She Walks in Beauty (37 page)

Uh-huh. Right. Dreamed what? An apology for snitching her gown? Well, it was too late. Lana had already taken care of her and her buddy. Sometimes you couldn’t just say I’m sorry and walk away. Not if you crossed a DeLucca.

“Yesssss?” she smiled up at Magic.

“There’s good news and bad news. I’m going to give you the bad news first.”

Oh boy. She was really full of it, wasn’t she? Like all this mumbo jumbo magic bit
meant
something.

“Look at me, Lana,” Magic was saying. “Look into my eyes.”

Lana rolled her big browns at Rae Ann, who was standing there with her baby blues looking like saucers, her mouth open, gaping at Magic. Then Lana slowly, like she was bored to spit, met Magic’s. In that instant, a thrill shot straight through her. It was like brushing up against a live wire.

Magic said, “You need to be careful. Very careful. I think there’s someone trying to hurt you.”

Right. You, that’s who!

“So you stay on your toes. I heard about your dress last night, but that’s not the whole bad thing. That may be part of it—”

“Well, you ought to know,” Lana blurted.

“Why, Lana!” Rae Ann, who was still standing there, wasn’t used to people being so rude.

“You get away from me, Magic Washington! Get away and stay away! I’m warning you!” Heads snapped all over the dressing room.

Magic said, “You don’t understand.”

“I understand all I want to.” Lana picked up her hairbrush and waved it in front of her. “You back off. Do you hear me? Out of my face!”

Magic turned tail and strolled off, trying to look casual, but Lana knew she’d rattled her. Good! “There, there,” Rae Ann soothed.

She took the brush out of Lana’s hand. “You’re just going to upset yourself. Shuh. Shuh.” She ran the brush through Lana’s hair like she was soothing a baby. “This is no time to get yourself all upset. You’ve got to keep your concentration. Keep focused on winning.”

“Well, I know she’s the one who took my dress. She and that Connors. And then she comes sucking around, trying to freak me out with that mumbo jumbo.”

“I know that’s what you think, but that’s just nerves. Nobody’s trying to hurt you. Hush, now. Hush.” Rae Ann brushed and brushed. She hummed a little lullabye under her breath. And then she stopped.

“What?” said Lana.

“Nothing.”

“
What?”

“I was just wondering what the good news was. You know, the good news Magic mentioned.” And then Rae Ann looked down at the brush she was holding in her hand. “Oh, my God! Blessed Jesus!”

Rae Ann
never
took the Lord’s name in vain.

“What?”
Lana wheeled around.

Rae Ann, open-mouthed, held out the brush. It was filled with a handful of Lana’s long blond hair—snapped right off at the roots.

39

Wayne daydreamed a lot. He imagined all kinds of things. But never in his wildest had he painted this picture.

He was sitting in Action Central thinking about the conversation he’d had with the equipment van man, wondering if there was somebody else trying to fix the pageant and why, when all of a sudden, like the voice of God coming out of the wall, Mr. F says, “Wayne, I’d like to see you in my office right now.”

It was amazing. Wayne had never been on the receiving end of this voice thing. It really did feel like God talking to you. And, in this case, of course, it was, sort of—Mr. F being his daddy and his mama and his teacher and the Baby Jesus all rolled into one.

So he dropped his cola, stopped mid-bite of a cheeseburger, and hustled his butt over to the executive offices faster than a speeding bullet—that’s what Mr. F would say.

“He’s expecting you.” That’s what Crystal
had
to say. You could tell it really burned her.

“Come in, Wayne. Pull that door to behind you.” Mr. F was sitting in his black calf executive chair, the very one that Wayne had copied, wiping his little round rimless glasses with his left (and only) hand and a handkerchief monogrammed TUF in one corner. T-U-F. Wasn’t that something? Wayne had never known Mr. F’s middle name. On the top of Mr. F’s specially built desk, his trains were going. Sante Fe. Southern Pacific. B&O. Rolling stock. They were really something.

“Could I offer you some orange pop?” asked Mr. F.

“Why, yes. That’d be nice.” Wayne settled back in the chair Mr. F had waved him into, across the desk. It was black leather too, but with chrome. By Vanderow, he’d heard Mr. F tell somebody once. “I’d like some, thanks.” Wayne sneaked a peek around the room to make sure Dougie wasn’t hiding in a corner. He didn’t seem to be. Well, that was good. It was about time he and Mr. F had a heart-to-heart. There were lots of things he wanted to tell him, and Dougie’s double-dealing, sneaking and hiding and stealing were right up there at the top of the list.

“You know, Wayne, I’ve been thinking it’s about time we had a heart-to-heart. Laid a few cards on the table.”

Wayne was absolutely amazed. No wonder the man was a billionaire. He was also a mind-reading genius.

“Wayne, one of the things you learn if you hang around this gambling business very long is when to hold and when to fold. And when to pull in your horns.”

Wayne nodded. He wasn’t sure what Mr. F was getting at, but he knew he’d figure it out. As long as Mr. F hadn’t started out yelling at him about those tapes, well, Wayne was happy.

“They’ve always said that this business is recession-proof, but it looks like that may not be the case. We’ve got shallow pockets all over the place.”

Shallow pockets. Wayne tried to picture them.

“What we’ve got here is a trickle down.”

Wayne saw a leaky faucet.

“It all snowballs.”

That was easy.

“We all took it in the shorts from Trump, just for starters.”

Wayne winced and crossed his legs.

“You know, the man overdeveloped. Already had two casinos, he opened the Taj, just a monument to his dick. It didn’t bring more business into the city. All it did was divide it up, take from the rest of us. And we’re not going to get the business back till he folds one.”

Wayne saw the Donald standing in a corner. Holding his dick. Everybody pointing at him.

“On top of that, we got this oil business. Crazy Arabs, oil prices go up, gasoline goes up, we don’t get the drivers.”

Wayne saw cars full of gamblers turning around on the Garden State, heading back home.

“Your high rollers, they gamble discretionary income.”

Wayne got a blank screen on that one.

“Person owns his own business, he’s cutting back, because he’s not bringing in as much.”

Okay, Wayne could see that guy, frown on his face, staring at his cash register.

“You’d be surprised, the variables. Bad weather, they stay home. Flu season, they stay home. War. Football playoffs. Super Bowl. Then freaks like this Reverend Dunwoodie, that’s very bad for business, Wayne. Man shut the expressway down two hours yesterday, cost us a million.
Us!
And that kind of stuff spills over. People don’t want to be around trouble, especially with the coloreds.”

Wayne could see the solution to that. Just get an 18-wheeler, run that sucker over.

“The players who keep coming, high or low, are the retirees on a fixed income who pop over every other week for entertainment. They’re still coming in droves.”

Wayne could sure see that. Those AARPs on the buses with their coupons in their spotty old hands.

“We’re cutting back on the buses, cutting back on the free chips and meal vouchers. Lots of those grandmas just play those freebies, gobble the meals and get back on the bus.”

Shame on them.
No free lunch.
Everybody knew that one.

“So here’s what we got. We don’t want to cut back too much on marketing because we don’t want to lose market share. But we’ve got to trim expenses where we can. And back-of-the-house is the most sensible place to start.”

Wayne saw a big pair of scissors. He nodded at Mr. F who was looking right at him through his little rimless glasses.

“Well, I really do appreciate your taking this so well, Wayne. I knew if I explained it to you, you’d understand.”

Understand? Understand what?

Mr. F was around the desk now, handing him an envelope and shaking his hand. Which was always kind of awkward, because you had to remember to give him your left.

“We’re going to miss you, Wayne. You’ve been a real integral part of FrankFair Enterprises, and believe it or not, this hurts me a lot more than it hurts you.”

That’s exactly what his mama used to say when she beat him bloody with a belt, the one she said had belonged to his daddy. Exactly.

40

So, Scoop, Sam said to herself staring out the windows of her hotel room at the surf. What are you going to write today for the folks back home about The Miss America Pageant: A Scholarship Program?

Tuesday Rae Ann had won talent. Wednesday she became Miss Fruit of the Loom. Last night’s story Sam had recapped, interviewing all the preliminary winners: Rae Ann again, Magic, Connors and Lana, Florida and California. She’d re-explained the judging system. She’d done a sidebar on Cheryl Prewitt Salem, the gospel-singing Miss America 1980, swimsuit manufacturer, and Rae Ann’s favorite role model.

Rae Ann had held forth about how serious she felt about being a role model herself. How she had to be on her toes all the time. She couldn’t ever curse, not that she ever did anyway, but you could never tell when the devil might put a bad word in your mouth. You had to have good values and handle yourself well. You had to be an angel.

Sam had debated whether or not to quote her. But what was the alternative? She could leave it out, but she couldn’t make it up.

What the hell? So Rae Ann wasn’t a brain surgeon. Neither were most of the
Constitution
’s
readers.

But today was the tough one. There was no competition, only the parade at five. She could cover the trade show. Michelangelo had convinced her there was no book on Miss A. How about the psychology of losing? Each year 250,000 girls participating in feeder pageants, aiming at the Big Tiara, all of them losing except one.

Then, there was the phone. It was Harry, probably, checking in from his morning adventures with Lavert. Twisting her tail about Kurt Roberts. Or maybe Michelangelo calling to say, Yes, Ange found Roberts, and he killed him and now you can go collect the $1500 from your cute boyfriend and his big buddy. Harpo stood at her feet, indignation curling his little black lips. He hated loud noises.

“Hello?”

Son of a gun, it was Cindy Lou Jacklin.

“Listen,” Cindy Lou said, “I wanted to apologize for being so rude to you yesterday. I was having a bad—”

“Hey, that’s okay.”

“—day and I was so worried about Kurt, and I thought that you thought that I had
done
something to him. And I feel so silly, telling you that stupid story about voices. I think it must have been a bad dream, but that’s all okay now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel so much better now that Kurt called. You know, it had been over two days, and—”

“He
what
?”

“He called. You know, he can be
so
sweet, and he said he was
so
sorry he—”

“Where
is
he?”

“I’m
trying
to tell you!”

“I’m sorry. Is he okay?”

“Of
course
he is. He said he had no idea anybody would be worried about him. But then, nobody was, really, except me. And you.”

“Where
is
he, Cindy Lou?”

“In the Bahamas. He got a last-minute call that a story he had done down there, well, all the film got destroyed in some kind of accident at
Vogue,
and it was for a cover story on deadline. So he had to get everybody together again and go down and redo it.”

So. So why wasn’t she thrilled? Because she hated to admit she was wrong? Boy, did that suck.

“I’m flying down Sunday morning to join him. Isn’t that great?”

“Sure is.”

Way to go, Cindy Lou. Fly right down into the arms of that sucker, see if he’ll break one of yours.

I’m a dreadful loser, Harpo, she said to the little dog after Cindy Lou hung up. A spoilsport who cannot stand to be wrong. And Harry’s never, ever going to let me forget this one.

Harpo pounced on his squeeze toy, a rubber hamburger. He dropped it on her foot and barked.

Good idea, she said, tossing the toy across the room for the little dog, who rarely spoke.
You
tell Harry. I’m not.

41

“This is crazy, you know that?” said Angelina Amato, strolling down the Boardwalk. “In broad daylight.”