She Walks in Beauty (26 page)

Jesus!

21

Wayne leaned back in his leather chair—black calf, cushy—exactly like Mr. F’s behind his desk, and watched Mr. F’s favorite girl up on that big stage singing her heart out.

She was good! Better than she had to be considering all the trouble that Wayne had gone to to make sure she’d win.

Not that he minded. Planting the subliminals and watching them work, now, that he loved. Those judges didn’t have a chance against the messages Wayne was bombarding them with night and day. Though he was worried about how little time he was going to have to program the final judges. They didn’t even check in until tomorrow night. Their tapes were done—Mr. F’s favorite girl walking down that runway with the crown on, over and over and over, the one from when she’d won her state, but they wouldn’t know that. The tape would run, without the sound, mixed into their TV signals. An audiotape he’d dubbed—“and the new Miss America is,” with her name—would play on an endless loop while they were sleeping.

But would it be enough?

Wayne gnawed on a fingernail. He wanted to talk with Mr. F about that. He thought maybe they ought to try some other kind of intervention, though he wasn’t sure what. And then there was that business of that bimbo judge telling that woman reporter there was a voice in her room. A woman who drank that much—you wouldn’t think she’d notice.

Wayne was more than a little worried. He hoped that he could manage to see Mr. F privately
—without
Dougie—before too long. He’d take him up the tape he’d made of his girl winning, that would be his excuse.

Wayne looked up to the rack where he’d filed the tape.

And then he looked again.

He couldn’t believe it.

Oh, no! Christ on a crutch! No!

There was a blank space there. A
big
blank space. The tape for the final judges was gone, along with a couple of others.

Which ones? Oh, God. Wayne’s mind was reeling. He searched wildly around the room, flinging over his chair, spilling Coke. Maybe he’d just misplaced them. Maybe he’d taken them down and—but no. Of course he hadn’t.

That’s
what had happened when he was locked in the men’s room. He had thought it was just someone playing a practical joke. Then he focused on the equipment rack. Christ Almighty! His best camcorder, a professional deck, a computerized editing controller, and God knows what else were gone!

Action Central had been robbed!

Wayne reached over and grabbed up the two remaining cheeseburgers and stuffed them in his mouth. Oh, God. Mr. F was going to be
so
furious. And Dougie, Dougie would be jumping up and down.

Oh, yeah, Dougie would wet his pants over this one, all right.

Or
maybe
it was Dougie who—

“Hello. Hello?” Who was that knocking on the door? “Wayne, it’s Gloria. Are you in there? Could I come in and see you a minute? I brought you a little something.”

22

Sam wasn’t the least bit surprised Miss New Jersey took swimsuit. You could smell the excitement in the crowd when she’d stepped out on the stage with her platinum curls, big red smile, cleavage that ate Kansas. It made chills run up and down your spine, how much she looked like Marilyn, even down to the Jell-O-on-springs wiggle.

But she
was
surprised, amazed even, to see Billy Carroll standing in for Gary Collins. He was pretty awful. Phyllis George looked like she wanted to die—or kill him.

She was also surprised that Sally Griffin, the silver-haired beauty strategist from North Carolina, hadn’t shown up this evening. In her seat, flashing the badge she said Sally had loaned her, though Sam had to wonder why, was Mary Frances DeLaughter, Ph.D., the tall skinny redhead she’d seen outside Barbara Stein’s office whining about being robbed.

She was whining now, too. “These seats aren’t
nearly
as good as I thought they’d be. You have to kind of crane your neck—”

Which ought to be pretty easy for someone with a neck like hers. The V-necked tan blouse she was wearing didn’t do a thing for her. It was too bad Sally wasn’t here to do a little fashion consulting. Up on the stage Miss Minnesota was pounding out an abbreviated version of the
Moonlight Sonata.
Sam, whispering, introduced herself to Dr. DeLaughter. It never hurt to be polite. You could never tell where your next story might come from.

“Oooooh,” said Mary Frances. “I know you. I was in England researching serial murderers, and your name came up.”

See? The context wasn’t so nice, but Sam was rather an expert. She’d been a young reporter in the Bay Area in the seventies when there was a bumper crop of killers who went for quantity.

“Oh, yes. Everyone knew your name. It was bandied about among the feminist crowd at Oxford.”

Well.
That
would give the young whippersnapper from the
Inquirer
something to think about. Definitely a cut above this nonsense. Maybe instead of a true crime book, after she left the paper, she’d think about doing some research—

“And the case you made in your book for the sterilization of men who don’t support the children they’ve already spawned, well, I needn’t tell you—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Though I think maybe sterilization is too gentle. Castration would be more the ticket.”

“Mary Frances? I think you—”

“Now don’t be modest. I
hate
modesty.”

So did Miss Kentucky. Up on the stage the girl did a baton-twirling number in a costume that left nothing to the imagination. “Mary Frances, I didn’t write a book. Certainly not
that
book.”

“You didn’t?”

“You must have me confused with somebody else.”

“Really? Oh. Then, you mean you’re nobody?”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d—” But what was the point? Especially with the
Inquirer
snickering into her root beer. Sam was glad someone had mugged this twit. She hoped her belongings were floating out in the Gulf Stream right now.

“And now, Lucinda Washington, Miss Louisiana, who’s gonna show us how to really make a bunny hop! A magic bunny, that is!” Billy Carroll was shouting. He could make the Lord’s Prayer sound like a game show promo.

But even he couldn’t touch Lucinda. She glided, a black swan in a gown of molten silver, onto center stage to Pachabel’s “Canon in D”. A large purple velvet cloth edged with gold lay across her right forearm. In her left palm sat a large silver ball.

The music rose, Lucinda smiled, took the ball into her right hand to show you. It wasn’t attached.

Then she tucked the silver ball into the crook of her left forearm, about breast height. She pulled the velvet cloth tight with both hands and the ball rolled back and forth across the top of the cloth.

The audience went
oooooh!,
and the ball rolled right over the edge and hid beneath the purple velvet. It bumped around like a child under a sheet looking for a way out.

Awwwwwh!
the crowd cooed. Lucinda had them, if not the ball, in the palm of her hand.

Then the silver globe floated out again, and hung in thin air.

Lucinda tucked the purple velvet into her right hand, then opened the hand. The cloth was gone.

Good riddance!
The ball bobbled up and down.

The audience was delighted. Then the ball snuggled up to Lucinda, as many in the audience would have liked to do, danced up her right arm, kissed the back of her neck, then rolled down her left shoulder. It floated out from her fingertips, out, out, out (an
impossible
distance, said a master magician in the audience to his wife) over the heads of the judges.

And though they were supposed to maintain their cool no matter what, Julian Temple reached for the ball while Eloise Lemon whooped with delight.

The silvery globe twirled around the judges’ heads once, twice, while the crowd ooohed. Finally it floated back to Lucinda, who made the purple cloth reappear in her right hand and lassoed the ball.

Snared in the purple velvet, the ball struggled, it fought, until Lucinda flung the velvet wide, and, instead of the ball, out poured a cascade of shiny golden ribbons that pooled on the floor.

The silver ball was gone. The purple drape floated down.

Lucinda curtsied and smiled. She’d never said a word. It had been a spectacular performance, graceful as the most delicate
ballet.

The crowd went berserk.
Magic! Magic! Magic!
they called. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet.

The
Inquirer
shouted over the din. “What was that?”

The Zombie was the name of the trick. But
Magic!
was what the crowd shouted.
Magic!
was the one they loved.

23

“I don’t mean her any disrespect,” Angelo was saying to his cousin Willie. “Is that what he thinks?”

“You know Ma. He’s nuts on the subject of his mother.”

“I understand. But Sal’s been gone a long time. I thought I’d waited long enough.”

Willie reached across Angelo’s kitchen table and poured himself another glass. “So whaddya want?”

“Whaddya I want? Whaddya I’ve
always
wanted? To marry Angelina. Same thing I wanted since we were sixteen years old back in the neighborhood.”

“Come on. You didn’t want to
marry
her when you were sixteen, Ange. You were nothing but a hard-on.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t hardly remember that, it was so long ago. All I know now is, I’ve been alone my whole life, and I don’t want to die that way. I want to marry Angelina, bring her back to the old country, we’ll take my nephew’s place in Sicily—”

“You’re awfully old for moon/June, Ange.”

“A man’s too old for romance, he should kill himself.”

“Yeah, well, Ma’s gonna do that for you, you keep sniffing around his mom.”

Angelo smashed his glass down on the tabletop. Red wine sloshed onto the cloth. “I’m not sniffing around. Quit saying that.”

“Though—” Willie pulled on his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I got an idea. Listen, you know Ma is baby-sitting that DeLucca girl what’s here in the pageant. Big John’s niece.”

“Yeah?” Ange didn’t know, but that was okay. “And?”

“Ma’s got it in his head it would be a nice favor to Big John if the niece won the Miss America thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I was thinking, you know that fish we wuz looking for the other day, I was driving you, the one at the Monopoly you said owed you two bones—plus the vig?”

“Yeah?”

“Guess what he’s doing here?”

“I know what he’s doing here. He’s gambling—what any fish is doing here. I done business with him before, he comes down from New York. He come recommended.”

“Guess what else?”

“Tell me, Willie. You know I ain’t too bright.”

“He’s a Miss America judge.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ma follows the pageant, you know? He’s always talking about it. Tonight we wuz watching the show from the Convention Hall on closed circuit, in the car.”

“And you seen the fish? I ain’t seen him. I went back to the Monopoly, he’s split.”

“Naw, I didn’t see him. I was driving most of the time, anyway. But I seen his picture in one of them programs Ma left in the car.”

“That Roberts is a judge? You’re sure? Like he could fix this thing for me—I could give it to Ma for a gift he could give to Big John? Then Ma’d owe me a big one.”

“I think that’s what I’m saying, Ange.”

Angelo stood, knocked back the rest of his wine, and slammed the empty glass down on the table like a young man full of piss and vinegar. “Then what am I sitting around here talking to you for?”

24

“You could have stayed longer if you wanted,” Sam said to Harry as she stepped out of her black velvet pants.

He grinned. “And miss this floor show? Why would I want to do
that?”

“Because you were having a good time. Especially when you got into the Randy Newman.” Harry played a mean piano.

“Yeah. Looks like the delegations have a lot more fun than the girls, but then they don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

“Whereas we old broads can stay up forever.”

“There she goes again,” Harry said to Harpo. Then he whistled a few bars of “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” “Shall I call room service and ask for a wheelchair?”

“Nope. But some hot chocolate would be nice.”

Harry picked up the phone, then belly-flopped onto the big pink bed where Sam was now giving Harpo a doggie massage. “So who’s going to win?”