She Walks in Beauty (45 page)

“Yes, I do.” Sam was holding her breath. This was connected to Wayne somehow. How? “What did the police say when you told them that, Mary Frances?”

“Police?”

It wasn’t possible. “You just came from the police, didn’t you?”

“I did not. When I was mugged they didn’t do a damned thing except waste my time. I helped this policeman fill out a dozen reports, and he never even had the courtesy to call me back. They didn’t find my wallet or my tape recorder, so I was set back in my research. So this time, I said to myself, forget it, Mary Frances. You’re not hurt. And you’re not missing the finals. I’m seeing Miss America crowned if it kills me!”

Sam and the
Inquirer
and
USA Today
stared at one another over Mary Frances’s head. Then Sam excused herself. She had to make a couple of phone calls.

*

Back in the dressing room, all hell had broken loose. “You mean we won’t go on?” Miss Alaska was practically hysterical. “If they can’t find her, we won’t go on? But what will we do?” Then the young lady from the frozen North got down on her hands and knees and searched under the dressing table as if Miss New Jersey might be hiding there.

“I think we should pray,” said Rae Ann.

“Better yet, let’s form a posse and go round her up,” said Connors. “She’s probably just shacked up somewhere and lost track of time.”

“No,” said Magic with
that
look on her face. “She’s not shacked up. I think she’s
locked
up somewhere. Somewhere close by.” She took a deep breath. “I smell grapes.”

*

“This was a terrible misunderstanding,” said Michelangelo, handing Darleen into the back seat of the Lincoln. “Angelo will pay for this.”

“Oh, well,” Darleen said, smiling from up under her eyelashes at the darkly handsome semi-mobster who made her heart race like she was 16 again. “People make mistakes. I don’t think you should be too hard on him. You do know why he did it, don’t you?”

Ma directed Willie to take them to Convention Hall. Then, he answered Darleen, “No, I don’t, and I don’t care. He could have
hurt
you. The man’s dangerous.”

“Well, he treated me like a newborn babe, except, of course, when he grabbed me. But what he said was, he thought if he could fix it so Miss New Jersey would win, you’d be happy and wouldn’t mind if he wooed your mother.”

Ma slammed his fist down on the seat between them. Darleen jumped, and he was embarrassed. Not a good start at turning over a new leaf, but this was his blood. “He can forget my mother.”

“Now,” Darleen soothed, “you shouldn’t be like that. He told me all about how he’s loved her since he was sixteen years old. Don’t you think it’s time you let him have his chance? Besides, he
said
she loves him, too.”

Michelangelo shrugged. She might be an angel, but she wasn’t Italian. She didn’t understand.

“I think it’s awful,” Darleen went on like she was talking about the weather, “when people are close-minded. When they don’t grow. Never change.” Then she looked down at her feet and wiggled her bare toes. Could he drop her by the Monopoly? She needed to get some shoes before she went to the show. Then, she added under her breath, first thing in the morning, she was going to call her lawyer, start her divorce.

Divorce.
What a beautiful word. “Willie,” he tapped on the glass. “The Monopoly.”

“Sure, boss. But, you forgot about Lana?”

Oh, shit! Oh, shoot! He had. Not that he much cared—not now. “Miss New Jersey,” he explained to his dear heart, “she’s missing in action.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Disappeared. No one can find her. Barbara Stein with the pageant called me because I’m—sort of Lana’s sponsor. You’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get in touch with that Barbara Stein.” Ma reached for the phone, but stopped when Darleen grabbed his arm.

“Oh, my God, Michelangelo! My God!”

*

Melanie, who weighed 300 pounds, put down the joint she was smoking and turned to Sylvester, the Monopoly’s other switchboard operator. “I’ve got a woman here, says she’s Miss Louisiana and says we’ve got Miss New Jersey locked in the wine cellar. Is that like the one about Prince Albert in the can?”

“I don’t know.” Sylvester, who worked another job as a bartender and had heard it all, shrugged. “I’ve got one too, on my line, says the same thing. Must be
some
party.
He
says she’s in Franken’s personal cellar.
Real
pushy. I hate that type. Wants me to call the g.m. and says I better do it now. What do you think, Mel?”

“We’ll flip. Heads, we get her out. Tails, let the bitch rot. I think this pageant stuff is so stupid anyway. I mean, you ever see any
big
girls up there?”

*

Billy Carroll was sweating bullets. It wasn’t bad enough he had the Angelo thing to worry about. And Darleen, they’d nabbed her, Christ! His kneecaps were one thing, but Angelo was threatening to off his wife if he didn’t do him the favor he’d promised.

And now, they’re telling him backstage that the show might be delayed for a few minutes because one of the girls is missing. But it can’t be delayed! It’s live! He’d have to improvise! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! That time a couple of years ago, the judges couldn’t decide who the winner was, and Gary Collins had to fill in like 10 minutes. Talk about your twisting in the wind. It was one of the worst things he’d ever seen in his life. Even Collins’s wife, that Mary Ann Mobley, was making fun of him. And if Collins couldn’t do it—Christ! Was Phyllis George going to help him out?
That’d
be a cold day in hell.
A
few
minutes of live airtime would be the end of his career. The end of his professional life. He’d never work again. He’d die. Once he paid off all his gambling debts, he wouldn’t have a cent. He’d starve to death. What would he do?

Of course, there
was
Darleen’s money. That he’d inherit. If she died.

*

Outside Convention Hall, fireworks exploded and lighted the summer sky. Inside, at the stroke of 10 (Thank you, God, Billy Carroll breathed) Eastern Standard Time, the music rose. Klieg lights raked an audience glittering with diamonds and cubic zircons.

In his plummiest tones an unseen announcer proclaimed: “The
Miss America
Pageant! Ladies and gentlemen!
Something fabulous
is happening here tonight!”

The big gold curtain parted on the Miss America dancers, who soft-shoed and sang their way through the now-familiar routine to strains of Leonard Bernstein’s “Tonight.” The back curtain lifted, and there they were. The Miss America finalists,
all
50 of them.

Over at the Monopoly the flip of the coin had turned up heads, and Lana DeLucca had been rescued from Tru Franken’s private wine cellar in time to slap on a wig, her makeup, and a short sheath of blue and off-white, and there she was parading down the runway singing, smiling, waving—no one the wiser.

The energy in the auditorium was high and hot. The
Inquirer
turned to Sam. “Okay, scout’s honor, the truth. Now aren’t you among the converted?”

Sam shook her head. “Afraid not.”

“But you tear up every night. I’ve watched you!”

Sam waved at Rae Ann. Magic. Lana. Connors. “And I told you, I cry at telephone commercials on TV, too. When they reach out and touch someone, I go to pieces. This?” She gestured up at the girls on the ramp. “It’s the same thing. Pretty girls, sincere as hell, breaking their butts, it pushes my button. But still, it’s silly. And there’s more downside than up, I think, coaching them to make themselves over into a mold.”

“But they’re
themselves.
They’re told to be themselves.”

“Oh, honey. Just
look
.”

There they were. Fifty Barbies, 5′7″, 117 pounds, 35-22-35, in different flavors. Sincere and earnest as all get out.

“You lose the bet.
However
—” and then Sam pulled a gift-wrapped package from beneath her chair. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coaching, and I couldn’t have written my stories without you.”

Inside the box was a satin baseball jacket covered in red, white, and blue sequins. Emblazoned across the back were the words
Miss America Pageant.

“The best Jeannie Carpenter’s elves could provide on such short notice.” Sam smiled. “I hope it fits.”

*

Michelangelo was surprised. When Darleen returned from her hotel room to the Lincoln where he and Willie were waiting, she’d changed into gray sweats and little red running shoes. She leaned her head in. “I’ve decided I don’t want to go to the pageant. I’d rather go for a long walk than sit in the audience waiting to see what my husband decides about saving my life.” Angelo had explained the entire scam to her—and the possible consequences.

“I can get a message to Billy, it’s all off,” said Ma.

“No,” Darleen shook her head. “Let it go.”

“Then come on, get in. You don’t want to walk by yourself this late at night. It’s not safe.”

Nope. She was going to walk.

Michelangelo sighed and heaved himself out of the heavy car. He hated walking on the Boardwalk. The sea air was bad for his sinuses.

“You ought to try the West Coast,” Darleen smiled. “It’s a lot nicer.”

*

Up on the big stage, the former Miss Americas had paraded up and down. The about-to-be-former Miss A had taken a turn. The preliminary judges had stood for bows. So now the second-biggest moment of the evening had arrived, the announcement of the 10 semifinalists.

The girls, still dressed in their short dresses of fuchsia, blue, and off-white, filled the stage. Lynn Anderson, the about-to-be-former Miss America, handed the envelope containing 10 names to Phyllis and Billy.

“You don’t know how it feels until you’re standing up there.” Phyllis was bouncing with excitement. “You can’t wait to hear those names, so read them, Billy!”

Pushy bitch. Had to get those last two cents in. But oh, Jesus, what if Miss New Jersey hadn’t made 10?
Then
what would he do? Would Angelo hold him responsible? He scanned the list quickly, but not fast enough. Phyllis gave him a little nudge. “Billy?”

“Now, they’re
not
in alphabetical order, folks,” he said. “Here we go!”

“Let’s swap ballots,” the
Inquirer
commanded Sam and
USA Today.
“Whoever picked the most wins fifty.”

The girl never stopped. She was as bad as Harry.

“Miss California!”
Billy shouted. The crowd of girls on three risers parted, and a tall blonde, tearful and beaming, made her way out of the pack. “Thank you,” she mouthed to the preliminary judges, her hands out, fingertips toward them as she passed.

“Dr. DeLaughter?” A tall young man in a navy blazer and gray pants was leaning over the back of the press section. “Which one of you is Dr. DeLaughter?”

“Miss Florida!”
The short blonde shook her fists in victory and pranced across the stage to join Miss California.

Mary Frances looked straight ahead, ignoring the plainclothes detective. Sam pointed at the back of the professor’s head.

“Miss Texas!”
Connors had made the cut! Sam felt her mouth go dry. She
did
care.

“Ma’am? I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me. We need to ask you some questions.”

“Miss Louisiana!”

Behind her Sam could hear Lavert’s “All right, Magic!” even over the thundering applause. Big Gloria and Junior and Rachel Rose were on their feet—this being Junior’s last Atlantic City hurrah before Gloria hauled him off to New Orleans. Forget Newport Beach, Big Gloria had said to Rachel Rose’s tears. They were headed home. But there were always letters. Phones. Planes.

Over on the other side of the ramp, Rashad, who’d talked his way into the photographers’ section, was filming like crazy. His next feature was on black magic. Or Black Magic. He hadn’t decided.

“Miss Georgia!”
Sam was on her feet screaming, “Way to go!” Tears poured down Rae Ann’s face as she joined the other four semifinalists. Sam was crying too. She was excited! Oh, it was too bad Hoke wasn’t watching. He’d said he couldn’t stand it. Sam was to call him when it was all over.

“I’m not leaving until this is over!” Mary Frances never turned her head to look at the young man.

“Miss New Jersey!”

As Lana wiggled across the stage in a new version of the Jersey Bounce, the crowd lost it. Home state girl makes 10!!!! Cowbells rang and streamers filled the air.

“I’m afraid Captain Kelly really needs to speak with you right now about what happened to you this afternoon.” The young man was trying to keep his voice low, but firm.