by Cathy Ace
At this point, Svetlana Kharlamova threw her right arm skyward for effect, disarranging the shawl so carefully placed about her by Jimmy Green, who sat looking up at her with an expression on his face of such awe that she might have been in her prime. I wondered if to him, she still was.
Dropping her voice to a lower register for greater dramatic effect, the Diva continued. “When world change, my country change. Is perestroika. I go from Russia for first time. I sing with many companies in many countries. Best singers in world want to perform with me. Greatest maestros want me on stage for them. I make many recordings, I give best roles. Whole world loves me. I sing. I act. I am still Diva Kharlamova. But I am not lucky for love. Men are difficult. Want my money, my name. Not understand life of artist. I marry, I divorce. I marry again. I divorce again. Is very sad for me, and not good for voice.”
She paused and dropped her head, the skin beneath her chin folding to her chest. She looked up with a pathetic expression. “Now world change again. Skinny singers run and jump on stage.” She wrinkled her nose with distaste. “They roll on floor and sing. They climb on scenery and sing. They take off clothes and sing. This not opera. Now I not sing opera, I sing here. Miss Shirley bring me here. She beg me to come five years ago. She is big fan. I meet her, we like each other, I come. She give me big apartment in hotel building here. Is just like Seven Sisters, as grand as Hotel Ukraina. She give me Jimmy to help me. I enjoy Las Vegas. People come to Tsar! for beautiful Russian buildings, and art, and food, and me. They come to show every night, see Russian ballet, clowns, acrobats . . . and wait for me at end of show. The maestro make special arrangement for me to sing great Russian piece, Tatiana’s letter song from Eugene Onegin. Is always big success. Also, audience always standing after I sing ‘Habanera’ from Carmen—though is not Russian.” She looked disappointed. “People here not know many Russian songs. Also I sing ‘Kalinka’ and men dance in old Russian costumes. Is strange. Is same song I sing in streets when I am child, now I sing here. I stay here three years more, then—how I know? Maybe more. I like Miss Shirley. She have tea with me, many times. She is good woman. I very sad she is dead. I do not kill her. I have contract for Tsar! so I not want her dead. Is not me who kill her.”
Having finished her performance, Svetlana Kharlamova nodded her head in gracious thanks for our attention and took her seat. I wasn’t surprised that her remembrances of Miss Shirley had, in fact, been her own life story with no more than a mention of the dead woman. Jimmy patted her hand, congratulating her on a job well done. I think she expected us to applaud. We didn’t.
Still telling the Diva how well she’d done as she soothed her throat by quaffing champagne, Jimmy Green rose to his feet, looking somewhat flustered. “I’ll go next,” he said lightly, “though, of course, my life’s been nothing like Madame’s.” He beamed down at Svetlana, who was completely ignoring him. I gave myself a moment to size him up. He was an almost unnoticeable person: average height and build, clean shaven, midbrown hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a nondescript, cheap dark suit with a white shirt and a narrow, dark tie. He looked to be in his early thirties and had a way of speaking that suggested he was apologizing for uttering a word. He nodded and hunched his shoulders as he spoke in a manner that suggested humility.
“I’m Jimmy Green, from San Francisco originally. Parents are, were, pretty liberal. Dead now.” His smile seemed apologetic, rather than sad. “Ma and Joe—that’s what I called my father—were young when they had me, so we were all great friends. I say I’m from San Francisco, but we moved around a lot. Ma played guitar and sang, Joe played the flute and sang too. And he played bongos. We lived in a van. I didn’t go to school; Ma taught me. We had fun. When I was old enough, I sang too. But I wasn’t any good when my voice broke. One day Ma and Joe went off in the van to meet some people, and they never came back. I never really said goodbye to them. They just didn’t come back. The Pacific Coast Highway can be a deadly road.”
Jimmy’s body language told me he was having a difficult time sharing this with us. Clearly, he’d been traumatized by his parents’ deaths. I wanted to tell him that I knew how it felt to lose both your parents at the same time, in a road accident. That you can tell yourself that at least they were together when they died . . . But I reasoned that what had worked for me might not work for this young man. After all, the matter at hand was Miss Shirley’s death, not the loss of parents years ago.
Jimmy continued more quietly, then rallied a little. “I was sixteen when they died. I came to live with Ma’s sister here in Vegas. By then it was too late for me to catch up in school, so I didn’t graduate. I got a series of jobs working my way up in backstage roles at some of the shows here on The Strip. Well, off-Strip to begin with, you know? I loved the life. Being around performers helped me feel somehow closer to the memory of my parents. I learned fast, and I was good at it. I got to know Miss Shirley when I worked at the theater in the old Sunrise Casino that she owned with Carl’s dad before they knocked it down to build this one. I wasn’t even twenty back then, just a kid really, but she always had time for me. Seemed interested in what I was doing. I never knew why. I’m not anyone special. She was that way with lots of people. She was very good to me and let me work with the people who designed the theater here, and I worked in it from the time it opened. She knew I’d always been nuts about opera and a huge fan of Diva Kharlamova, as she was herself, so, when Madame said she’d perform here, Miss Shirley asked if I’d like to be her assistant. I was so grateful. It’s the best job in the world, Madame.”
As he spoke, Jimmy Green beamed with genuine excitement and enthusiasm. I could see the light of a true disciple burn in his eyes. Svetlana was certainly lucky to have him, although, once again, she seemed oblivious to the fact that he was looking at her or even addressing her.
He continued, “I guess I’d just like to add that I certainly didn’t kill Miss Shirley, and, for the record, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to. She was the most wonderful woman I ever met . . . after Madame, of course. Oh, and Ma . . . and my aunt. She had time for everyone. She was Vegas through and through, and the best of it. No one better . . .” He finally took his seat and looked over at Svetlana as though hoping to be petted. She continued to ignore him.
Unfortunately, all I’d gleaned from Jimmy Green was that Miss Shirley had been a thoughtful employer, which didn’t help much. Once he sat, there was a long pause. Everyone tried to avoid making eye contact with one another. I considered speaking up, to keep the ball rolling, but I was pleased to see that Clemence Foy was waving his handkerchief to gain our attention.
“I’ll speak next,” he said in his rasping tones, “but I’m gonna sit. Okay with you all?”
Shrugs and nods answered him. I was keen to hear what he would say, having known the victim for so many years.
“Gonna understand me and Miss Shirley? Gotta understand me,” he began. “I was born in New Orleans”—he ran the two words together—“and never really went to school. Didn’t agree with me. Big family, me the oldest. I guess you’d say we was ‘dirt poor,’ though I just thought that was how it was for all folks. I come here when I was fifteen. Been here sixty years now. Back then, when I met Miss Shirley, Vegas weren’t like it is now.” Clemence paused and sipped from a glass of water.
“Times change,” chipped in Carl Petrosian. “Casinos get more technical, hotels get bigger. It’s progress.”
Clemence gave Carl the sort of look usually reserved for a child who’s been naughty or rude, but is too young to know better. He shook his head. “That ain’t what I mean. I mean the way it was for us blacks back then. Not allowed in the front doors, we weren’t. Not allowed to use public accommodations. Less than second-class citizens. Mississippi of the West, they called it, and they wasn’t kidding. Made Nat King Cole go ’round back of the Sands to get in to perform. He even had to use a trailer, outside, not a hotel room, till Mr. Jack Entratter finally let him inside. Only place to hang out in mixed
company was the old Moulin Rouge over in Westside. I seen it open, worked there a few months, and I seen it close. Fifty-five was quite a year. Saw all them big stars perform there or just hang out. Rat Pack and all. I even met Miss Sarann at the opening night. She’s who owned it later on in the 1990s, for a little while. Tried to open it up again, but couldn’t manage it. Fine woman. Weren’t till 1960 that Dr. McMillan and Bob Bailey planned an antisegregation march up in front of all them big old marquees. All them men who ran the place behind closed doors sat up and took notice of Mr. Hank Greenspun. He could have made them look real bad in his newspaper and on his TV station. They didn’t want no photographs of all of us ‘coloreds’ walking around with banners in front of their hotels, so they finally let us be bellhops, valets, and work at front desks. Even let blacks who could afford it rent their hotel rooms.”
Clemence sucked his teeth and wiped his eyes. He looked, and sounded, sad. “I couldn’t have gone if there’d been a protest march when they planned it anyway. Too busy with Miss Shirley. That was when she needed me, not the other way ’round. Tough year for her, 1960. Big year all ’round.” I wondered what he meant, because he was clearly referring to something about which he hadn’t spoken.
Once again Clemence sipped from his glass, and his eyes misted with remembrance. “We met in ’58, me and Miss Shirley. I got beat up, bad, by some young white guys who thought it was funny to kick a black bum when he was down and on the wrong side of town. And I was down. Way down. Hadn’t worked out too good for me in Vegas, and there weren’t nowhere else for me to go. Miss Shirley found me on the side of a dirt road and she took me in. Smuggled me into her place. Whites only. She didn’t have much of anything back then. Waitress in a diner. Nights. Scraping by. Sweet child. She looked after me. We neither of us had no money for doctors, so she just put me in her very own bed till I could walk. Nearly lost an eye. It never did work right after that. Didn’t let me have no liquor, neither. And I ain’t never touched a drop since then. There’s some folks it just ain’t good for. She even taught me how to read. ‘You must exercise your eyes, Clemence,’ she used to say, but we both knew what she was doing. It’s because of Miss Shirley that I’m alive, I can read, and write some, and I’ve had a good life. Better than the one that bum I’d become would’ve had.”
Clemence Foy wiped his face and continued, “Miss Shirley was always a good-looking girl. That’s what she was back then, no more than a girl. Met her when she was just sixteen. I was twenty-one. I thought I was all growed up. I guess she knew better. Even when I was back on my feet, all fixed up and holding down a job, we’d go places together, where they’d let us. Where we could afford. Lots of men liked her, and she liked the attention. Natural. Her father died without even knowing she existed. He signed up right after Pearl Harbor and shipped out while him and her mother was just sweethearts. Her mother didn’t even know she was pregnant when he left. He was dead before she was born, and her mother out on her ear with a baby to raise. Heidi, her ma was. Heidi Nowak. Named the baby after Shirley Temple, ’cause she was a favorite of hers since she done such a good job of playing Heidi in the movie. Her ma did the best she could, Miss Shirley said, but after the war, her mother married a guy and had some more kids.” He smiled. “Funny enough, it were two boys.”
I wonder why that remembrance makes him smile so broadly.
Sighing, Clemence continued, “Miss Shirley got kinda sidelined, so she left home and washed up in Vegas. Worked nights in the diner, sometimes days too. Nights off she’d dress up and go to a club. Guys would buy her drinks. She looked a lot older than she was. And when she got back from being away, the end of 1960, she looked a good deal more growed up again. Never told me where she went, but when she come back, she’d lost all the baby weight, and she looked just like Marilyn Monroe. Just eighteen years old, and looked like a real woman. Got the money for some fancy clothes from somewhere and had a fine new hairdo. In fact, she told me that when she saw Mr. Sinatra perform at the Sands in ’61, he called out to her in the audience and told her she looked better than Marilyn herself, and that she shouldn’t never change. And she didn’t. That’s why she kept the same style all these years.”
That explained a lot. When I’d briefly met Miss Shirley over drinks earlier in the evening, I’d been surprised by her retro style, particularly her bouffant blond hair—classic Marilyn. Women quite often retain a form of dress, a sensibility of styling, that they’ve established at a time when they feel themselves to be in their prime. In Miss Shirley’s case, I’d wondered why a woman who could have easily afforded to wear any designer labels she pleased adhered so strictly to an early 1960s look. I suppose if Frank Sinatra had told any impressionable teenager that she looked more beautiful than a screen goddess she likely would have clung to that. Her prime. Her “best ever look.” Before she’d hit twenty.
Clemence cleared his throat and continued. “Anyway, like I said, when she got back she was looking very . . . mature . . . and she got herself a job in another diner, then, pretty quick, she married the guy who owned it. Right there and then, she got me a job. And she done that ever since. Even now.” He laughed, making a wheezing sound, pressing his eyes closed. He even smiled like Satchmo. “Now I work in the men’s dressing room downstairs, at the Romanoff Room. Swankiest place in town, and I get to be there every day. Makes me laugh that I help men who think it’s okay to show up for dinner in two-hundred-dollar shorts understand that they have to wear long pants to eat there.”
He shook his head, eyes twinkling, and seemed to notice us all, sitting in the gloom listening to him talk of times gone past, as if for the first time. “You have no idea how angry a man can get when you tell him he gotta wear a bunch of grown-up clothes if he wants to take his lady-wife for a nice dinner. Some of them can get real annoyed. But Miss Shirley likes the way I keep them calm and get them to put on the clothes we keep ready for them down in the men’s cloakroom. I organize all the dry-cleaning and laundry every night before I go home, and I check all the items for wear and tear. It’s like running a menswear store, only the clothes is just loaned out. After all them years of working men’s rooms, it makes a change.” He nodded. He’d lived a life I couldn’t imagine, and he seemed to bear his lot with grace.
“There’s a lot more I could say,” he said, “’bout me, and ’bout her. But I’ll just say this. There’s always been talk in this town that she acted improper to get where she is today. This town do like its gossip. But that ain’t true. When that first husband of hers up and died, she worked like a dog to make that diner pay. Then she opened up another one, and another. And when she sold them diners to them guys from out of town and married that no-good singer, she done it for the best of reasons. I think she really loved that crooner, and she wanted to invest in his career. ’Course, he were a handsome devil, too, made all them young girls swoon. She was broken when he just up and disappeared one day. Then it was my turn to help her again. All her money gone, and no home to live in. Couldn’t marry, ’cause they wouldn’t say he was dead. So what’s she gonna do? ’Course she took whatever jobs she could. ’Course she had men friends. And when she finally married that jerk who come in from Tahoe, I knew he was trouble. Told her myself. But they built up a good business together, and she made sure a lot of folks had jobs. Wasn’t her fault he run it into the ground. She done the right thing divorcing him. Then there she was, nothing again. Forty, single, and having to work as a dealer. And that’s when Mr. Petrosian met her. She dealt him a hand that won him a fortune. She said he could take her out for dinner instead of giving her a tip, and five months later they was married. Quite the couple, they was, right, Carl?”
He looked over at Carl Petrosian, who nodded in agreement but clearly wasn’t prepared to comment.
Clemence looked proud as he said, “She was the one who talked Carl’s father into buying the Sunrise Casino, just when they was going bust. She worked every department, built everything up, then she and Carl’s father decided to knock t
he old place down to build this place. In less than twenty years they turned a little old gamblin’ hall into this, and they made it one of the most famous casinos in the world. She was one heck of a woman, was Miss Shirley, and I loved her as my best friend in the world.”
He glanced toward the body of the woman he was mourning, and shook his head sadly. “Like I said earlier, ain’t nobody like her gonna come into my life again. And there ain’t no way she deserved to go like this.”
When Clemence Foy stopped speaking, there was a respectful silence. There was no question about it, Miss Shirley’s story was an interesting one. I began to sense the woman’s presence grow within the room, and felt even more determined to try to work out who had decided to put an end to her colorful life.
First Intermezzo
AS CLEMENCE WAS SPEAKING I’D noticed that Tom had become distracted, glancing toward the bar frequently as the old man took us back through the years to a Vegas that no longer existed. Tom couldn’t need a drink that badly—not unless, like many other chefs, he’d developed a habit of quaffing his ingredients.
Like the rest of us, Tom allowed a moment for Clemence’s words to hang in the air, then he cleared his throat and said, “Look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s something I must do.”
I suspected a call of nature, but was proved wrong.
“It’s the caviar,” he continued.
I glanced over at the stainless steel unit that sat atop the end of the bar. Three large crystal dishes loaded with glistening black, golden, and gray pearls had been nestled in crushed ice when we’d used mother-of-pearl spoons to help ourselves to the rare treat before dinner. Now most of the ice had disappeared.