“I beg your pardon?”
“It was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Though I think maybe sterilization is too gentle. Castration would be more the ticket.”
“Mary Frances? I think you—”
“Now don’t be modest. I hate modesty.”
So did Miss Kentucky. Up on the stage the girl did a baton-twirling number in a costume that left nothing to the imagination. “Mary Frances, I didn’t write a book. Certainly not that book.”
“You didn’t?”
“You must have me confused with somebody else.”
“Really? Oh. Then, you mean you’re nobody?”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d—” But what was the point? Especially with the Inquirer snickering into her root beer. Sam was glad someone had mugged this twit. She hoped her belongings were floating out in the Gulf Stream right now.
“And now, Lucinda Washington, Miss Louisiana, who’s gonna show us how to really make a bunny hop! A magic bunny, that is!” Billy Carroll was shouting. He could make the Lord’s Prayer sound like a game show promo.
But even he couldn’t touch Lucinda. She glided, a black swan in a gown of molten silver, onto center stage to Pachabel’s “Canon in D”. A large purple velvet cloth edged with gold lay across her right forearm. In her left palm sat a large silver ball.
The music rose, Lucinda smiled, took the ball into her right hand to show you. It wasn’t attached.
Then she tucked the silver ball into the crook of her left forearm, about breast height. She pulled the velvet cloth tight with both hands and the ball rolled back and forth across the top of the cloth.
The audience went oooooh!, and the ball rolled right over the edge and hid beneath the purple velvet. It bumped around like a child under a sheet looking for a way out.
Awwwwwh! the crowd cooed. Lucinda had them, if not the ball, in the palm of her hand.
Then the silver globe floated out again, and hung in thin air.
Lucinda tucked the purple velvet into her right hand, then opened the hand. The cloth was gone.
Good riddance! The ball bobbled up and down.
The audience was delighted. Then the ball snuggled up to Lucinda, as many in the audience would have liked to do, danced up her right arm, kissed the back of her neck, then rolled down her left shoulder. It floated out from her fingertips, out, out, out (an impossible distance, said a master magician in the audience to his wife) over the heads of the judges.
And though they were supposed to maintain their cool no matter what, Julian Temple reached for the ball while Eloise Lemon whooped with delight.
The silvery globe twirled around the judges’ heads once, twice, while the crowd ooohed. Finally it floated back to Lucinda, who made the purple cloth reappear in her right hand and lassoed the ball.
Snared in the purple velvet, the ball struggled, it fought, until Lucinda flung the velvet wide, and, instead of the ball, out poured a cascade of shiny golden ribbons that pooled on the floor.
The silver ball was gone. The purple drape floated down.
Lucinda curtsied and smiled. She’d never said a word. It had been a spectacular performance, graceful as the most delicate ballet.
The crowd went berserk. Magic! Magic! Magic! they called. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet.
The Inquirer shouted over the din. “What was that?”
The Zombie was the name of the trick. But Magic! was what the crowd shouted. Magic! was the one they loved.
23
“I don’t mean her any disrespect,” Angelo was saying to his cousin Willie. “Is that what he thinks?”
“You know Ma. He’s nuts on the subject of his mother.”
“I understand. But Sal’s been gone a long time. I thought I’d waited long enough.”
Willie reached across Angelo’s kitchen table and poured himself another glass. “So whaddya want?”
“Whaddya I want? Whaddya I’ve always wanted? To marry Angelina. Same thing I wanted since we were sixteen years old back in the neighborhood.”
“Come on. You didn’t want to marry her when you were sixteen, Ange. You were nothing but a hard-on.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t hardly remember that, it was so long ago. All I know now is, I’ve been alone my whole life, and I don’t want to die that way. I want to marry Angelina, bring her back to the old country, we’ll take my nephew’s place in Sicily—”
“You’re awfully old for moon/June, Ange.”
“A man’s too old for romance, he should kill himself.”
“Yeah, well, Ma’s gonna do that for you, you keep sniffing around his mom.”
Angelo smashed his glass down on the tabletop. Red wine sloshed onto the cloth. “I’m not sniffing around. Quit saying that.”
“Though—” Willie pulled on his ear.
“Yeah?”
“I got an idea. Listen, you know Ma is baby-sitting that DeLucca girl what’s here in the pageant. Big John’s niece.”
“Yeah?” Ange didn’t know, but that was okay. “And?”
“Ma’s got it in his head it would be a nice favor to Big John if the niece won the Miss America thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I was thinking, you know that fish we wuz looking for the other day, I was driving you, the one at the Monopoly you said owed you two bones—plus the vig?”
“Yeah?”
“Guess what he’s doing here?”
“I know what he’s doing here. He’s gambling—what any fish is doing here. I done business with him before, he comes down from New York. He come recommended.”
“Guess what else?”
“Tell me, Willie. You know I ain’t too bright.”
“He’s a Miss America judge.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ma follows the pageant, you know? He’s always talking about it. Tonight we wuz watching the show from the Convention Hall on closed circuit, in the car.”
“And you seen the fish? I ain’t seen him. I went back to the Monopoly, he’s split.”
“Naw, I didn’t see him. I was driving most of the time, anyway. But I seen his picture in one of them programs Ma left in the car.”
“That Roberts is a judge? You’re sure? Like he could fix this thing for me—I could give it to Ma for a gift he could give to Big John? Then Ma’d owe me a big one.”
“I think that’s what I’m saying, Ange.”
Angelo stood, knocked back the rest of his wine, and slammed the empty glass down on the table like a young man full of piss and vinegar. “Then what am I sitting around here talking to you for?”
24
“You could have stayed longer if you wanted,” Sam said to Harry as she stepped out of her black velvet pants.
He grinned. “And miss this floor show? Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you were having a good time. Especially when you got into the Randy Newman.” Harry played a mean piano.
“Yeah. Looks like the delegations have a lot more fun than the girls, but then they don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.”
“Whereas we old broads can stay up forever.”
“There she goes again,” Harry said to Harpo. Then he whistled a few bars of “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” “Shall I call room service and ask for a wheelchair?”
“Nope. But some hot chocolate would be nice.”
Harry picked up the phone, then belly-flopped onto the big pink bed where Sam was now giving Harpo a doggie massage. “So who’s going to win?”
“The pageant? Well, let’s see. What do we know? So far Rae Ann and Magic have taken talent—which counts a lot. Texas and New Jersey have swimsuit—not as big a percentage, but we know swimsuit winners win. We know zip about evening gown.”
“I think those four. California looks good. She’s smart and she’s Asian-American. That’s got to count for something.”
“Maybe. How about Florida?”
“Florida’s strong.”
�
�So that’s six. We need ten finalists.”
“And your pick for Miss A?”
“Now? Without seeing tomorrow night?”
“You must have an inkling. Sometimes they know from the minute the girls hit town.”
“Who’s this they?”
“Everybody. The girls—like Debbye Turner, 1990, they say she had it from the get-go.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Guys in the Louisiana delegation.”
“Gamblers, more likely. Your friends down in the casino.”
“Right, Sammy.”
“So some people probably racked up some bucks with Debbye Turner, huh? Depending on the odds.”
“You’re not giving up on Michelangelo making book on the pageant, are you? It wouldn’t make sense, Sammy. Nothing to base the odds on.” But he did think Lana was going to win. “I like Texas. I love Magic, but she won’t take it, though she’ll make the top five. But it’s definitely Jersey’s show. What do you think?”
“No way. Rae Ann. Definitely Rae Ann.”
“Oh, Sammy. You’re just saying that ’cause Lana’s a twit and you’re covering Rae Ann.”
“Give it up. Lana is not taking it. Look, Rae Ann’s blond, she’s Southern, she took talent and Fruit of the Loom. The gimp factor that won her Fruit probably gave her mega-points in interview, which carry over, forty percent. A bundle.”
“What do you want to bet?”
Sam threw up her hands. She appealed to Harpo. “I ask you—has the man lost his mind?” Then to Harry, “You want to bet on how long it’s going to take room service to get here with our hot chocolate?”
“Sucker bet. We know forty-five minutes is the fastest they could deliver a newspaper—and they don’t even have to heat that. You want to bet the same grand on Miss A? Then if you lose the Roberts thing and win this, it’ll be a wash.”
“I’m not losing the Roberts thing, Harry. I’m closing in.” She was bluffing, of course.
“No way. I’m closing in.” Or he might be, if he could get to Big Gloria, who he knew was holding out on him.
*
Big Gloria, on the other hand, didn’t give a hoot about the pageant. What she cared about was her son.
She’d tucked him in, kissed him good night, just like she did when he was a little tyke. And now she stood in the doorway of his room. It was way after midnight, and his bed was empty again. “Junior,” she cried and wrung her hands. “Junior, Junior, Junior, what are you up to? What can I do? I tried sucking up to that crazy Wayne, and that got me nowhere.”
Then she fell to her knees. “Oh, Lord, just bring back that Kurt Roberts and I’ll give him his $5,000—with interest. I promise, dear Lord. Seven-and-a-half percent. No, make it 10. Okay, 12, that’s prime, and my last offer.
25
Thursday morning, Wayne awakened slowly. He lay in his narrow cot and floated in and out of a dream filled with the thrum of motors idling. Heavy engines chewing gas, belching smoke among empty buildings, broken glass, starving cats. Baghdad.
He sat straight up with a jolt, grabbed his glasses, and looked about wildly. Then he laughed.
It wasn’t Baghdad. It was home—out at the end of the inlet, among the bombed-out, burned-down, dug-up houses across the street from the old Captain Starn’s seafood restaurant. Part of it was a boat, empty and peeling now. Its crumbling parking lot was used by the motorcoaches after they’d dropped off the day’s codgers at the casinos. Bus drivers gathered inside the abandoned building drinking coffee they’d brought in thermoses, eating bagels and Danish, swapping lies.
Beside Wayne on the floor of his third-floor bedroom in the turret of the abandoned Victorian he’d homesteaded sat the treat Big Gloria had brought him last night—or what was left of it.
A chocolate cake with a frosting of chocolate cream and Cracker Jacks. The prize on top had been a little red plastic camera.
In honor, Big Gloria had said, of his God-given talent for taking pictures.
God-given talent. Innate worth. She sounded a lot like his hero Mr. F.
But she wanted something. He wasn’t exactly sure what, but it made him nervous. She kept talking about cameras and pictures, and he realized she knew about the taping in the high-roller suites.
Which he didn’t want to think about. Not since he’d realized that the One Very Important Thing Mr. F had asked him to do, the thing he was going to use to Show Up Dougie, was screwed.
Cameras and decks could be replaced, but somehow he had to get his tapes back. Especially the one of Mr. F’s girl winning her state, the one he was going to plug into the heads of the final judges. He had to get it back or reproduce it before tomorrow, and he didn’t know how he was going to do that because the original tape of that pageant was missing, too. Plus the one he didn’t want to think about, the one he hadn’t shown Mr. F yet, though it was for Mr. F’s eyes only, as James Bond would say. Wayne loved James Bond movies—the glamour, the fireworks, and the hardware were right up his alley.
But James Bond never had somebody like Big Gloria around reminding him of when he’d screwed up. Now what he had to do today was make everything right, or he was going to be in Very Big Trouble. Even worse, Dougie would laugh. Wayne reached down and grabbed a big handful of his chocolate Cracker Jack cake. The sweet crunch made him feel a little better, but not enough.
He closed his eyes and pictured Dougie. With that, he knew what would.
26
Sam had thrown Harry out of their room along with the morning room-service cart. Fine with him, he’d said. He had a little business to tend to, as did Sam
Someone else from Atlantic City had called about Mr. Roberts. That’s what the receptionist in his New York office said to Sam on the phone. And she’d told Mr. Zick that Mr. Roberts was there, at the pageant.
But he wasn’t, Sam explained. He’d said he’d returned to this very office on business.
Oh, said the receptionist, popping her gum. Well, she wouldn’t know about that. She hadn’t seen him.
Well, gee. What do you think that means? Aren’t you worried?
Well, I’m not exactly his mother. Or his girlfriend.
She was wearing black, Sam was sure of it. A short black skirt, black pullover, black tights, those huge black shoes with steel toes, tractor-tread soles, and big black grosgrain ribbon ties. Only her hair was a different color—like purple.
Then who is, Sam asked. Who are?
Who are what?
His mother and his girlfriend?
Oh, I couldn’t tell you that.
Well, could you have them call me before I file a missing persons report on Mr. Roberts?
With the cops? The girl was incredulous.
That’s the usual procedure.
Mr. Roberts wouldn’t like that. Her gum popped twice.
Have them call me, okay?
Okay. But I think you’re overreacting. He treats all his women this way, you know. And they don’t call the cops. Have you thought about taking a Valium?
I’m not one of his women, I don’t take drugs, and I’m definitely calling the cops.
That’s pretty radical. Why don’t you just hold on? I’ll try to reach his mom. Now, if I can figure out how to do this transfer thing—hold on.
*
“So I went back over there to the Monopoly and did some asking around,” said Angelo.
Uh-huh, Willie answered, paying more attention to the cheese Danish in his hand than to Ange. He’d dropped Ma off at the coffee shop where he always had breakfast, and now Willie wanted to enjoy his own.
“Nobody’s seen Roberts. Busboys, maids, nobody at the desk. He’s still registered, though, ain’t that strange?”
Strange, Willie nodded.
“Then I found out he wuzzn’t at the show last night. At least that’s what a guy told me, Security over at the hall. Said he wuzzn’t. Whaddya think it means, Willie?”
Willie didn’t know.
“I think it means I’ll
go over there myself this evening, see that show. I can’t find that Roberts, maybe something else’ll occur to me. Some other way of helping out Big John’s niece, Big John, Ma. Myself and Angelina. Whaddya think?”
What Willie thought was that if Angelo didn’t stop saying Ma’s mother’s name like that, he better get himself over to Sicily, dig a hole and pull it in on top of himself, forget the old broad. He didn’t say that, though.
*
“So, Wayne. What’s that on the back of your hat? Let me see.”
Wayne just shrugged, kept walking. The last person he wanted to talk to this morning was Dougie. His plan was, he was going to go back into Action Central, now that he’d calmed down, slept on it, and search the whole place very carefully. Things had been misfiled before.
“Wayne delivers. Hey, that’s neat. So, you got yourself another business.”
Wayne stopped. “What do you mean another business?”
“Looks like you’re into pizzas. Wayne delivers. You know what I mean?”
“I am an electronics surveillance, augmentation, and intervention expert. Nothing to do with pizza.”
“Sure, sure. But you know what they say, Wayne.” Dougie rolled his little shoulders in his little navy blue blazer, double-breasted, with gold buttons. He looked like one of those airline steward fruits. “Clothes make the man. You don’t want to give people the wrong sartorial impression.”
Sartorial impression. He was gonna sartorially impress Dougie, all right. One more crack like that, just one more.
*
“Yesssss?” said the throaty voice on the phone. For one delicious moment Sam thought it was Lauren Bacall. “Hold on a minute, darling, my chef just walked in.”
Sam was darling, and this was Kurt Roberts’s mom.
“Yes, Evan. We’re going to make it very American. I want barbecued ribs and potato salad and those darling cornbread sticks you did when we had the ambassador. Our guest of honor’s French, and you know how they love everything American—except us of course. Now, darling, what can I do for you? That hideous girl in Kurt’s office said something about you couldn’t find Kurt. I don’t know why she’d call me—but, hold on, darling. It’s the man about the flowers. They’re atwitter, all the service people out here in Southampton, so happy to have those dreary summer people gone, but afraid they’re won’t make another penny until June. It quite throws them off their stride. Now what kind of American flowers can we do for this dinner, Lee?”
She Walks in Beauty Page 19
