She Walks in Beauty

by Sarah Shankman

  Anyway, Dean said Michelangelo wasn’t mob. Michelangelo was connected, he kept saying, like he thought he was hot stuff, talking the lingo.

  And anyway, even if everybody had to suck it in, including connected dudes, whatever that meant, Wayne knew he had plenty of resources when it came to hard times. In fact, with this little trip, he was hoping to kill two birds with one stone.

  First, he had the business in the trunk to take care of. Second, he was scouting for where he might set up a home site, push came to shove. Wayne was good at living off the land. Hadn’t that been exactly what he was doing when Mr. F found him?

  Wayne looked out the window at a church sign. Drive in and drop off all your suffering with us. We’ll wash it clean. Well, that was a sign, all right. A sign he needed to stop thinking about Mr. F. That was over. Dead. Done and gone.

  Back to his plan, that was what he’d been doing when Mr. You Know Who found him. Living in that tree house. Living off the fat of the land and what he could lift from the FrankFair, Grand Union, and Radio Shack. Depending on his innate skills and his innate worth. He had learned even more skills since then. And he had a lot more cash. Yeah, Wayne figured, looking to be careful he didn’t miss the turnoff in Egg Harbor City from White Horse Pike onto the Egg Harbor-Green Bank Road, he’d be just fine, thank you very much, Mr. You Know Who.

  He knew his way around. Especially this area. One of the things Wayne loved about it was how, 30 minutes from Atlantic City, headed inland like you were going to Philly, you could hang a right and be in wilderness in no time flat.

  The Pine Barrens were one of the last true wildernesses in this country. The size of Grand Canyon National Park, 650,000 acres, with a population density of fifteen people per square mile. In one area of the Barrens, over 100,000 acres, there were only 21 people. Wayne had not only visited, he’d read up.

  He could tell you that the eastern part of the Barrens—where he was driving his Mustang now, along a dirt road that was two tracks in the sand with brush growing up between them—was covered with dwarf forests as far as a man could see. Over to the west and north stood oaks and pines and tall white cedars. It was tannins and other organic waste from the cedars that gave the dark color to the water that flowed so freely here. In summer, the water, while uncontaminated as pure rainwater or melted glacial ice, was so cedar-dark with those tannins you couldn’t see the bottom of the riverbeds.

  Wayne was driving toward one of them, Bass River, right now.

  The car was bouncing against scrub-oak boughs and blueberry bushes. Running over rattlesnakes. There were lots of rattlers in the Pines. Probably lots more snakes than people, but they all made out.

  In the old days, it used to be that Pineys, that’s what the folks who lived here called themselves, lived completely off the land—the way Wayne liked to do. They didn’t have FrankFairs, Grand Unions, and Radio Shacks, but they had the sphagnum moss to sell to florists, wild blueberries, cranberries, cordwood, and they made charcoal. They sold holly, mistletoe, pine, and greenbrier for Christmas decorations. They gathered wildflowers in the spring, made birdhouses out of cedar slabs, sent box turtles to Philadelphia to keep the snails out of the cellars.

  Some of those things remain. Pine Barrens cranberries, commercially grown, furnish a third of the country’s supply. Charcoal’s gone. Wild game has declined. Many Pineys now have jobs outside.

  But they come back and stay home, given the choice. They love their wild land. And they love to be left alone. Like Wayne.

  In fact, Wayne thought, maybe he wouldn’t even call on Michelangelo Amato with his Grand Plan.

  Maybe he’d just tuck in here and become a Piney with the rest of them. Build him a shack. Or reclaim one that was falling down. There were plenty. Nobody would care.

  He’d met some Pineys. They were good people. Quiet. Shy. Though once he’d sat with some old men and shared their food, and boy, could they tell some tales.

  There were those who said Pineys were all touched in the head because of inbreeding, but those people didn’t know what they were talking about. Pineys just liked to mind their own business.

  There was a lot to be said for that.

  Now if Dougie had learned to do that, instead of telling tales on him to Mr. F all the time, he wouldn’t be in the pickle he was in now.

  Wayne kept bumping along until he reached Bass River, then pulled the Mustang right up to the edge of it. Dark as ink, the water was. You couldn’t see a thing through it.

  He turned off the ignition, opened the door, stepped outside. Wayne lifted his arms to the sky. Christ, the air smelled so sweet. It was great to be away from that stinking city. You wouldn’t think that a town that was right up on the Atlantic Ocean could smell bad, but AC did. It smelled of rot, sweat from the gamblers, the stink of unwashed kids.

  Dougie was going to start to smell, too. He’d smell up the Mustang if Wayne didn’t get him out of there.

  Wayne whirled in a circle, took a look around. Miles and miles of deep forest. Nobody in sight but just us critters. He opened the trunk, and, holding his breath, dragged Dougie’s blanket-wrapped body out. Then it didn’t take but a minute to roll him over and over. Kerplop. Dougie dropped beneath the surface of the dark water.

  Just like Kurt Roberts, somewhere around here. Up a few miles, maybe. Wayne had taken a different road that time.

  He felt bad about contaminating the water, but, hell. There was lots of water. It wouldn’t take long before it ran clean again.

  Wayne dug in his shirt pocket, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag. He’d stopped smoking a long time ago, but every once in a while, times like this, a job well done, an unfiltered smoke was just the ticket.

  It had been simpler this time. With Kurt, well, he’d wanted to show Mr. F the job well done. So there’d been the video camera he’d had to set up. It was hard to find the right height to get everything he wanted in the picture. He’d wasted a lot of time fooling with the tripod. And, somehow, the camera, all that high tech stuff, well, it just didn’t feel right, here in the Barrens.

  But this time, this time Wayne had done good. He’d done perfect.

  47

  Sam woke up laughing.

  “What?” Harry croaked.

  “Wasn’t it one of the ten best things you’ve ever seen?”

  Harry sat up, reached for the phone, and ordered a carafe of coffee. At the end of the bed, Harpo stretched and glared at him, then rolled over.

  “You think the little dog would have loved the parade?” He called to Sam who was in the bathroom brushing her teeth.

  “Oh yeah. He’d have braved the crowds and noise to have seen the Reverend. Harpo’s crazy about folks walking on water.”

  *

  Sam had always loved a parade. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d delighted in parking herself curbside, hip to hip with other strangers who couldn’t wait for the first wail of the motorcycle escort.

  Atlantic City’s Finest had done the honors for Miss America. They wore shiny black leather boots and knife-pleated gabardine and made lots of noise revving up their bikes.

  Sam had a prime spot at a press table right outside Convention Hall. The Inquirer had saved her a seat. On her other side was USA Today. The parade rolled right past them down the Boardwalk.

  The New Jersey Air National Guard, all spit and polish, marched close behind the motorcycles. Then the 389th Army Band from Fort Monmouth just up the shore played “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Half the crowd waved little flags.

  Phyllis George and Billy Carroll rolled by in a vintage Cadillac convertible with superlative tail fins. Phyllis was in a red velvet suit with matching hat. Billy Carroll looked like a candy cane in red and white stripes.

  “They all wear stupid clothes for the parade,” said the Inquirer. “Next to the Old South Ball tomorrow night, it’s the best chance for major dress-up.”

  The whole flock of former Miss A’s was next, each in her own convertible, each more gaudily dressed
in feather boas and ruffles and flowers than the one before.

  “No limits on their Frederick’s of Hollywood charge cards,” cracked USA Today.

  “Wouldn’t those rad-fems from Santa Cruz die? Too bad they weren’t invited to this parade.” The Inquirer explained. “When the Miss California Pageant used to be held there at the beach, the local feminists protested by marching bare-breasted. They’d kind of lost track of the real world, and were outraged when guys lined up with the whistles and the lewd comments.”

  Sometimes Sam sorely missed California.

  But here at hand were more marching bands, the mayor of Atlantic City, more spit-and-polish police, then the outgoing Miss A in what looked like a Carmen Miranda outfit. Another band, Atlantic City’s first fire engine, and then the Girls.

  Miss Alabama was sitting atop a cotton bale in a ball gown of metallic red-and-white gingham. Her hair was in braids.

  Miss Alaska was swathed head-to-toe in white furs, surrounded by a pack of huskies.

  Miss Arizona wore a green gown with a pink-flowered headdress. Perched in a tan convertible, she resembled a human saguaro cactus.

  Rae Ann was Scarlett O’Hara robed in peach satin complete with hoops and pantaloons. Magic was done up as a member of the Tchopitoulas Indians, one of the black Carnival organizations who marched in Mardi Gras parades in elaborate headdresses, war paint, and spangles. She threw a doubloon at Sam, who tossed her a big kiss in return, and it was just then that all hell broke loose.

  The Reverend Dexter Dunwoodie and his Shame Girls had been released on bail after their arrest for obstructing traffic. They’d met with the mayor and the city council that had agreed to consider their grievances in return for the Reverend’s promise to behave.

  Obviously the Rev didn’t think that meant they had to stay away from the parade, because there he was, sitting right across the Boardwalk from Sam.

  He stood, his white robe streaked with scarlet. Ketchup, thought Sam. His girls were in their usual burlap robes with the aluminum foil crosses, carrying their tambourines. A pitiful band, thought Sam. A spa afternoon would do them a world of good.

  Then suddenly the girls stood too, shaking their tambourines at Magic. “Shame!” they shouted. “Whore! Woman of Babylon! Traitor to your race! Oreo!”

  But these were white girls.

  Magic shot them a look, and when that didn’t work, she yelled, “Shut up, fools!”

  With that the Rev and his grim-faced girls unfurled a banner that read MISS AMERICA IS THE WHITE MAN’S PLAYTHING. MISS LOUISIANA, GO HOME.

  Magic leaned over and said something to her driver who shook his head, No. With that, she reached down and yanked his emergency brake.

  Behind them tires screeched for a mile and a half. But no rear-enders. Barbara Stein had threatened the drivers: “One of my girls has even a suspicion of a whiplash, you can just deliver up your firstborn to be drawn and quartered on national TV.”

  Magic looked down on the Reverend Dexter Dunwoodie from her perch atop the convertible with cold fire in her eyes. The crowd grew still. “You have embarrassed me,” she said in a voice of steel. “You have shamed me for your own self-interest.”

  “You have brought the shame on yourself!” the Reverend bellowed with his best fire-and-brimstone voice. “You have ignored the voice of the Lord. You have sought to glorify yourself at the expense of our children. You don’t caaaaaaaare,” and he dragged that word out so long you could almost see it, “about the poor underprivileged black children of Atlantic City.”

  “And I guess you think that your acting the horse’s ass proves that you do!”

  With that, Magic’s arms slowly rose toward the Reverend. Light from the late afternoon sun danced off her red-and-silver sequins blinding those nearby.

  But others could see the Reverend’s eyes focus on the huge imitation diamond in the middle of Magic’s bosom. “Watch the diamond, Rev,” she said softly. “Let everything else float on by.”

  The Reverend resisted only a moment. Then his head began to loll. His eyelids fluttered.

  “Just let all your worries go. Put ’em down. Set ’em aside. Relax. Relax. Relax.”

  Above his scuffed Johnston and Murphy’s the Rev’s ankles went rubbery. His head lolled. “No, no,” he gibbered.

  “Let it slide.”

  “Shame, shame, shame,” the girls chanted.

  “Chain, chain, chain,” echoed Harry and Lavert sitting in the bleachers.

  “Now come walk with me,” Magic beckoned to the Rev. “Talk with me. Let’s fly out into this cool evening light.”

  The Rev’s ketchup-streaked robe flowed about him as he followed the trajectory of her hand. He climbed up to the top of the bleachers through the parting crowd, some of them hypnotized, too. He was high above the Boardwalk—and right at its very edge, overlooking the broad beach below.

  Magic waved her hands and the Rev did the Boardwalk Boogie on the narrow bleacher seat. She snapped her fingers, and his body wriggled.

  Yes, the crowd said. They nodded their heads. Yes, yes. Do it, Sister Magic, do it to it. Yesssssss.

  Then Magic brought her hands together until her fingertips touched. Some later swore they saw blue lightning flash. She flung her hands open and out and up until her arms rose above her head in celebration, jubilation. Yes! the crowd roared. Yes, yes, yes.

  And the Reverend Dexter Dunwoodie—who never in his shucking and jiving life had ever witnessed magic, much less a miracle—jumped high up up up off the top step of the bleachers, over the edge, and flew out out out, landing on the wide sandy beach. He rolled like a ball. Magic waved her hands once more, and he jumped up and ran, his Johnston and Murphy’s barely touching the sand. With his eyes closed, he ran straight into the Atlantic. There were those who thought he’d walk right on.

  But a tall breaking wave with his name on it caught him in its arms and carried him out. In seconds he was beyond where the land dropped off, and the deep dark water began.

  Then Magic dropped her arms to her sides.

  The Rev sank like a rock.

  He didn’t even fight. He just bobbed up a couple of times. One, two, three, actually. And then he disappeared.

  “Now that,” Lavert had said to Harry, “is a loud nigga who can’t swim.”

  *

  “It’s a crying shame the shore patrol was so Johnny-on-the-spot, don’t you think?” said Harry after he climbed out of bed to open the door for room service.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Sam was always much more generous when she was within reach of a cup of French roast. She’d bribed the kitchen with $10 and a bag of the good stuff, so they didn’t have to drink the hotel’s usual swill. “I don’t think Magic wanted to kill him. She just wanted to show him.”

  “Well, she did that all right.” Harry paused and stared at Sam over the top of his coffee cup. “What did she do, anyhoo? Was that just hypnosis?”

  “Magic.”

  “No, no. What did Magic do?”

  “I just told you. Your folks, Harry. Big Easy voudou.”

  “What do you mean, my folks? Magic’s black, did you notice?”

  Sammy whistled the opening bars to “Old Black Magic” before Harry tackled her and wrestled her down to the bed.

  “You’re awfully chipper this morning,” he said. “What does this mean?”

  “Happy. Means I’m happy.”

  “Hey! Me, too! You want to come back home and be my lady?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Really? Really!”

  “Well, you know, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d love to—except.” She made a long face.

  “Except what?”

  “Except I can’t afford it.”

  Harry’s steel-gray eyes narrowed, the left one, which drooped just a tad, having less far to go. He smelled chicanery in the air. “You, Ms. Got Rocks?”

  “Well,” Sam drawled, “since I have to pay you and Lavert that damned grand and a half—”

 
With that, Harry stood and jumped up and down on the bed, his arms raised above his curly head like a champ. “We won! We won!”

  “You look really stupid.” Actually he looked like a little kid in his blue-and-white striped pajama bottoms.

  “We won! Oh, I can’t wait to tell the big man.” Then he flopped down full-length, his face in hers. “I want every delicious little detail.”

  Sam jumped out of bed, marched into the bathroom, slammed the door, and turned on the tub. She yelled, “No way. Not a damned word. You get the money, but that’s it.”

  Harry threw open the door. To the blue-and-white stripes he had added one of her long black stockings tied around his head pirate-fashion. Between his teeth he clenched the single red rose from their breakfast cart. “Zee lady is vairy pretty and pink in her bubble bath.”

  “Zee lady insists on being left alone with her sorrows. Out!” Bubbles dripped off her arm onto the bath mat.

  “Zee lady is in zee company of her beloved who has nothing to do and nowhaire to go zeez morning now zat zee mystery eez solved and he eez a rich man.”

  He dropped the rose onto her bubble-covered breast. His kiss followed the rose.

  48

  Wayne was bouncing up and down on the soles of his old Reeboks. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of coming back to the Monopoly since he’d had to give up his security badge. A hard case in a rent-a-cop suit could go to grab hold of him, and then who knew?

  The doors opened on 15. Wayne looked both ways. Nobody in the hallway. Good. He headed down toward 1505.

  KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. That was one of the mottos he learned from You Know Who, Mr. Big Deal Tru Franken.

  Here it was, Wayne’s Plan to win the friendship and influence of Michelangelo Amato. He had his palm-sized top-of-the-line Jap digital camcorder with hi-fi stereo 10x power zoom with macro and a flying erase head in the canvas bag thrown over his shoulder. He’d tell Miss New Jersey, Michelangelo’s favorite girl, that what they had to do was make a tape of her walking down a runway in her gown with a crown. They could fake the runway on the Boardwalk down toward Ventnor.