She Walks in Beauty (32 page)

Connected to what, Wayne asked.

Like, connected, man. Hey, what happened to your face? Somebody pop you?

Wayne looked all around, then said the words out of the corner of his mouth, what he thought Dean meant. Connected to the—you know?

Shhhhhhh. Never say that aloud.

So, the guy paid you a lot?

Dean nodded.

So why? So what did he want the show for? So maybe he had some special interest, like Mr. F. Wouldn’t that be something? So, so, so, he was starting to sound like Dougie.

Dean put a finger to his lips. You never ask, he said.

Well, like, would he, huh? There might be something in this. Like something Wayne could offer up to Mr. F that would make him be not so mad at him about losing the equipment and the tapes. Not that
he
lost them, but they were in Action Central, which was
his
responsibility.

Dean said he didn’t know. It’d be tricky to ask any questions, considering.

Wayne reached in his pocket and found a Franklin. That was one thing about working for Mr. F. No problem with cash flow.

Dean said it’d be a reach, but he’d see what he could do.

30

You could say peanut butter all you wanted to, but that didn’t mean somebody was going to hand you a sandwich—or any information. The woman who had taken Kurt Roberts’s message at the pageant switchboard had nothing to give Sam. No, she’d never talked with Mr. Roberts before, so she had no reason to think it was really him on the phone, but then she didn’t have any reason to think it wasn’t either. Sam could tell from her tone that the woman thought Sam was inordinately suspicious. The way big-city people are. And she found it unattractive.

From the top, she said, in response to Sam’s prodding, and no, she most certainly did not tape-record calls, why on earth would she do that, she wrote them down on pink message slips and that was good enough for anybody around here, Mr. Roberts called and said he had received a call from New York and he had to return on business. He didn’t sound strange. No, he didn’t. But then, she didn’t know what would be strange—for him. He sounded regretful, as would anybody in his right mind who had to leave the pageant and was letting people down. Maybe a little like he had a cold. That was all she remembered. You know, this was their very busiest time of year, it was like working the switchboard at Grand Central Station and Christmas at Macy’s rolled into one, she imagined, and she couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of every call.

But Sam knew the phone company’s records of the Monopoly’s calls would show that call from New York. Except there was no way to access them unless the police were investigating a missing person, and no one seemed to care enough to file the report. Not his office, his mom, his girlfriend, certainly not Cindy Lou, not the pageant.

Okay. The handwriting was on the wall. She was giving this thing up, just like Cindy Lou had suggested—right after she talked with Big Gloria.

*

Harry already asked all that, said Gloria, when Sam found her sipping on a diet cola in her little office, taking a break from her supervising duties. Gloria kept on flipping the pages of her magazine, the one that gave detailed plans for turning garages into family rooms, thinking maybe if she was rude, since Sam was Southern and could tell the difference, she’d go away.

The more folks came poking around in her business, asking questions about that Kurt Roberts, the more Gloria was thinking maybe she’d take the stash she had—what Harry had won her, plus the $5K stuffed under her mattress—and head for New Orleans. She’d call Aunt Beautiful, who lived in the Faubourg Marigny, tell her to pull out the guest sheets and start making her some gumbo, she was coming home.

That way, no matter what had happened to Roberts, even if it was nothing, she’d have Junior back where things were real. Where there was family and a
real
city, been there since the Spanish and the French, with
real
traditions and customs and beliefs, not a make-believe place like Atlantic City with a false front on it, the Boardwalk and the casinos, like one of those movie sets.

Which got Big Gloria to thinking, who made them—movie sets? Who built those things? And how real did they make them, or was it like she’d read about the food you saw in magazines, it looked good but you couldn’t eat it? Maybe she’d ask Junior’s friend Rashad, who knew a lot about movies.

But what was this Samantha Adams asking her now? Big Gloria pulled back from Hollywood and heard this: Had anybody else come around looking for Kurt Roberts?

And then Big Gloria said yes. Yes, there was. Somebody she’d completely forgotten about till Sam asked the question just like that. There was that old man with the limp who had come around, when was that, Tuesday, she thought. Yes, it must have been Tuesday, because now she remembered thinking about it when she saw that woman who reminded her of a Kewpie doll who said she was looking for Miss New Jersey, Big Gloria wasn’t ever sure
what
she was up to, and then there was Wayne busting Harry in the lip. That was all on the same day.

That, and Junior getting pushed in the pool by Kurt Roberts, but she wasn’t bringing
that
up, for sure.

What? said Sam. What? A Kewpie doll and Miss New Jersey and
who
busted Harry in the lip?
What
man with a limp?

Yeah, said Gloria, seizing on that last and hoping she’d give Sam enough that she’d just trot her curious self away. The man with the limp was old. Wearing a white shirt and black pants and one of those beige windbreakers like old guys always do.

And what else?

Well, he gave me some money to call him if I saw that Mr. Roberts, said Gloria.

He did?
Samantha was looking really excited. Good. Gloria could tell she was on the right track here, feeding her something that would lead her far, far away from Junior. Because she didn’t think Junior knew Angelo.

She did, of course, know him, that is. She’d bought pizza in his place plenty of times on her way home when she was too tired to cook. His place, Tommy’s, on the edge of Ducktown made really good pizza pie, lots better than those chains, your Dominos. Angelo didn’t recognize
her,
of course. A man like him would never pay any attention to just another maid.

Yeah, said Gloria. Ange gave me, I think it was $20.

Ange? Ange? You mean you
know
this man?

Gloria couldn’t see that it would do any harm to tell her, so she did. She also told her that people said there was gambling went on in Tommy’s, the name of the place the old man Angelo ran. So maybe Sam might want to be careful if she went over there to talk to him.

31

It wasn’t 15 minutes after Sam had gathered up her notebook and her bag and scooted out like a scalded cat that Big Gloria crossed her arms across her ample chest and narrowed her eyes at another woman tripping down the hall. Well, looka here. At least Miss Kewpie Doll had the right floor this time if she was going to drag out that tired story about being a hostess looking for Miss New Jersey.

“May I help you, ma’am?” Big Gloria put on her Southern accent like it was a Sunday-go-to-meeting frock. She wasn’t above camping it up to keep herself amused.

Miss Kewpie Doll opened her mouth. She was wearing the same pale lipstick as before, outlined dark, and a flowing purple silk shirt above skintight black pants and black catch-me do-me pumps. All of a sudden she recognized Gloria from their earlier encounter on the 18th floor, and her mouth fell shut.

It crumpled at the corners, and big tears filled her eyes.

Big Gloria had seen that look more than once. This woman’s heart was broken. Oh, shoot. As if Big Gloria didn’t have enough on her plate. But she found herself reaching out for Kewpie. “Sugar pie, what’s wrong with you? What has that old booger gone and done?”

That was all it took. Miss Kewpie Doll, who actually was and always had been Darleen Carroll, dissolved in Big Gloria’s arms.

“Every time I turn around, he’s gone, and when he’s there, he’s whispering on the phone,” Darleen sobbed. “It makes me feel like dog doo-doo. He’s screwed around before, but never right in my face. He doesn’t even have the common decency to hide it anymore. And I’m embarrassed that I even care.”

Darleen’s black mascara tracked lava flows down her cheeks. She reminded Big Gloria of Tammy Faye Bakker, the wife of that TV evangelist.

Big Gloria took Darleen by the arm and led her into a maid’s room, plopped her down on a big trolley of clean white cotton sheets, and said, looking at Darleen closely, “Didn’t I see you that day at the pool?”

“What day?” Darleen wailed.

“Tuesday, when my Junior almost drowned.” Darleen’s tears had made Gloria forget she was never going to remind anyone of that incident again.

“Oh.” Darleen stopped her sobbing and gave Big Gloria her full attention. “That was
your
son?”

Gloria handed her a clean washcloth with
Monopoly
embroidered on it, white on white. “Junior. Uh-huh. He’s a good boy really, but half the time I want to kill him. Be glad you got yourself a girl. Girls are easier.”

“That’s what
you
think. That was
your
son at the pool? Rachel Rose can’t stop talking about him.”

“No, don’t tell me. The pretty little blond girl who was at the pool?” The one who Junior said he’d been with Tuesday night. This woman’s daughter was Junior’s alibi.

“That’s the one,” said Darleen, and the two women sat and stared at one another for a long moment.

“My son and your daughter,” Big Gloria said finally. “Oh, Lord.”

“Oh, Lord is right.” Darleen, smiling a little now, reached over and gave Big Gloria’s arm a squeeze. “I think Rachel Rose is showing her mom’s good taste, but her daddy—”

Big Gloria still didn’t have a clue who Darleen’s husband was, had no idea that he was the emcee of her favorite game show. “He’s gonna kill her, right?”

“Right.”

“And
you
want to kill
him
?”

Darleen ran her cat-pink tongue along her teeth as if to test their sharp edges. “I want to cut his liver out and eat it for breakfast.”

“Over this Miss New Jersey? Is that really who you’re looking for, honey?”

“Over lots of Miss New Jerseys. She’s just the latest in a long line.”

“God, I hate that. My husband, Junior’s father, was famous for his tomcatting.”

“And you married him anyway?”

“Well, you know how it is. You don’t think he’s gonna be slipping around on
you
.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

They both stared off into the distance for a few minutes. Then Big Gloria reached into the pocket of her uniform and pulled out a pack of Kools. She offered one to Darleen.

“No, thank you. I stopped a long time ago.”

“Me, too,” said Big Gloria, lighting up.

“Though maybe…”

Gloria lit one, handed it to her, and they smoked and thought about the men in their lives. Then Big Gloria blew a series of three perfect smoke rings.

“Neat.”

“I know lots of neat tricks.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Oh—I’m real handy.” Big Gloria held her cigarette out at arm’s length and studied its tip, considering—“I’m good at painting, plumbing, plastering. I do dry wall, a little electrical. What I really love is fine cabinetry.” Just saying the words brought the feel of the smooth wood to her hands. That’s what she was going to do, the first thing, when she got to New Orleans. Buy herself some wood and build Aunt Beautiful something. Then see about setting herself up in some kind of building business. Not have to ever talk to crazy people again. Just saw and hammer and glue and plane, that clean smell of wood filling her head, get Junior in some kind of program, teach him a skill, too, he’d have something to fall back on, help him get himself through college. Now
that
was an idea.

“Dear God,” said Darleen. “Do you really?”

“Really what, honey?”

“Do you really know how to do all those things?”

“Sure do. I don’t get much of chance around here, except at my own house.”

“I’m an interior designer,” Darleen said brightly. “In Newport Beach.”

Big Gloria nodded. She didn’t have a clue where Newport Beach was or that it was inhabited by thousands of Republicans with more money than good sense whose second or third wives had lots of time on their hands for things like nail wrapping, body sculpting, and—when they finished with their bods—redoing their houses.

“I have a terrible time finding good people to help me,” said Darleen carefully.

“Really?” Big Gloria lowered her chin and exhaled through her nose.

“The weather’s nice in southern California all year long,” said Darleen. “So there’s hardly ever a day a person—a person who wants to work—can’t.”