaphysics at Montclair State College dropped by to borrow a ratchet-handle extension and noticed it.
“Those etchings, they look like hieroglyphs,” Riley the college prof said, weighing the box in the palm of one hand.
/> “What’s that?” Mickey said from underneath the ’55 Chevy Nomad he’d picked up for a couple of hundred bucks and was devoting hundreds of hours of his spare time to restoration, that showroom gleam. A cast iron P-glide trans was suspended on the shop hoist. Mickey resumed cursing whoever had put the Nomad’s flexplate in backward. Some jackleg with no brains.
“The Old Egyptian system of writing. Where did you get this box, Mick?”
“Dunno. Ask Annette.”
Mickey slid out from under the chassis that was up on jacks, wiped his hands on garage waste, picked up a shop manual, and began paging through it beneath his work light.
Riley shook the box close to his ear.
“I think something’s inside.”
“Yeah? Haven’t had the chance to open it. You notice how somebody wanted to make it a tough job, with all that soldering.”
“What I think? This little box of Annette’s could be a find, Mick. Friend of my father-in-law at Rutgers, he’s a noted Egyptologist. You okay to have him take a crack at reading these inscriptions?”
Mickey shook the bronze box himself as if it were a wind-up toy that needed coaxing to speak to him.
“Yeah. I hear something. Annette paid four bucks, she said.”
“Could be a steal. If it’s Old Egyptian, collectors might pay a bundle for it. Maybe a museum. Depends on what’s inside, you know?”
“Collectors, huh. This Egypt guy at Rutgers, what? We call him, make an appointment? Suppose he’s busy Saturdays? If you don’t have nothing else to do, Riles.”
“Now I’m excited,” Riley said. “Definitely, could be a find.”
The Egyptologist at the New Brunswick campus had a German name Mickey couldn’t pronounce even after hearing it twice. He had a workroom in the basement of an old building. No mummies on hand, but there was quite a collection of scrolls and shards in cases with glass tops. The Egyptologist gave Annette’s box the eagle eye for a couple of minutes and said, “Fake.”
