Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

  So I bust out a few moves. What else can I do? I figure I’ll dance a little and then they’ll move on.

  That’s when I notice the camera. Big broadcast camera with a huge lens. Behind me. Then to the side of me. Now in front of me. Shooting all my bikinied action, up and down and up and down my body.

  And not just mine. Mr. Six-Pack Abs, too.

  Then I see the two of us up on the big screen. Ms. America and a man who is most assuredly not her husband. And—I hate to say it—but we look like we’re appearing in a What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas ad.

  Except we all know it doesn’t really work that way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Who the heck knows what moral turpitude is, anyway?” Shanelle asks me.

  It’s early evening and we’re cabbing it to Cassidy’s apartment. I’m getting my first taste of Las Vegas beyond the Strip and after the afternoon’s events I’m ready for a break from the neon and the naughtiness.

  “There’s a clause about it in my Ms. America contract.” I’m such a worrier that I pulled the document up on my laptop after I got back to the hotel. “I just hope my dancing with that guy doesn’t violate it.”

  “I don’t see why it would. Lighten up!” Shanelle gives me a playful slap on the thigh. “You did nothing illegal, immoral, or unconstitutional. So forget it. Nobody’ll see that video anyway.”

  Hard as I try, I cannot convince myself that few Americans tune in to a cable show featuring nearly naked people drinking, dancing, and making out. Plus the DJ knows who Shanelle and I are: he made a point of getting our names. I understand I didn’t do anything actually wrong in dancing with the buff guy. But viewers might well get an eyeful of our poolside action and conclude the two of us engaged in mattress dancing as well. And we beauty queens know one thing for sure: sometimes appearance is everything.

  A few minutes later our cab stops at the address Cassidy gave us. It’s a neighborhood of mid-sized apartment buildings with a few bungalow-style houses squished in between. The environs are grotty enough that I would forbid Rachel from walking around at night. The Webster Garden Apartments, where Cassidy lives, are a compound of two-story stucco buildings in a vibrant terra cotta color, except for those places where the paint has chipped off. The landscaping is heavy on cacti, pretty standard around these parts.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Shanelle says as we pay the cabbie, “so we can get back to the Strip and get us some dinner. We need calories for those dance rehearsals.”

  Those start tomorrow. Trixie will miss the first one because she won’t arrive from North Carolina till the afternoon. Her manager at the bridal-wear shop is only too happy to give her time off for Ms. America bookings. It’s the same for Shanelle and me: our employers enjoy the cachet our beauty-queen status confers. Usually they don’t pay us while we’re gone but very often they let us go. It’s a compromise I’m happy with.

  “So you’re clear on your marching orders?” I whisper to Shanelle as we stand outside Cassidy’s door.

  “At some point, engage her in one-on-one conversation so she doesn’t notice that you’ve gone AWOL to sneak around.”

  That’s about the size of it. In my detective work, I try to keep it simple.

  Cassidy lets us into her apartment wearing a lacy camisole and denim shorts of the 1-inch-inseam variety. If she bends over far enough, I suspect I’ll get a view of not only Paris but the entire Riviera. Immediately I see she’s renting a one-bedroom, isn’t the tidiest of housekeepers, and has a cat, who scuttles away as I approach.

  “I only got her out of the shelter a few weeks ago,” Cassidy says. “She’s still nervous.”

  “That’s nice that you rescued her,” Shanelle says.

  “Yeah, I help out there when I can. Either of you want a beer?”

  “Sure!” I reply for both Shanelle and me. Neither of us is a beer drinker but I want to be hospitable. Cassidy heads to her shoebox of a kitchen.

  I glance around. The furniture is neither stylish nor new but one item sticks out like a polar bear in the desert. Perched on a beat-up oak credenza is a Sony television that must have a 70-inch screen. It is unbelievably thin and glossy and slick. I know from the TV shopping that Jason and I did after I collected my Ms. America prize money that this baby retails for thousands and thousands of dollars.

  Needless to say, we purchased something more modest.

  Cassidy hands Shanelle and me ice-cold beers and motions us to the rust-colored corduroy sofa across from the TV. She curls herself into the matching armchair but not before she dumps the previous occupant on the carpeted floor.

  I get another surprise. While I’m a queen who cannot afford luxury brands, I do know them. And what I see before me is a hobo-style handbag made by Tiffany that I bet sells for fifteen hundred smackers. Leopard-print calfskin, brass hardware, leather lining in that distinctive Tiffany blue, probably handcrafted by Italian virgins and flown in by private jet.

  I have my first question for Cassidy but I don’t know how to ask it. How does a woman working as a cocktail waitress and living in what looks like a fairly inexpensive apartment get her hands on such big-ticket items?

  “So.” I clear my throat. “Lived here long?”

  “Six, seven months.” She eyes me. Then, “Let’s skip the chit chat and get down to business. How you gonna help me get on a reality show?”

  I may not have called Mario Suave but I have done some research. “Well, producers of reality shows are looking for contestants who are larger than life. Like people with really weird hobbies or life experiences that make them must-see TV.”

  Shanelle pipes up. “People without inhibitions. People who want so bad to be a fameball they’ll say and do anything.”

  “Exactly!” I cry, as I realize I couldn’t get on a reality show in a million years. “Somebody everyone will be tweeting about.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know!” Cassidy shoots me a look of disgust. “To get on one of those shows, you gotta be a jackass. You gotta be a drama queen times ten. It’s good if you got psychological problems. Hell, for Survivor I got into a fake fight at a casting call just to improve my chances.”

  These are not traits I would be proud of but I keep that to myself.

  “You told me you got contacts,” Cassidy goes on. “That’s the only reason I let you come here. That’s what I need. An in.” All of a sudden she rears up from her chair. “Did you hear that?” she hisses. Then “SHHH!”—even though Shanelle and I didn’t make a peep.

  Cassidy tiptoes to the front window but from an angle so no one outside could see her. She moves the curtain aside a teensy bit and peers out. The sun has set; it’s dark.

  Shanelle and I glance at one another. I can tell she’s thinking what I’m thinking. The cat’s not the only nervous one. Is Cassidy being wacko or should we throw ourselves behind the couch because gunmen are about to shoot up the place?

  “Don’t move!” Cassidy instructs.

  She need not worry. I’m not budging unless I have to duck.

  Eventually Cassidy abandons the window and returns to her chair. Her skin is now a whiter shade of pale, as the song goes. My heart rate is returning to normal.

  Apparently Shanelle’s is, too. “What the heck you so scared of?” This is one of the many characteristics that make Shanelle a fine investigative sidekick. She does not hesitate to make the bold observation.

  “Are you crazy? Me, scared?” She’s trotting out her hard voice but it’s not convincing.

  Shanelle cocks her chin at the TV. “Well, I might be nervous if I were you. ‘Cause you got a few things in here somebody might want to steal.”

  “So what?” Cassidy snarls. “Lots of people got nice stuff.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I interject, “how can you afford that TV?” I point at the Tiffany purse. “And that handbag?”

  “You accusing me of stealing?”

  “No.” Though that has occurred to me. “I’m just wonderi
ng. I admire a woman who doesn’t pay retail,” I add.

  Cassidy doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, “For your information, they’re gifts.”

  She’s got a sugar daddy, I think. It’s uncharitable but it turns out I’m right.

  “From Danny,” she adds.

  That comes as a shock. “You made it sound like you and he weren’t close enough for him to give you those kind of gifts.”

  “Maybe he appreciated me,” Cassidy shoots back. “Maybe he knew I’m the kind of girl who deserves the best in life.”

  Maybe he stole them, I think, my second uncharitable thought. Because Danny Richter the Casino Employee did not pull down the kind of salary required to purchase those items as gifts for his latest squeeze. And from what Sally Anne told me, he didn’t exactly have family money.

  This resurrects my Danny As Rogue Blackjack Dealer theory. Maybe that’s why he had cash to throw around. That kind of behavior might have been enough to get him done in. And if he shared the action with Cassidy …

  This brings to mind what she said at the casino this morning. I don’t know anything about anything. He never told me anything. Maybe the cocktail waitress doth protest too much.

  I throw this supposition out there. “Maybe you’re scared because Danny got murdered yesterday?” I watch Cassidy freeze in place. “And maybe you suspect he got killed because he got involved in some nasty stuff and now you’re worried it’ll come back to haunt you?”

  She stands up. “Time for you to go.”

  I hit a nerve for sure. “I don’t mean to upset you, Cassidy. Really. Shanelle and I want to help.”

  “You already tried that line. I want you gone.”

  “I do have a contact in reality television and I will call him on your behalf.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She raises her voice and points at the door. “Out!”

  “Okay. Okay.” Shanelle and I both rise. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom before we go?” I ask. “Because we have to call a cab to get back to the Strip and it’ll take it a while to get here.”

  She throws out her hands. “Fine! Use the john.”

  A few seconds later I stare at my face in Cassidy’s bathroom mirror. This girl has secrets. And Danny did, too.

  I flush the toilet to make it sound as if I actually did need to use the facilities and then proceed with my snooping. I open the medicine cabinet hoping nothing comes cascading noisily down to reveal my perfidy.

  Most of what’s in there is dull, dull, dull: makeup and half-squeezed toothpaste tubes and feminine protection. There are a couple of prescriptions, though, neither of which is familiar to me. Restoril capsules and a cream called Elimite.

  Cassidy’s door pretty much hits our butts on the way out. As we head for the street, Shanelle calls for a cab and I google Elimite on my smart phone.

  “Eww,” I say a moment later. “I think Cassidy has scabies.”

  Shanelle wrinkles her nose. “Never heard of those but they sound vile.”

  “They’re mites that burrow into your skin,” I read. “You can get them from sleeping in the same bed with somebody who’s infected.”

  “Like Danny boy? By the way, what’s the male equivalent of skank?”

  Maybe Cassidy got mites from Danny. Or maybe from another hookup. I get the idea that fidelity does not rank high on Cassidy or Danny’s list of virtues. I move on to Restoril. The cab arrives before I’m done reading. It says something about our time with Cassidy that now I am eager to return to the Strip. Shanelle and I settle in the back seat.

  “Restoril is the brand name for Temazepam,” I say.

  “I feel like I’ve heard of that before. Isn’t that some kind of hypnotic drug?”

  “It’s prescribed for severe insomnia. And you’re not supposed to take it for a long time because it’s highly addictive.”

  Shanelle harrumphs. “Still probably better than Propofol.” The drug that did in Michael Jackson, which you’re sure as heck not supposed to use to get your eight hours. “By the way, as of tonight there can be no doubt that Cassidy is terrified of something,” she adds.

  “I wish I knew of what.”

  “You believe her story that Danny gave her all those expensive gifts?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  In the distance I see the Strip. It’s so brightly lit, I bet astronauts can see it from space. I imagine Cassidy commuting in every day in her beat-up old car, strapping on her burlesque corset and cigarette tray, needing that paycheck, her life so out of whack she has to take a major-league drug even to sleep. And all the while she’s dreaming of L.A. and becoming a reality star.

  “I feel bad for Cassidy,” I tell Shanelle. “It’s sweet of her to volunteer at the animal shelter. And wasn’t it sad when she said that thing about Danny knowing she deserved the best in life?”

  “Girl’s got to learn that doesn’t come in a shopping bag.”

  Or from guys like Danny Richter, I wager. Or from reality-show stardom.

  Shanelle and I find even more than the usual ruckus when we stroll into the lobby of the Cosmos Hotel. People are crowding around somebody. I’m not a celebrity hound but I’m curious to see who it is.

  A few seconds later, I totally get why people are gathered. I glimpse the dark hair, the tall build, the broad shoulders. I hear the laugh; I remember that laugh.

  I don’t have to call Mario Suave after all. He’s standing right in front of me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It takes Mario half a minute to notice Shanelle and me, which is just as well because this queen needs to compose herself.

  As befits a man with his star power, he is dressed casually but well, in cream-colored chinos and a slim-fitting navy polo shirt with lime-green tipping along the collar and three-button placket.

  “Happy!” he calls, and abandons his adoring throng to clasp me in a hug. I note his female admirers giving me a once-over to try to figure out why I’m getting the A-list treatment when they merit only handshakes. As we embrace—and let me assure you I am not objecting—I get a whiff of that cologne of his, sort of a woodsy scent that brings my knees even closer to buckling than they already were.

  He hugs Shanelle, too, and it proves yet again what a hunk Mario Suave is that the usually loquacious Ms. Mississippi can’t say a word.

  “It’s such a coincidence that you show up in Vegas while Shanelle and I are here!” I cry.

  He looks away. “Well, you know, I travel a lot. What with the show and all.”

  “I saw the pilot episode last week.” A thermonuclear explosion wouldn’t have kept me from planting myself in front of the TV to watch the premiere outing of America’s Scariest Ghost Stories, hosted by Mario Suave. “I thought it was really good.”

  “Really good,” Shanelle echoes. Her eyes are wide and fixed on Mario’s face.

  “Thank you, ladies.” He smiles. His brown eyes gleam. His dimples flash.

  I’m so flustered I can’t think of anything sensible to say. So out pops something stupid. “I had no idea there are ghosts in Vegas.”

  He laughs. “Sure there are! Scads of them.” He lowers his voice and leans in close like he’s going to let Shanelle and me in on a secret. “Las Vegas is a veritable hot zone of cold spots. Are you aware that Wayne Newton wrote in his autobiography that he swears he saw Elvis Presley once in his audience? After The King was dead?”

  “No,” Shanelle breathes.

  “It’s true.” Mario gazes into my eyes. “I guess Elvis just can’t get enough of Sin City.”

  Hearing the word “sin” spoken by her single greatest temptation renders this lapsed Catholic girl speechless. Fortunately the moment is interrupted by the bustling arrival of a pencil-thin ponytailed blonde wearing jeans and a black tee shirt and carrying a clipboard. “Mario, if we’re going to do that shoot—”

  “Right.” He straightens. “Well, it’s good to run into you two.” His voice has gone businesslike. I get a semi-crushed
feeling, like he’ll go off now and be busy and that’s the last I’ll see of him here in Vegas. Or anywhere.

  I hear words gush from my mouth. “By the way, Mario, it just so happens that I was going to call you because I met a woman who needs advice about how to get on a reality show and I thought probably you’d be better than anyone at giving her some.”

  He seems flummoxed. Then, “Well, Jen here can probably help you with that,” and he motions to the producer type. “Jennifer Maddox, meet Happy Pennington.”

  I shake Jennifer’s hand. Truth be told, I’m a little sad Mario is handing me off to her. From her expression, Jennifer appears no more pleased at this turn of events than I am. She hands me a business card. “Call me and I’ll set you up.”

  “It’s not for me, it’s—” I sputter, but it’s too late. Mario is letting Jennifer pull him away. I’m forced to conclude that’s the end of that.

  “Okay,” Shanelle says, “he’s gone. I can breathe again.”

  As Shanelle and I finally make it to the elevator, I realize I’ve learned something from tonight’s encounter. My hormones might be creakier than they were at age seventeen but apparently they’re still capable of raging. Meaning they’re still capable of getting me into trouble.

  Throughout dinner with Shanelle and my mom, I will admit that I remain kind of distracted. Only half my brain is focused on my mother’s blow-by-blow description of the Liberace Museum, whose delights are apparently so numerous and varied that she intends to return the very next day. When we all go upstairs to retire, I escape onto the balcony of my room to call Jason.

  I want to talk to my husband. I want to feel close to him. I want him to be the one to say wonderful and terrible things to me. I want to remember all the many reasons why I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him.

  I listen to Jason’s cell phone ring and take in the neon rainbow pageant of the Las Vegas Strip eighteen floors below. Fortunately, up here the madness is reduced to a dull roar. The desert breeze, now cool and sweet, ruffles my hair.