She Walks in Beauty (20 page)

“Georgette Mosbacher.” Sam suddenly realized who Connors reminded her of. “You’ve heard that before?”

“Yeah, yeah. Matter of fact, I’ve got this secret admirer, sends me flowers every day, said that in a note. Of course, he probably sends posies to
all
of us, hoping maybe one of us’ll roll over.”

Trolling, like Hoke Tolliver with his line,
Wanta do it?
Or like Kurt Roberts—?

“Ever get any offers from the judges?”

Connors rolled her eyes. “Well, you know we had that mess back in Texas a couple of years back.”

The Texas pageant director had been accused of making improper advances to the girls. “Either of you see any of that?”

No. “Lots of the guys in the business are gay anyway, you know?” Magic said. “For them it’s just another drag show, another brand of show biz.”

“How about here in Atlantic City? Any of the judges—?”

The hostesses both cleared their throats.

Connors ignored them. “I see you’ve met the
wonderful
Kurt Roberts.”

Did he hit on the contestants?

“What was that line about that Watergate reporter, whatsiz-name, the one who fooled around on his wife when she was pregnant—he’d screw a Venetian blind? That’s your Mr. Roberts. He’s a total joke.”

“You don’t think any girls would be tempted to take him up on it, seeing as how he could do them so much good—?”

“Maybe.” Magic shrugged.
“
I
don’t know any who would, but you never can tell. But what’s the diff? I mean, he seems to have exited stage right, you know?”

“You sure you didn’t disappear him, Magic?” teased Connors.

“I wouldn’t waste the energy.”

“Now, that’s an interesting idea—” Sam was thinking aloud. What if he made promises to more than one girl in return for her favors, and they compared notes and caught on to him?

“We’re great at poking our noses in other folks’ business,” said Connors. “You want to know if we hear anything?”

“Girls—” The hostesses were signaling. It was time to go. Sam signed for the check.

“Yeah,” said Magic, back out on the sidewalk. “I’ve got to get up to my room for a few minutes anyway, see if Denzel sent me roses again.”

“She’s just pulling your chain,” said Connors. “Denzel is true blue. Though you’d be surprised who turns up if you make it this far. Every man with a roll of hundreds in his pocket and his age bigger than his waistband thinks he can own one of us, he throws a little gold around.”

“And you don’t intend to be owned?” said Sam.

“I don’t even intend to be rented. That’s one thing about growing up a Texas woman, you learn quick, you got any wits about you at all.”

“That Lady Day knew what she was talking about,” added Magic.

“What’s that?”

God bless the child who’s got her own,
they whistled. The Girlfriends were a mean duo.

14

“So, my man,” said Dougie, plopping himself down big-as-you-please beside Wayne in the Monopoly employees’ cafeteria.

Dougie had a way of just making himself at home that really scorched Wayne. He thought it was rude.

“How they hanging?”

Wayne didn’t even bother to answer. He just kept on eating his burger, washing it down with gulps of cola. He’d think about something he liked, fountain cherry colas and French fries with lots of ketchup at the Walgreen’s when he was a little kid, that’d do it, keep his mind off Dougie so he didn’t turn around and put his fist through the wuss’s mouth.

“So.” Dougie leaned closer. Wayne could smell his breath mints. In Wayne’s opinion, only drunks and fairies used the things. He thought the Certs people ought to be bombed. If he could ever find their factory, he would—by remote.

Or maybe he’d blow up Dougie. Now, that would be a sight. Little bits of Dougie so fine you’d think somebody just sneezed on you. The thought made Wayne grin.

“Glad to see you feeling so good.” Dougie slapped him on the back. “I guess you
love
working for Uncle Tru.”

Uncle Tru. He always called Mr. F that. In case you’d forgotten that
he
was the Only Begotten Nephew.

Just about then Big Gloria strolled by.

“Hey, Gloria,” Wayne called to her. He liked Gloria. She made him laugh. And, he thought, she probably had the hots for him since she’d seen him land a good one on that pretty boy out in the hall yesterday. She’d probably want to be laying something sweet on him. He ought to chat her up. Besides which, he’d do anything so Dougie would stop talking to him.

But Gloria shook her head and kept moving. Her face had a great big frown on it. What the hell? Probably her time of the month. Women. All in all, they were more trouble than they were worth.

“So?” Dougie
always
started that way. So? So? So? Wayne really wanted to belt him. “So I guess you get lots of good stuff on your tapes, huh, Wayne? You keep copies of the really hot ones, or you just erase them after you’ve checked them out?”

Dougie had that look on his face like he’d like to come up and watch Wayne’s tapes. All of them. Any of them. Yeah, Wayne had seen his kind before. Just liked to watch. Wayne liked to watch, too, but he had a purpose. It was his job, part of his innate worth to Mr. F.

“Uh-huh,” Wayne grunted. “I got every high-roller suite in the whole place wired. Mr. F keeps his finger on the pulses that way. You know, you see the guys practicing, the ones who count cards. It’s not just stealing towels, you know.” Maybe if he threw Dougie something, anything, he’d go away.

“Uncle Tru says you can make people do things, too, with that subliminal stuff. He said you’re a regular electronic wizard. Tell me about it.” Dougie cozied closer, close enough to kiss him on the mouth.

Wayne jerked back. Guys around them were gonna start moving away too, maintenance guys over at the next table’d think Wayne was some kind of fruit.

“It’s nothing,” Wayne mumbled.

“What’d you make them do, Wayne? Come on, tell Dougie.”

Tell Dougie. Tell Dougie. He’d tell Dougie, all right. “I work magic. I make ’em think they can do anything,” Wayne blurted.

“Really? Gee, Wayne.” Dougie scratched the top of his pointed little head. “Like what?”

“Like break the bank. Like walk on water.”

“Walk on water, that’s great.”

“Yeah, just like you. I make ’em think they’re Jesus Christ, Mary, and Joseph rolled into one worthless little fart.”

It took Dougie a minute to get it, to realize that Wayne had actually had the nerve to insult him. With that, Dougie jumped up and stomped out of the cafeteria on his short legs, his shoulders stiff and huffy in his navy blue blazer.

The guys from maintenance over at the next table, who’d also had a bellyful of Dougie’s guff, were laughing like crazy. “Way to go, Wayne,” one of them hollered.

Wayne gave him the high sign, then went back to his third burger. He was seriously thinking about getting up and grabbing another order of fries.

Then his pale blue eyes narrowed into slits as his mind slid back to what he’d said to Dougie. Yeah, he had. He’d worked some magic, all right. Or almost. It was tougher to do in actuality than on the video monitor.

Oh, well. So sometimes things didn’t work out
exactly
as you’d planned. He took another bite of his burger.

15

“This is highly irregular,” said the big woman in the Miss America sweatshirt posted at the door to backstage. “I’ll have to call Barbara Stein. You know, the governor of New Jersey was thrown out of the wings a few years back, and all he wanted was a soft drink.
No one
is allowed back here.”

Now, that was a crock and Sam knew it.

“There’ve been press tours all week.”

Sam held her ground.

“Last week. And on Monday.”

“I wasn’t here last week or Monday.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Could you call Barbara Stein, please?” Sam pointed at Florence’s phone. That’s what her nametag said.

Florence stared at the phone, then at Sam, back at the phone, and finally made a top-level security decision. “Barb’s very busy,” she muttered as she dialed, turning her body so Sam couldn’t see the number—in case she wanted to call up Barbara and squander her time chatting about bugle beads, Sam supposed. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay. Roger.” She glared at Sam.
“
June
will take you.”

After all that, the dressing room was hardly worth the ruckus. Sam didn’t know what she was expecting to see—marabou-trimmed dressing gowns, sweating silver champagne buckets, ladies’ maids in little black-and-white ruffled uniforms sneaking smokes while their charges weren’t around. But that was old Hollywood. This was a long narrow room filled with three rows of battered wooden dressing tables, rickety chairs, iron-pipe clothing racks. Chopped celery and carrots and yogurt and granola littered a snack table—along with a respectable showing of junk food. Garment bags hung about. White swimsuits dangled from clothes hangers, their bosoms puffed like pouter pigeons. Despite the feminine footprints through spilled face powder, the blue boxes of Tampax everywhere (since every girl got her period the minute she hit town, according to June), there was something about the place that reminded Sam of the boxing gym where she’d once interviewed a contender. Maybe it was the depressingly dim lights, the steam pipes, the seediness. More likely it was the smell of nervous perspiration that lingered behind the girls who were now up on the big stage practicing their smiling, turning, posing, prancing.

Sleepy Hollow, another flight up, was a large dark room with shades drawn over large windows overlooking the ocean. It held 20 single iron beds covered with pastel blankets where the girls, worn out by smiling, turning, posing, and prancing grabbed catnaps.

“Looks like a women’s shelter,” Sam said to June.

“A what?”

She couldn’t believe June had never heard the term before, but then she took a closer look at the shiny pageboy, gray silk dress, nude stockings, neat black pumps, diamond studs. Anything was possible.

June blinked, then said brightly, “I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I’m the chief backstage hostess. I started out doing seating at the luncheons.”

“So you worked your way up?” Oh, the worlds and worlds and worlds.

“Yes, along with the head of the dressing room crew, I’m in charge of all this.” She waved a hand at her empire. “And solely responsible for Sleepy Hollow.”

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.”