She Walks in Beauty

by Sarah Shankman

  Standing guard at the door. Making sure no one disturbed the Goldilocks’ dreams. Women’s shelters could sure use somebody like June, yes indeedy. But Sam didn’t say that.

  She asked, “Anything very exciting happen back here?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, we think it’s all exciting. But once,” she paused dramatically, “a couple of years ago, the girls were about to go onstage for a big production number at the Saturday night finals, and we suddenly realized Miss California was missing. We looked high and low for her and were really getting worried, when I thought, Sleepy Hollow. We hadn’t looked there because how could a girl take a nap during the final judging? Well, there she was. And she wasn’t asleep. But she had ducked in for five minutes, she hadn’t made the final ten, you understand, so she had some time. Well, that night there was this thunderstorm, with ferocious thunder and lightning. And this dear girl, well, I didn’t know they hardly ever have thunder and lightning in northern California where she was from, and she was standing positively transfixed at the windows watching the lightning out on the ocean.”

  Wow! said Sam. Wow!

  She said it again for real when she got back downstairs and saw the line of people waiting outside Barbara Stein’s office.

  Later days. She could call Barbara and ask her to recap Roberts’s last phone call to the pageant office, something she’d been meaning to do.

  Then the door to Barbara’s office flew open.

  “I do not understand why you are not taking this more seriously!” The woman shouting was very tall and very thin with a mane of flaming hair. She was wearing a severe black suit. “They took my tape recorder with a tape of my very best interviews! I cannot possibly duplicate all that work! I’ve told you what the hoodlums looked like who stole my tape recorder—and my wallet!”

  Barbara Stein joined the woman in the doorway.

  She rolled right on. “You don’t care if I get my article done. You don’t care about serious scholarship and the evolving role of the beauty pageant in postmodern feminism.”

  “Miss DeLaughter.” The fact that the woman in black was a foot taller than she didn’t seem to faze Barbara. She delivered a right jab with a scarlet fingertip to DeLaughter’s forearm. “I told you before, and I’ll tell you again. We are delighted to have you here. We are very sorry that your tape was stolen. We are equally sorry you got mustard all over your nice white dress. But we are not the Atlantic City Police Department. That’s who you should be talking to.”

  “You want me to go to the police?”

  “I assure you they’re a very respectable organization, full of delightful young men who would be more than happy to help you.”

  “I think you’re being sarcastic, Miss Stein.”

  “I don’t have time for sarcasm.”

  The police, Sam thought. Should she go to them about Kurt Roberts? Did her friend Charlie back in Atlanta know anybody on the Atlantic City force? Maybe it was worth a phone call. But in the meantime, maybe she’d see if Cindy Lou was over her snit and ready for coffee and a heart-to-heart.

  *

  It hadn’t taken her long to find Cindy Lou. She wasn’t in her room, but a fiver to the bellman bought Sam the name of her favorite hangout. Sam could forget the coffee.

  “Hi,” she said to the lanky frosted blonde with the dark glasses. Cindy Lou’s long legs were tucked into the dark red booth. Uncle Pennybags was convenient for a woman who didn’t want to drink alone in her room. Cindy Lou had changed into a pink two-piece pants outfit with whorls of embroidery and little bows and sequins on the top. “Fancy running into you here.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cindy Lou wasn’t buying it. She didn’t invite Sam to join her, though Sam slid in anyway, pretending the other woman had forgotten her manners.

  “This round on me?” Sam offered. Not exactly prescribed AA behavior, but she somehow doubted Cindy Lou had ever even considered getting sober.

  Sam ordered bottled water. Cindy Lou signaled for two doubles, vodka on the rocks, and she downed them. Two empty glasses were already sitting on the table.

  Sam had been there. She knew that old one-two-three-four punch and how comforting it was to a serious drinker to get those belts down fast so she could regain some kind of control. It felt like control anyway.

  Vodka onboard Cindy Lou could now light her own cigarette without her hands wobbling all over East Jesus. She sucked the smoke down hard, then exhaled through her nose—not exactly the prettiest personal habit for a beauty queen, but those days were long gone, weren’t they?

  “What do you want?” The former Miss Ohio wasn’t even trying to be nice.

  “Same thing, I—”

  “You want to talk about Kurt, don’t you?” She wasn’t looking at Sam, rather across the room.

  “I do. I just can’t find anybody who knows where he got off to. You know how we reporters are—” It couldn’t hurt to include Cindy Lou in the sisterhood, even if she were a weatherperson. “—Just can’t seem to let go when there’s even a hint of a story.”

  Cindy Lou turned, facing her head-on. “Did he come on to you?”

  “No. He—I barely even talked with him.”

  “Kurt could come on to you in half a second.” Cindy Lou tapped the ash of her cigarette. “I don’t know why I get involved with guys like him.” The vodka was starting to talk. Sam waited. “You know how it is. You’re pretty, I mean, you’re pretty, you like good-looking guys, don’t you?”

  Sam nodded. Yes, she said, she’d always been a sucker for a pretty face. That was true. Her very first broken heart—back in Atlanta—now that was a pretty face. Her ex, Jim, was a Jeff Bridges look-alike. Sean, who’d been run down on a San Francisco street like a dog, he’d been a handsome man. Harry was as cute as they come.

  Cindy Lou went on. “I’ve always wondered, do ugly women like lookers, too, or do they just figure they’re lucky to get anybody. I’d hate that.” Cindy Lou paused. She stared at the end of her cigarette. “I’d hate getting up in the morning and looking at myself in the mirror and knowing that I was ugly.” Then in a small voice she added, “Some mornings I think I am. Everything’s falling down. And it’s not going to get any better, is it?”

  Cindy Lou slumped against the red Leatherette of the high-topped booth and slid her head back. Her eyes were probably closed behind the big shades. She was in there feeling sorry for herself, thinking about old disappointments, flaccid skin tone, things that had gone wrong.

  Why would a former contestant like Cindy Lou want to come back here, anyway? It had to be depressing. If beauty were what you pinned all your hopes on, why return to Atlantic City to watch this year’s crop of tight young things try for the same gold ring that had passed you by?

  “The guys I pick are cute, but they aren’t very nice. You know?” Cindy Lou was talking about men again.

  Sam allowed as how, Yes, she’d known some bad guys in her time. Of course that was mostly when she was drinking, but she didn’t say that to Cindy Lou who clearly wasn’t in the mood for AA philosophy right now.

  Sam watched her chug down another double. No doubt thought people couldn’t smell the vodka on her.

  “But whatever Kurt did, I don’t think anybody ought to have hurt him.”

  Hurt him? Sam’s heart fluttered. Then she blushed. Was she really so set on winning the bet with Harry and Lavert? But her intuition was on track. And, well, okay, Roberts was a rotter…. She handed Cindy Lou a tissue. “What makes you think somebody hurt him?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the New Jersey delegation kidnapping him.”

  Was that what this was all about—the story Sam had made up?

  “But that’s not what happened. And he’s not all that terrible. You know what I mean? He can be real sweet. Really sweet.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Sometimes he’s a little rough, but—” Cindy Lou shrugged. Men. What were you gonna do?

  “Cindy Lou, what exactly are we talkin
g about here?”

  The former beauty queen was going to tell the long version. “After we went back to Kurt’s room, Kurt was really mad because he thought I was flirting with that young black dude. D’you know the one I mean?”

  “The one Kurt pushed in the pool.”

  “Exactly. Actually, I thought that was kind of cute. I mean, I’m glad the kid didn’t drown, but it makes you feel kind of good when guys fight over you. You know?”

  Sam’s nod was a lie. When she was in high school, her boyfriend had slugged out another boy at somebody’s lake place one summer’s night after too many Salty Dogs. He’d misunderstood what the other boy had said to her and thought he was being chivalrous. For about a minute and a half she’d thought she was pretty hot stuff, young bucks butting heads over her and all that, until she heard the crunch of that first punch, saw the scarlet gush. Suddenly it was about as romantic as a car wreck, and just as terrifying.

  “So, anyway, he was really jealous, but then we made love, and he was really wonderful. He’s a wonderful lover, and he can be so tender. You know what I mean?”

  Sam nodded. She did indeed. She had herself one of those. But why didn’t she believe Cindy?

  “So we made wonderful love, just like nothing had ever happened, and he told me he loved me—”

  “How long have you known Kurt?” Sam couldn’t help asking.

  “Since Saturday,” Cindy Lou nodded. “Isn’t it great, when you just know immediately like that? That the two of you are—and anyway, I went back to my room to get dressed for dinner. The judges all eat together, y’know, every night. And—” Big tears welled up, and Cindy’s voice choked. “—that’s the last time I saw him.”

  “He didn’t come down to dinner?”

  “No. He never showed. I even got up from the table and called him, I thought maybe, well, he was exhausted from making love and he’d fallen asleep, but there was no answer. Then Barbara Stein got a call from somebody in her office who said Kurt’d called and said something had come up and he had to go back to New York.” Her lip wobbled. “He would have called to say good-bye. I mean, I was right next door. We’d just made love.” She picked up her empty glass and stared into the bottom.

  “Did Kurt hit you, Cindy Lou?” Sam tried to ease the question in.

  “No! What makes you think that?”

  Sam pointed at the dark glasses.

  “Oh?” Cindy Lou laughed. “These?” She reached up and touched the shades, but she didn’t take them off. “No, I have a terrible eye infection. It’s really unattractive.”

  “Uh-huh. Have you seen a doctor about it?”

  “Sure. Kurt was really concerned. He called his doctor in New York who gave me a referral to someone here.”

  “I see. So what do you think happened to him, Cindy Lou?”

  “I—I don’t know. I just know something happened.”

  “Because he wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye?”

  This was going nowhere fast, just drunken rambling. And Sam needed to spend a few minutes with Rae Ann before the girls went to dinner. She’d call her from the phone in the ladies room.

  “Yes, that. And because of the voice.”

  The voice? Sam’s attention snapped back.

  “I told Mimi and Eloise—you know, the other two women judges. You spend that kind of time with people, you think you’re getting close to them. But I told them about the voice, and they just said I need to lay off the sauce.” She ran her tongue around the rim of her glass and then signaled for the waitress. “Maybe I do drink a little too much.”

  And maybe you’re having hallucinations. It happens when the booze has really gotten to your brain. “When did you hear the voice?”

  “Last night. And again today. Every time I go to my room.”

  “The voice is in your room?”

  “Another,” she pointed at her glass to the waitress. Then to Sam, “Uh-huh. I’m lying on my bed or in the tub, and I hear it.”

  She was probably blacking out, too. Maybe she didn’t remember Kurt hitting her. Or, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she didn’t even remember who had. “What does the voice say, Cindy Lou?”

  The former beauty queen leaned closer. Her breath was fierce. “He says that if Miss X doesn’t make ten, I’m going to get hurt. Just like Kurt did.”

  Oh, Christ. “Who’s Miss X?”

  Cindy Lou put a finger to her lips and shook her head. “I can’t tell you. They’ll hurt me.”

  “Wait. The voice says it has done something to Kurt?”

  “No, but Kurt didn’t like Miss X, and I know that’s what happened to him.”

  Great. That was just great. A voice had disappeared Kurt because he didn’t like Miss X.

  At that, Cindy Lou broke into loud sobs. Lots of tears and drool. A couple of well-dressed men at the bar turned and stared. Then one of the men said something, and they both laughed.

  Sam reached over and patted Cindy Lou on the arm. God, was there anything more disgusting—and unreliable—than a falling-down drunk?

  Sam definitely knew the answer to that one.

  16

  “This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” Junior complained. He and Rashad, both wearing khaki maintenance staff uniforms, were strolling down the hall of the third floor of the Monopoly.

  “It is not stupid. It’s the beginning of our brilliant careers.”

  “Our brilliant careers in Wharton Youth Correctional. I think I’ve lost my mind, Rashad. You know that class Miz Rainbolt teaches where you talk about values? Remember that one? I can’t believe what I’m doing. Hitting up white ladies on the Boardwalk to impress Rachel Rose, and now I’m robbing the Monopoly with you.”

  “We are not robbing the Monopoly. We are robbing that cracker’s equipment room in order to make the most stunning film that’s ever been made on the pageant and Atlantic City.”

  “You want to explain to me the difference? You want to explain to the ACPD the difference when they’re snapping the cuffs on?”

  “Cool it, Junior.” Rashad rattled the big wad of keys he sometimes carried as an affectation. He’d attached to it the master key Junior had lifted from his mom.

  “I don’t know why we have to do this, man.”

  “Junior, your weakened powers of cogitation amaze me. Women don’t steal your strength, son, they steal your brains.” He tsked. “That naughty Rachel Rose. At least we can put her to work, playing Miss A, 1937. She’s pretty enough. And blond and blue-eyed just like her—Bette Cooper. She’ll be perfect.”

  “That I get. But why can’t we just use that old camera we’ve been using?”

  “That adjective describes it precisely—old. Old and tired and unprofessional. When you’re making a film that’s going to be seen by the Master Himself, by My Man, Spike Lee, you use the top of the line. The best.”

  “You think this is how Spike got started? Stealing video equipment from a surveillance office of a casino hotel? From a man who’s known to be stark raving crazy? Who’ll probably come and slit our throats in our sleep?”

  Rashad didn’t deign to answer that. Instead, he recited his wish list. A professional camcorder with hi-fi stereo, autofocus, 8:1 zoom. Editing equipment. A topflight VCR. A slew of blank tapes.

  “I’m sorry I ever told you about this stuff. I’m sorry my mother told me. I’m sorry I was ever born.”

  “Now, now, Junior. Let’s don’t get melodramatic. Save it for the movie.”

  “Furthermore, I can’t believe we’re doing this in broad daylight.”

  “You’d rather do it in the dark? Don’t be silly. I told you. People never see the obvious. Here we go now. Maintenance. Accounting. Security Operations.”

  Junior groaned as Rashad tapped on the door.

  “Oh, man,” Rashad said loudly, for show, though there was nobody to hear except Junior. Wayne had stepped out for just a minute. They’d waited till they saw him go through the door marked Gents, then locked the door from the outside wit
h the master key, trapping Wayne inside. “I hate it when you tell them you’re gonna be here, nobody’s home. Can’t rely on nobody these days. I guess we’re gonna have to let ourselves in.”

  Rashad slipped the master key into the equipment room lock and turned it. They didn’t have long. Wayne would be hollering.

  The room was dim and cold. Racks and rows of state-of-the-art show-and-tell equipment glowed and hummed and whirred.

  “Come to daddy, babies,” Rashad purred.

  17

  Harpo bounded out of the bedroom. The little dog wouldn’t stop bouncing around until Sam picked him up and gave him kisses. Then he made the whimpering sound that broke her heart, as if no one had paid any attention to him all day. As if he hadn’t had turkey for breakfast, doggie pâté for dinner, and hadn’t been walked by herself, by Harry, and certainly at least once by Big Gloria. But still he trotted out his Poor Pitiful Pearl routine. Forget Jewish mothers. There was nothing in the world that could instill guilt in you like a Shih Tzu.

  “Okay, little dog. Calm down.” She looked over his head while he nuzzled her neck. “Where’s Harry? Where’s our boyfriend? Is he hiding in a bubble bath?”

  Harry never took bubble baths. That was one of her favorite pastimes. But Harpo didn’t know that. Or did he? Who knew what little dogs knew? He’d know everything if he listened to Sam, who talked to him constantly.

  Just yesterday a man on the Boardwalk who thought himself quite a card watched her ask the dog which way he wanted to go. Did the dog speak English? he wondered.

  “Nope. He’s Chinese. I’m teaching him English as a second language.”

  “Harry? Harry?” she called now.

  He didn’t answer. He had to be there. They were meeting Lavert and his mobster friend for dinner in less than an hour.

  Then she noticed the message light blinking.

  “Oh, no,” she said to Harpo.

  Oh, yes. Harry said he was already dressed and had met Lavert for a drink. They had to compare notes on the Great Kurt Roberts Scavenger Hunt, and they were closing in on the prize. Would she mind too terribly if they met her at the club for dinner? He’d arranged to have a car pick her up.