For Celia, the no-sex rule was irrelevant. Teddy never even attempted to touch her. She was his madonna, his little girl. Generally if he slept at all at night it was on the couch in their suite at the Fontainebleau. He slept in the bedroom during the day when she was by the pool or off getting her hair done.
Oftentimes when those late-night motel negotiations were going on, the girls would have themselves a private party, drinking sweet liquor, dishing movie stars and talking up the pink Cadillacs they planned on having. Celia entertained them with her vision of being onstage one day at the Eden Roc. Or the 500 Club in Atlantic City. Or the Paramount on Broadway. Tina and Glenda would giggle and egg her on, hand her a toothbrush for a mike and demand a show.
Screams and catcalls filled the room when Celia danced the sultry ballet of Cyd Charisse with a chair as her lover. She could do a mean Peggy Lee and the girls would back her as a two-woman orchestra, humming and bumping the tune to “My Man” as Celia belted out He’s not much for looks and no hero out of books, he’s my man … shaboom-boom-boom. She took requests. She could do Julie London like nobody’s business, and Keely Smith. It wasn’t the same doing Keely without her stepfather doing the Louis Prima part though.
Little more than a month passed and bam! just like that, the party was over. Teddy had an emergency to take care of in Las Vegas. She packed her bag and cried at leaving her only two girlfriends.
Now here she is at the Sands. She flops back on the bed and closes her eyes. No one to play with. He could’ve at least spent the first night with her. This town is barely a town. It’s eerie is what it is. Ten or twelve hotels in the middle of sand, sand and more sand. Her stepfather told her once that Vegas was run by hoodlums. He used to like talking hoodlums with one of his colleagues at NYU, a criminology professor. Her stepfather thought hoodlums had their fingers into everything, every nightclub, sanitation company, politician, import business—every piece of fruit in the supermarket had mobster prints on it as far as he was concerned.
Kook. Just as well he’s out of her life.
She straightens her legs and puts forehead to knees, stretches and palms the bottoms of her feet. The phone rings. She rolls over and plucks the receiver from its cradle. “Where are you?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Who else knows I’m here? Where are you?”
“I’m atta phone booth.”
“You’re always at a phone booth.”
“Gotta go to L.A. for a couple days.”
“What! What about me?”
“You get your nails done. Go by the pool, they got a floatin’ crap game down there. Get it? Floatin’ crap game.” He chuckles. When there is no response, he says, “Why don’t you get your hair done dark like before. It was classier lookin’. You stay in all night?”
“Yes. Awake, waiting for you.”
“You know better than that, sweetheart. Go have a nice drink by the pool and charge it to the room. Go see Frank Sinatra at the Copa Room tonight. He’s a pal a’mine y’know.”
“I already saw him and I don’t like him.”
“What’s ’at?”
“I saw him in the hall and he’s a skinny little creep.”
“Ah now, don’t be sayin’ that. He’s a stand-up guy.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Hey-ey! With the language! Just as well you got away from that Tina and Whatsits. Be a good girl, see a show tonight. You tell ’em Smilin’ Jack Entratter at the door and he’ll sit you with good people.”
“Why don’t you take me with you to L.A.?”
“I got a meet. What’re you getting funny for? Smilin’ Jack is gettin’ a call, okay. Same fella used to run the Copa in New York. Get him to take you to Louis Prima in the lounge.”
“Louis Prima, the singer?”
“Him and the wife. They’re playin’ at the whatsits. Have a good time, sweetheart.”
“But—”
The line goes dead. “Asshole-asshole-ass-hole. Fuck, bastard, piss, damn!” she says, flopping back. She glares at the ceiling and closes her eyes.
When she wakes the sun is long gone and the neon lights of Vegas beam and flash outside. Dread sits like a slab of meat in her belly and she thinks she might cry; she has no one now. She misses Miami. She misses dancing with the girls. Should’ve stayed with Officer Ronald in Little Italy. He wouldn’t have left her alone. Maybe he would’ve. Nothing is ever like anyone says. At least you’re not in a doghouse, she tells herself. She peels away from the bed and flips the light, leaves the drapes open to keep the extra sparkle coming in, ventures into the living room and turns on the television for company while she hunts for a dinner menu. You’ve got room service, for crissake. How bad can it be?
She picks up the phone and orders filet mignon and lobster, a salad, a glass of champagne. And milk. Baked Alaska for dessert. And … and, she hates to lose the friendly voice at the end of the line. After she hangs up, she thinks of reasons to call back: ice water, condiments, bread. Of course, madam. Always.
She sits down and stands up. Paces the room. Looks at the phone.
Family’s important.
He came looking for her again, Teddy told her. They nearly busted his head open at The 92 but he still came back. He wasn’t a complete crumb. He’d be home from school by now. She pictures her stepfather lonesome by the record player, unable to listen to Louis Prima without her. “Serves you right,” she blurts just as a knock comes at the door. She smoothes her bed-wrinkled skirt as she goes.
Grinning his “Good evening,” a young man wheels in a cart. Celia gestures to the coffee table, stands back and watches him transfer plates and remove covers, before taking out the cheque for her to sign. She adds a fat tip and scribbles in her signature.
“Would you like to join me?” she asks. “I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach.”
He stares at her and swallows. “With you?”
“Sure. There’s a western on television. You like westerns?”
He looks to the TV. “Boy, do I.” She hands him the cheque. He says, “You’re—isn’t—my boss’d kill me. Thank you though, ma’am.”
Alone again, she sits down on the sofa, stares at the spread and clicks on the television with the remote control. She clicks it off and back on again. The remote control at the Fontainebleau was the first she’d ever seen. Stewart told her they came from military technology and one day everybody would have one. Her mother said it was ridiculous, the idea of a person being so lazy—she wouldn’t have one in her house. Celia aims it at the telephone, out the window, at the side of her head, fires and tosses it down beside her. Jerry Lewis is on Ed Sullivan. She wonders if he’s sad without Dean Martin. He looks sad. She cuts into her steak.
By the time she’s taken crackers to a lobster claw, a troop of female tap dancers is on with Ed. Celia pulls a long chunk of meat from the shell, dips it in butter and frowns at the screen. “Big deal. Can y’sing?” she barks.
By the time her glass of champagne is finished, she’s wishing she were back at the Copacabana, dancing with Micky D. She clicks over to the western. John Wayne. He looks like the kind of guy who’d throw his son down the stairs. She goes for another sip of champagne and finds an empty glass. She calls room service.
A different bellhop this time. He wheels in an ice bucket and pops the cork.
“Do you know Jack Entreeter?” she asks.
“Jack Entratter? He’s the president of the hotel. And the entertainment director.”
“He’d be in the Copa Room right now?”
“Or near it.”
“Like a glass of champagne?”
“Excuse me?” He looks around, nervous. “No, thank you, ma’am. But thank you very much, ma’am.” He hands her the bill and a pen.
“What time does the next show start in the Copa Room?”
“About an hour. But it’s impossible to get into. They’ve been—oh, what am I saying, I’m sure you’ll have no—” He looks down a momen
t. “My cousin said he helped fix Teddy the Ghost’s Cadillac one time.”
“Really.” She hands him back the bill.
“Yes, ma’am. Said he was really nice.”
“He’s a prince.”
He swallows.
“Good night,” she tells him. He backs toward the door and lets himself out.
Strolling to the bedroom, she opens the closet, swishes a hand across her dresses and pulls one out. She marches back in the living room and pours another glass.
An hour later, she’s out front in her mink, wearing the diamond necklace and earrings Teddy got her in Miami. The hotel sign lights up its piece of sky with:
Sands
A PLACE
IN THE SUN
JACK ENTRATTER PRESENTS:
FRANK SINATRA
DEAN MARTIN
SAMMY DAVIS JR.
PETER LAWFORD
JOEY BISHOP
A couple stands close by, gazing at the lights as an electric guestmobile pulls up. “I understand you never know which of them’s going to be there,” the man says to the doorman, examining his cufflink as he steps into the cart. “Who’s starring tonight?”
“With our luck,” the woman says, “we’ll get stuck with Lawford.”
Celia watches as the driver motors them toward the casino. The doorman wishes her a good evening. “Off to try the tables tonight?” She smiles, and climbs into the next cart.
Stepping out under the porte cochère, she walks through the doors into an orgy of sparkle and noise, pinging and plinking, shrieks and laughter. Turning around, her head buzzes: the noise, the bejewelled people, painted murals on the walls, crystal chandeliers. She gazes off in the direction the beautiful cocktail girls all seemed to walk. As the heat of the room hits, she opens her coat and follows the mincing steps of their high heels, the flitting royal-blue feathers on their round rears as they carry drink trays down three wide terrazzo stairs into the main casino.
At the bottom step, Celia stands with her mouth open. The room is a bowlful of spinning glistening money. She ambles big-eyed through the tables. Golden light swims, glinting off silk suits and shimmering dresses, diamond stickpins and fox stoles. Expensive bodies perch around green-felt tables, laugh and clap over roulette wheels, blackjack. Faces turn as Celia passes and she meets each and every gaze.
A gambler in a cowboy hat that matches his cranberry sharkskin suit grabs Celia’s wrist with his free hand as he shakes dice with the other. “Hey, beautiful, not so fast. You come right in here with Big Daddy Angus and blow his dice for luck.”
Encircled in his arm Celia blows the dice.
“Six!” The dealer adds a stack of chips to the pile in front of Angus.
“Oh you are my doll. My beautiful doll!” He kisses her full on the lips and she pulls back. He crushes her close.
“I have to go.”
“Naw, you ain’t. Stay right here.”
“No, I really do. Would you let me go, please?”
“Mmm, I got a filly just like you back home. Gonna race her next year. Be a good girl and give Angus another little blow and I’ll give you a treat.”
Celia smiles sweetly, blows into his palm and waits for him to toss his dice before she slams her palms into his chest, tries to yank herself free.
“Five! Honey, you ain’t goin’ nowhere. You’re my good-luck charm.” He puts his whisky mouth to her ear again. “Wait’ll I get my other hand free, I’m gonna peel that coat off and see the mink without the fur.”
“Get your meat hooks off!” She brings her fist back but he hugs and pins her arms.
Smiles and nervous laughter around the table.
“Jackass,” she spits, and kicks whatever bony part is closest. The gambler’s grin turns cold just as an enormous man in a black tuxedo swoops in.
“Cecilia, is that you? Angus, you been keeping Cousin Celie company! Good man! Here, lemme give you some breathing room with those chips.” The big man sets a stack in front of Angus. “Come on, honey, we’re late. Thanks again, Angus.” He drapes his arm across Celia’s back and walks her in a jovial gait from the craps table. “You wouldn’t happen to be a close personal friend of a ghost named Teddy?”
“You gave him money?” she huffs. Legs shaking, her breath comes in quick snorts. “Goddamn rapist and you give him money?”
Head high, he smiles to guests as he speaks. “Just an overeager cowpuncher, that’s all. I greased you out of his way and he’ll give us back twice that in about three minutes. So you’re Cecilia.”
“I take it you’re Smilin’ Buddha.”
“Smilin’ Jack, if you want to get technical.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Let’s see, I believe the man said, blonde hellcat with legs up to here and a face that puts Harlow to shame.” He bends forward to see her legs switching through her open coat. “Yup. You must be the angel who beat up Sinatra this morning too.”
“I hate it here. This place is full of creeps.”
“Ah, ‘she walks in beauty, like the night …’”
“Is he coming back tomorrow?”
“He asked me to look in on you. I stopped by your room and you weren’t there.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“The fabulous Copa Room where you will be thrilled and amazed, thereby changing your entire demeanour. Please god.”
He walks her through the doors, where a lush orchestra and a deep crooning voice fall into their ears. Entratter helps her shrug her fur off and hands it to a hat-check girl whose cheek he kisses.
Celia looks her up and down. “No jobs for the ugly, huh?”
Entratter grins and hands Celia a coat-check number on a silver disk, walks her into the showroom.
There he is onstage, the prick. “Call Me Irresponsible” drifts easily from his throat.
Celia stares. Entratter leans over. “They don’t call him The Leader for nothin’, huh?” He beams at Sinatra.
“Does the room fill up like this every show? Must be eight hundred people in here.”
“The room? The whole town. This place alone turned away eighteen thousand reservations the first week. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some friends.” He leads her ringside. A silver-haired man turns and flashes a smile. He stands to give up his chair.
“Oh look, folks,” Sinatra calls from stage as he finishes his song. “El presidente, Jack Entratter’s, finally seen fit to bless us with his presence.”
Entratter raises his hand for another chair, which arrives at lightning speed. He sets it down for the silver-haired man whom he introduces to Celia as a good friend of Teddy’s.
“Hey, Jack,” Frank calls. “If y’got something to say, share it with the whole class.”
Entratter laughs and yells, “Frank, may I introduce you to the lovely Miss Cecilia D’are—” He leans over to catch the rest of her name.
“Yeah, Celia Dare, folks, my future ex-wife. Whaddya sittin’ her down there with that sly fox, Rosselli, before I even got a chance to marry her never mind divorce her. Ladies and gentlemen, the handsome, the shrewd, the brains behind the fabulous Tropicana, Mr. John Rosselli, and a woman who’s never gonna lemme forget what a heel I am, Miss Celia Dare. And at the same table, Cyd Charisse, ladies and gentlemen, the magnificent Cyd Charisse is here tonight!”
Celia’s head nearly rips itself off her neck. There she is, sitting five feet away. Touching the same table.
Frank grins. “Stand up, gorgeous.”
Charisse rises, smiles and waves around the room, sits back down.
“Did somebody say legs?” Dean Martin walks onstage from the wings. “Daddy, make me a scotch before I beg her to kick me to death for the fun of it.”
Celia’s neck still cranes as Charisse sips her martini, so beautiful, she glows. More than the magazines, more than the movies.
“Ladies and gentlemen, direct from the bar, Mr. Dean Martin.”
Celia pulls her eyes back to Martin’s handsome Italian mug.
“Hey, how’d everybody get in our room?” Martin asks then sings, “Drink to me only that’s all I aks—ask—and I will drink to youuuu …” He looks from his watch to the conductor. “How long I been on?”
Celia suppresses a laugh. She didn’t know he was funny. Not without Jerry Lewis. Rosselli pours her a glass of champagne.
It isn’t long before Joey Bishop is on, with a portable bar set up on a cart, and they beckon Jack Entratter up to discuss an urgent matter. According to Frank and Dean, Entratter couldn’t remember a line if he was following it down the middle of Fremont Street and next thing you know, a troop of curvaceous showgirls hits the stage carrying the words to a joke for Entratter. His bumbling pleases the crowd no end and once Joey hands him a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for his troubles, he beats it back to the table. Celia watches him move past the back of her chair to Cyd Charisse who stretches her flute-long neck. Entratter whispers in her ear before he makes his way back to Celia. “Stick with Johnny. He’ll take better care of you than your own mother.”
Johnny Rosselli turns his suave hawk face and tosses her an easy grin.
An hour later, the show is over and Celia’s jaws hurt from laughing. As the lights come up, she notices Rosselli again. He must be older than her stepfather but he is striking. Tanned and iced at once. “I missed Teddy’s call or I would’ve been in touch with you earlier,” he says.
“Do you know, um, Cyd? Charisse?”
“Certainly. Would you like—Oh, she’s halfway out the door.”
Celia turns to catch the last of Charisse and longs for a word. An acknowledgement.
“You’ll get another chance—you a fan?”
“Yes! I know all her, her everything … Thank you for making room for me tonight.”
“Any friend of Teddy’s … May I have the honour of showing you around town?”
“Don’t feel like you have to babysit. I—”
Rosselli’s eyes crinkle. “If this is babysitting, it’s my kind of after-school job.”
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