She Walks in Beauty (13 page)

She would. She most certainly would, if she wanted to get out of this hellhole as bad as I do. I know my mama. She’d call it grabbing opportunity by the foreskin.

She would do no such thing.

Oh, yes, she would. A woman gets up against it, she’s liable to do anything. What do
you
know, voice of the devil?

Unh-uh. You talking ’bout the wrong channel there, girl.

Oh, yeah? You telling me the Lord thinks I ought to give that money back to that man who tried to kill my son, when I could use it to get Junior
out
of here before he ends up like all those other mothers’ sons—in jail?

Isn’t that what you’re really afraid of now? Isn’t that why you’re walking the floor? Afraid that what Junior did, he was so mad at that man, was go up to his room and give him what-for? And then? Then? You don’t want to think about what might have happened then, do you, Gloria, that might
really
put Junior in jail?

No, she didn’t want to think about it. But she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t know where Junior was, how long he’d been gone, what he’d been up to. All she could do was what women had done for as long as there’d been men to trouble their minds, keep walking that floor.

*

“Harry?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“Did I hurt your lip?”

“Nuunh-uh.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened to your lip?”

“Unh-uh.”

“Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“You know what?”

“What, Sammy, what?”

“Jeeszt. You don’t have to be such a grump.”

“I’m sorry. I was just drifting off. What, honey?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Harry sat up. “I can’t now. Tell me,
what
?”

“I was just wondering, do you think it would
be
fun
to be Miss America?”

“I think it’d suck eggs.”

“Really? If you were that young—it could be pretty exciting. Traveling for a year. Meeting the president—even if
he
sucks eggs, it’s still pretty impressive to a little girl from Oshkosh, or wherever. Earning all that money.”

“You sorry you were never Miss America, honey? Ow! That hurt.”

“
I
could never have been Miss America.”

“Why not?”

“I’m hardly the type.”

“You mean you weren’t malleable enough—even as a girl? No, you’re right. Probably not. Probably had a head hard as a rock even then.”

“Not pretty enough, either.”

“You’re a hell of a lot prettier than any of those girls.”

“Oh, Harry. Don’t be silly.”

“You are!”

“I’m old.”

“You are not old. You’re forty.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m going to lose no matter what?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Being around this beauty queen stuff makes me crazy. Jesus. As if being pretty were the most important thing in the world.”

“Well, you know it’s not.”

“But it
is
important.”

“What?”

“Being pretty.”

“It’s not important. It’s—it’s nice.”

“So, you don’t love me because I’m pretty.”

“I love you because you’re you.”

“Even if I were ugly, you would.”

“Yes.”

“Even if you were just as cute as you are now, you’d love me if I looked like an old hog.”

“Yes.”

“Harry? You’re full of crap.”

“I know. Listen, now that I’m wide awake, I’m going to get a beer from the minibar. You want a glass of milk? Some water?”

“Water, please. Hey! You know what? I just remembered what I wanted to tell you.”

“Good. I hope it takes a long time. Here’s your water. I hope we stay up all night and feel like doo-doo tomorrow. That’s what I really love, is dragging around feeling like a dead dog on my vacation. Sorry, Harpo. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Hush, Harry. Listen, what do you think happened to Kurt Roberts?”

“Who he?”

“The creep, the judge, out at the swimming pool. The one who knocked the kid in, Junior, you saved his life, remember?”

“It’s all coming back now.”

“Roberts didn’t show tonight. Did you notice?”

“Unh-uh. You mean he didn’t show for the judging? Where was he?”

“Nobody knows. He said he had to go back to New York.”

She didn’t tell Harry about the itch, the one she got at the base of her neck, that sure as an aching behind her knees had always been the first sign of flu told her something absolutely hideous was about to go down—or had. The timing wasn’t always precise.

Sam scratched her itch and wondered about the size and shape of this particular piece of fresh hell. It made her edgy, as if somebody had whacked her with a giant bag of PMS.

“That’s weird,” said Harry.

“That’s what
I
said. It’s also weird that Cindy Lou Jacklin, one of the other judges, remember the big blonde in the blue bikini at the swimming pool with Roberts
—left
the pool with him?”

“Vaguely. Very vaguely.”

“Yeah, I bet, former Miss Ohio. Well, anyway, she was wearing shades tonight. Like maybe she was hiding something.”

“So what you think, Ms. Big Time Investigative Reporter with a Specialization in Crime, is that Kurt took Cindy Lou back to his room, and in a fit of pique because he didn’t succeed in drowning the kid, he beat her up, and then—God, you have a devious mind.”

“She killed him and dumped the body in the ocean.”

“Good. It’s good, Sammy. A great scenario. Now can we go back to sleep?”

“Something happened to that man, Harry. Maybe not that, what I said, but something equally awful.”

“Please don’t tell me you have a really strong intuition about this thing. We’re here for you to do a simple story—not to solve a crime. And
stop
scratching!”

“Harry. I’m telling you. Something happened to Kurt Roberts. He did not simply check out and go home and leave the Miss America Pageant. That doesn’t make sense. Slimy guys like him do not go to all the trouble to get here, which has got to be a
major
feather in his little fashion-photographer cap, and then up and split.”

“A thousand bucks says you’re wrong.”

“What?”

“A grand. It’s late. Put up or shut up.”

“Have you lost your mind? We’re talking about a man’s life here and you want to
bet
on
it? Is this what happens to semi-normal people when they come to Atlantic City? They make wagers on life and death?”

“This is what happens when you wake people up.
You’re
betting on disaster, Sammy. I’m betting a grand the man’s back in New York shacked up with some sixteen-year-old model, wait, twin models, having the time of his life. That, or something equally normal.”

“Sixteen, huh? Sixteen would be the time of his life? Sixteen’s your idea of hot stuff?
Sixteen?
Give me a break! You’re on, bub. Put it right here.”

“Where?”

“Here. Not there. Unh-uh. Stop it, Harry. Now, you stop that right now. I’m going to count to a million, and you better—”

8

The next morning in the Monopoly coffee shop, Lavert pushed all six-foot-six of himself back from the table and asked,
“
How
long you said y’all been here?”

“Monday afternoon late,” said Harry. “Less than forty-eight hours. Why?”

“I just wondered how long you can eat garbage like this before you have to check into the hospital.”

Sam laughed. “Lavert, you’ve turned into a food snob. Just because you’re a great cook doesn’t mean—”

“Great isn’t the issue here. We’re just talking about survival, Sam. Honey, you know if G.T. was here,” General Taylor Johnson was his voudou-practicing ambulance driver of a girlfriend and one of Sam’s favorite people, “she’d put a hex on this kitchen. Close it down. Only way of saving people from the ptomaine.”

“You’re right, Big Man. There’s no decent food in this whole town,” mourned Harry. “The worst dive in New Orleans would be ashamed to—”

“Hey, bubba,” Sam interrupted. “Who wanted to come to Atlantic City?
I
could have weenied out, you know. We could be eating lobster in Edgartown—”

“Wait,” said Lavert. “Hold the boat. You don’t think I left home without a few recommendations from our friends in the business.”

“This is my man,” said Harry, attempting to throw his arm around Lavert, who’d been his friend since their days at Grambling, where Lavert had played football. “I knew he wouldn’t let us starve. Who’d you get these from, bro?”

“Well, actually”—Lavert shifted in his seat, feeling Sam’s eyes on him—“it’s only one.”

“Some mob hangout Joey the Horse turned you on to, am I right, Lavert?” said Sam.

“This woman is bad,” Lavert said to Harry. “Anybody ever warn you about her? Bad. Not a drop of the blood of Christian fellowship in her entire body.”

“Cut to the chase.” Sam grinned. “Where are you taking us for lunch, and what’s the password?”

“It’s dinner actually, early, before the show. Ma couldn’t make it for lunch.”

Ma? Lavert’s mother was in town?

“Naaaw. Ma’s Michelangelo Amato.”

“What’d I tell you, Harry?”

“Ma’s not mob. I swear to God. He’s in the pizza business.”

“Right. What else does he do? Pick up things that fall off the backs of trucks? Save the sanitation department the trouble?”

Lavert shook his head at Harry. “You let her put you through changes like this all the time? I’d fling her pretty bones across the table.” At that they all laughed, for Lavert—despite the time he’d spent at Angola, Louisiana’s state penitentiary, for removing tourists’ extra weight, as in wallets, pearls, and gold watches—was the gentlest of men. “And he
owns
a bunch of trucks.”

“Pizza parlors and trucking in AC and he’s a friend of Joey the Horse. Come on, Lavert.”

“You know what else?” Lavert’s face beamed. “He’s a great painter.”

Both of his friends cracked up.

“No, really. Nudes. There are a couple hanging in the dining room of Va Bene, his club. You’ll see.”

“I can’t eat dinner with a mobster,” said Sam.

“How many times do I have to tell you? He’s
not
a mobster. You’re suffering from a common problem of WASP debutantes, you know that? Going around categorizing folks. I guess you think everybody who’s black’s gonna mug you?”

“Give it up, Lavert.”

“And you think all Italians are mob? I have some Italian friends who get awfully sick of that stuff.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He was making her a little uncomfortable.

“I’m telling you, I bet more than one of the august members of the Atlantic City police force has tied on the old feedbag with Ma and been damned grateful for it. Maybe you’d rather have another meal in this hotel.”

“Cripes! Enough. You’re making me sound like a card-carrying member of the Klan. You’re right. Forget what I just said. What’d you say the club’s called?”

“Va Bene. Means ‘all right.’ Like—how y’all? You say,
va bene.
It used to be called Tiro a Segno, but there was a falling out among some of the members, and they went away and formed their own club and took the name with ’em, so—”

“That’s pretty,” said Sam. “Tiro a Segno. And it means—?”

“‘Shoot the target.’” Lavert held up a huge hand, but it was too late.

“Uh-huh.” Sam nodded. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”

“It’s not what you think. It’s a hunting club. There are chapters all over Italy—”

“Forget it, Lavert. Just shut up and take us to dinner and we’ll be grateful,” said Harry.

“They don’t hunt anymore, though there’s still target shooting in the basement.” Lavert couldn’t let it go.

Sam was shaking her head in disbelief, still laughing.

Harry said, “Look at her. You’re just making it worse, man.”

“I already talked with Ma, and he really wants to meet you, Sammy,” said Lavert.

“Meet
me?
He wants me to ghost his autobiography ‘I Was a Close Personal Friend of the Mob’?”

“Maybe, if you’re good. Nawh, he likes to talk about all this Miss America stuff.”

“Michelangelo is a Miss America buff? And he paints nudes? Oh, my God! I know you didn’t make this up. It’s too good.”

Harry and Lavert just stared at her.