Ruby shook her head, dismissing Vivid’s words.
“No, listen to me. Please.” Vivid’s voice grew stronger. “You are in charge. They get nothing—nothing—that you don’t want to give them. Nada. Rien de chose. And something in German, but I don’t know any German.” She tried a tentative laugh.
“But I don’t know how to convince myself that I’m in control,” Ruby said.
“You can learn it, I swear.” Vivid became more animated, a lawyer arguing her case. “You talk to yourself. You have to kinda retrain yourself, you know? You tell yourself that you’re having fun, that you’re safe. You say, ‘I’m safe. I’m safe.’ ” She took Ruby’s hand once more. “These aren’t evil men; they’re not your rat bastard uncle. They’re out to have a good time, to travel in the same orbit as something beautiful, damned near untouchable. They’re in awe of someone they never thought would give them the time of day, let alone converse with them or join them for a meal. Stroke their egos. You don’t have to stroke anything else.”
“God, I hope not.”
“Look, focus on what your bank statement says at the first of each month.” Vivid let go of Ruby’s hand and drained the last of her Tab. “Start collecting.” She wiggled her heavily ringed fingers meaningfully. “And you know what else?”
“What?”
“You take revenge. Sure, these guys are technically innocent, but c’mon. You say, This, you owe me, motherfucker. For all the others. Payback.”
“Payback,” Ruby said, thoughtful. After a long pause, she said, “He was afraid of snakes—my uncle. A genuine snake phobia. So I taught myself not to be afraid of them. Well, more accurately, I wouldn’t let myself be afraid.” She smiled. “Once I managed to catch a garter snake on my way home from school.”
“Ugh,” Vivid said.
“Yeah, but it was great, really. Because I scared the shit out of him. I pulled the snake from the pocket of my sweater and just watched his face as he realized what it was and took off running. He was freaking out and yelling to high heaven—‘SNAKE! SNAKE!’ ” Ruby laughed. “I loved it.”
“See? Revenge works. But don’t you dare pull any snake tricks on me, Ruby Wilde.” Vivid stood. “So, tonight we double, all right? I’ll be there, right beside you all night. Okay?”
Ruby released a huge lungful of air. She felt as if she’d been holding her breath for over a decade and had at last found a way to let it go. Suddenly, she was tired. “I think I need a nap.”
“You never told anyone?”
“No one.”
“You must be exhausted. Holding that in for so long.”
“Please—don’t tell anyone,” Ruby begged. “Not even Rose, all right? I just—”
“Why would I? And of course not.”
“I owe you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“It’s not accounting, Ruby. It’s friendship.”
Walking back to her apartment, Ruby realized Vivid was the first person who had ever understood her. She thought about the difference between understanding and acceptance, and then she realized Vivid had given her both in the space of less than half an hour. So, this was what it felt like to have a true friend. Someone who had her back. Someone she could lean on. Of all the things Ruby had expected to find in Las Vegas, good friends had not been on the list.
In the end, for Ruby it turned out not to be about payback. She couldn’t quite do it Vivid’s way, but eventually Ruby developed her own style of mixing. She searched until she found something to like in every man. Some small thing. It might even be as minor as liking the buttons on his coat. Maybe his smile, the curve of an ear, the scent of his aftershave. His neediness, his vulnerability.
Telling herself that she was safe, Ruby was gracious. The homely, awkward Don Knotts look-alikes who attended ham radio conventions got the same, velvety Ruby Wilde presence as did the members of Rotary clubs and The American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and the men who came to play golf for days on end or to find distraction after a miserable, wallet-emptying divorce. The real and wannabe mobsters, faded but still flexing their biceps and flashing solid gold money clips. The polished, professional gamblers who wore just-minted Krugerrands on chains about their necks. Ruby soon realized that more often than not they simply wanted to be heard, to tell their stories without criticism or interruption. She treated them all well—even if they could only afford to buy her a martini. Practice made perfect, and soon her charm flowed naturally.
The high rollers bought her rubies and garnets, sapphires to match her eyes. They bought her designer clothes at the casino boutiques, and the boutiques paid Ruby a percentage of all the sales she brought in. Her bathroom counter was crowded with bottles of perfume, and a half a dozen French bath oils circled her tub. She owned silk negligees, and even a supremely soft cashmere robe dyed the peaceful color of a doe bedded down on a forest floor.
But there were gifts more extravagant than rings and necklaces. Johnny Litchfield, a high-stakes gambler from Chicago, offered to buy Ruby a penthouse in the Windy City, where he said he’d be able to keep an eye on her. In reply, she winked and said, “ ‘Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.’ ”
Ruby was learning to turn men down gently, with such finesse that they didn’t feel rejected. They weren’t losers—they just weren’t getting exactly what they’d expected. And so she turned down Johnny’s Peter Piper penthouse. Instead, she accepted a ten-thousand-dollar poker chip, and every time Chicago Johnny came to town he found her—and gave her more outlandish gifts. He was a hard-bitten man with a cratered face and pale blue eyes that were too small. But those eyes were surrounded by ribbed fans of wrinkles, the kind that came only with repeated laughter. And Johnny made her laugh. He told her stories of outrageous gambling wins and losses, of his days as a middleweight boxer and then as an MP in Hawaii, corralling World War II soldiers on leave.
She sold the jewelry she didn’t particularly like at the jewelers all the girls used—Goldfarb’s on East Twain Avenue. The owner gave her good prices, and she banked the money, earning eight percent interest on her savings. Although she’d never been given the same piece twice, she guessed that some of the showgirls had seen the identical, recycled emerald ring or pearl choker more than once.
When an enamored Saudi prince gave Vivid a boat, the Sunglow Apartment girls ended their nights by waterskiing on Lake Mead as the sun rose. Ruby, Rose, Vivid, and Dee christened the boat Siren Song and for their naming ceremony piled caviar onto water crackers and emptied three bottles of Bollinger Blanc de Noirs champagne. Sometimes, they took men along with them; other times it was just girls. They scrambled eggs on the boat’s little propane cookstove, ate crusty bread donated by the chef in one or another casino restaurant, and brewed dark, French roast coffee. Then, they went back to their apartments to crash for a few hours before work.
Ruby studied Vivid, saw how she touched a man’s arm or shoulder lightly to let him know that he’d arrived in her inner circle. She’d also seen how Vivid would often pit one man against another when she wanted more; jealousy and competition led them to outspend each other in comical proportions. Vivid seemed to have an insatiable need for more—something Ruby didn’t feel. She longed to ask Vivid what “enough” would look like, but Ruby knew that Vivid would refuse to answer, that she likely had no answer other than “More!”
Ruby gained more than luxurious possessions from the men she entertained. She was learning. She garnered knowledge from the high rollers in particular, gradually coating herself with layer upon layer of sophistication. Like a pearl forming about a grain of sharp sand, she used her newfound etiquette to further escape her rube beginnings. Now, she used her knife and fork the European way and knew to ask for either still or sparkling water. She ate more slowly, as if dining were an event, not a race or simple fuel. The big spenders
taught her the attributes of different wines and vintners, and she memorized prices so that she knew what was in a given man’s price range. She learned to let a man pull out a chair for her, open a car door, help her with her coat. She leaned in intimately, enticingly, so that a man could light her cigarette. Men walked on her left side—unless her right side was the side closer to traffic—and she waited for them to lead her through crowds.
There were the men who knew which football or baseball teams to bet on, who even placed odds on the outcomes of elections, and who sank unfathomable sums into the stock market. But to her surprise, a few of the men—gentlemen—were impressively well read; one even bragged of owning a precious hand-annotated draft of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Once these men discovered that she was an avid reader, they suggested books. Through them, Ruby discovered Sophocles and Euripides, and she even tackled Shakespeare’s plays when one of her Manhattan gamblers sent her two beautifully bound editions of the Bard’s comedies and tragedies.
Ruby Wilde evolved until she was refined, worldly. Sophisticated and celebrated, she increased the distance between her new life and the repellent odor of Uncle Miles’ Saturday night bowl of Fritos, the chaos of her aunt’s kitchen drawer full of spent, useless keys and remnants of parsimonious string tied together into an indecipherable pattern of dots and dashes.
And yet, from time to time Ruby couldn’t help but think of her aunt. She still yearned to impress Aunt Tate, somehow to gain her approval. Ruby knew it was a reflexive longing, something she hoped to grow out of or conquer one day—that need to fit within the puzzle pieces of Aunt Tate’s love.
* * *
—
AND THEN THERE were the heartbreakingly sad men. The ones who seemed always to be searching for footing on the crumbling, unstable scree of life. Duane Mulroney was a wholesale carpet salesman who hopscotched across the country every few weeks. He was practiced at airports and rental cars, easily charmed by stewardesses, and thoroughly enthralled with Ruby. Duane had enough but not a lot of money; he was one of Ruby’s regulars who probably went just a little bit into debt every time he wooed her with expensive wines and tenderloin steaks. And, although he couldn’t buy her what the true high rollers sent her way, Ruby still made time for him. There was something about Duane, something sweet, almost untried. She warmed to his Oklahoma-bred innocence. Maybe, too, it was because he was drifting decidedly toward outright obesity, and that made him both safe and soft. Duane was easy.
Ruby never had sex with him. What grew between Duane and Ruby was a sort of chaste friendship that permitted Duane to indulge in a sinful fantasy without actually transgressing.
He wore permanent press checkered shirts with navy blue ties, Sears-brand oxford shoes, khaki trousers, and a navy blue blazer with brass buttons that seemed to scream “Help!” as they valiantly attempted to hold the coat’s material together over his bulging belly. He wore his thick, black hair in a bristle-top crew cut and ran his hand nervously across it several times a minute while his jittery legs bounced beneath the tabletop. His gold wedding band dug into his fleshy finger, and his belt sliced cruelly into his pillowy middle. From time to time he’d twist his ring like a bottle cap, as if he were testing whether it could be removed.
His passivity eclipsed anything Ruby had ever known. They’d once sat in his rental car in the dark of a parking lot, and he’d said, “Would you do something for me?”
“I need more than that before I’ll agree to anything, Duane.” Ruby punched in the cigarette lighter and fished in her purse for her pack of Salems.
“It’s not an easy thing to ask for.”
“We’ve got all the time you want.” The pop of the lighter was loud, jarring. She lit her cigarette and wondered what kind of weird sexual thing Duane might be into. “Just ask me, Duane. I promise I won’t freak out.”
She heard him take a deep breath before he asked, “Would you breathe for me?”
“What?” She failed to keep the surprise from her voice, although she hoped she didn’t also sound judgmental.
“Like artificial respiration. Except that I’m conscious.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think it would relax me.”
“To have someone else breathe for you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“No.”
“Jesus, Duane.”
“Forget it. Sorry I asked,” he said, ready to turn the key in the ignition.
Ruby put her hand over his. “I’ll try it.” She rolled down her window and tossed her cigarette onto the asphalt. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
Duane tipped his head back against the seat, opening his throat. “Just blow,” he said, his eyes closed.
Ruby scooted across the seat until her thigh touched his. Duane exhaled audibly, releasing all the oxygen stored in his lungs. She sealed his lips with hers and blew, steadily, softly. It was an odd sensation—she could actually feel his lungs filling with her breath. When she leaned away from him, he let out a long breath, a sigh, really. “Like that?” Ruby asked.
“Yeah. Perfect.”
“And is it what you thought it would be?”
“Better.”
“Again?”
“Please, Ruby.”
She did it several more times, until she told him she had to stop. “I’m getting dizzy,” she said, honestly. “Okay?”
“Thank you.”
“What about your wife?”
“I don’t tell Millie about you!” he said, sounding shocked that Ruby would even hint at his doing so.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant why don’t you ask her? She could do that for you.”
“She’d think I was a weirdo. I can’t do that. I can’t risk that. I mean, she’d divorce me for being crazy. She’d tell all her friends.”
“Oh, Duane.”
At dinner after her show the next night, Duane talked. He talked and talked and talked. And Ruby heard him.
“It’s just that it’s so dad-gummed lonely, sitting in that hotel room every night,” he said, buttering his third Parker House roll. Ruby nodded toward the waiter, who quickly brought another saucer of iced butter pats. “I perform all day—sell sell sell.” He took a bite of his roll. “I practically do a song and dance, like you, kiddo, and I’m still on when I get back to the empty room. I can’t sleep, can’t turn it off. Nothing’s on TV. I pick up a copy of True Detective at the liquor store, read a story about a body tossed in the Utah badlands or a sex freak cruising for victims. Still can’t sleep. Every few days I call Millie, let her know how I am, where I am. But after eight years of marriage, we don’t have anything left to say to each other. Not a dad-gummed thing.” He shook his head, finished off the roll, and licked his fingers.
Ruby took a forkful of her Waldorf salad—her new favorite dish. The apples were wonderfully crisp and tart. She said nothing; she knew she wasn’t meant to comment.
“Millie,” Duane started up again after emptying his wineglass, “she doesn’t make an effort anymore. I mean, look at you,” he said, using the stem of his goblet to indicate he meant Ruby. “Look at you,” he said again, his eyes watering some.
“Be fair, Duane.” Maybe she should tell the waiter to cut Duane off. “This is my profession. I’m paid to look my best.”
“Yeah, well, you shoulda seen her. My Millie. She was homecoming queen, did I tell you that?”
He had, but Ruby merely smiled in response.
“I was so goldurned proud to have her on my arm.”
“She’s still the same person,” Ruby said, gently scooting Duane’s wineglass to where the waiter would see it and remove it. She poured the last of the bottle into her own glass.
“Naw. She’s not.” He sighed. “She’s not the same. She goes on and on about her Avon sales. And
I just want to say to her, ‘Millie, why don’t you try a little of that miracle cream on your own face?’ ”
Ruby wondered what Millie would say, if she and Duane changed places. Would Millie be telling Ruby that Duane had gone to fat, that he’d lost his football tackler physique, that it wasn’t worth it for her to try, to care about her appearance, if Duane couldn’t be bothered to skip a dessert or two, maybe forgo his morning cinnamon bun? Or would Millie say she loved him, that he was a good provider?
“If we’d had kids,” he said, absentmindedly. “Maybe then, things woulda been different.”
“In what way?”
Duane ran his hand across his flattop. “I dunno.”
“If you’d had kids, what?” Ruby pressed him.
“Maybe we’d still talk to each other. Maybe we’d have something left to say to each other.”
He might be right—Ruby didn’t know. Maybe children glued couples together in a more permanent way than could any wedding vow or 24-karat-gold ring.
“Aw, wouldya listen to me,” Duane said. “Boring you silly with my sad-sack routine. Sittin’ here with one of the most glamorous women in the world, better’n any movie star, and I’m going on and on about my blah old marriage.”
“You know better than that,” Ruby said, reaching across the table to pat the back of his beefy hand. She signaled to the cigarette girl, and Duane bought her a pack of Salems. “Here,” she said, expertly tapping the pack so that she could offer him one. “Live dangerously, Duane.” She smiled before lighting his cigarette.
They moved to the roulette table, where Duane won several times in a row and handed Ruby a fifty-dollar chip.
“Feeling better?” she asked, slipping the chip into her black beaded purse.
“You’re my good luck piece,” he said, revived by his wins. He reached an arm around her waist and took a deep breath. “Man oh man. You smell so good—you always smell so good, Ruby. Maybe I could get that scent for Millie, remember you whenever she wears it.”
All the Beautiful Girls Page 13