Ms America and the Villainy in Vegas

by Diana Dempsey

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Fame! Cash! I want my fifteen minutes and my million bucks.”

  “Okay. I’ll call her today. I promise.”

  Cassidy harrumphs. “I’d lay odds that the person you call is that detective.”

  “Not if I get what I want from you this morning.”

  My goal is to have Cassidy point Hans out to me. I want to investigate him. I figure if he was angry enough to give Danny a black eye Saturday morning, he might have been angry enough to put a bullet in him Saturday afternoon. To my mind, it’s a theory worth pursuing.

  But Cassidy and I have a problem. There are a gazillion conventioneers roaming the grounds. How is Cassidy going to find Hans among them?

  I’m feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number of people until I spy a digital billboard listing the conventions. Maybe Cassidy and I can narrow our search to a specific hall or meeting room. “Do any of these conventions ring a bell?” I ask her.

  She squints at the list. Then, “N. A. B.”

  “N. A. B. Great.” That one takes up two halls in the south building. We head in that direction.

  I cannot tell whether Cassidy has taken my wardrobe instructions to heart. I asked her to dress in a low-key manner so we could improve our chances of Hans not noticing her. Maybe this outfit does represent low-key for Cassidy. She’s wearing a black Henley mini dress, with the classic U neck and button placket. But it’s tighter than a bikini on pageant night and she’s left three of the six buttons undone to reveal more than a hint of cleavage.

  Even though I don’t like using sex appeal to achieve my goals, I know it can be awfully effective. So today I deliberately dressed to seduce. I’m in a slim-fitting coral-colored mini halter dress that normally I restrict to the pool or beach, where lots of skin is being flashed.

  The bottom line is that Cassidy and I do not blend into this crowd. We get a leer from the left, then a leer from the right. As we approach the south building, I tell Cassidy that we need to separate. Hans won’t have a thing to do with me if he knows I’m linked to the woman who trick rolled him. Nor do I have any desire to make like Danny Richter and get a shiner.

  Or take a bullet.

  “If you see him, call my cell,” I instruct Cassidy. “Make sure he doesn’t see you. I’ll be on the other side of the hall.”

  Time passes slowly in situations like these. I pretend to be engrossed in a pamphlet describing the convention center’s many appealing features and am delving into the wheelchair accessibility information when at last my cell phone rings.

  “That’s him,” Cassidy says, “in the black pants and white shirt.”

  “You need to be more specific. That describes half the men here. And where is he exactly?”

  “By the big windows, by that thing with the pictures of satellite dishes on it? You see the guy with the blond hair and the glasses?”

  I do. Hans is a late thirties body builder type with short hair and tortoiseshell eyeglasses. He looks too clean-cut to do what he did but I know appearances deceive.

  “I got him. You can go now but don’t make any fast moves because I don’t want you catching his eye.” I feel like I’m in a bad Get Smart remake. “Thanks, Cassidy. I’m going in.”

  I watch her head for the down escalator. I take a deep breath and sashay toward my target, letting my hips sway and my hair bounce. Now I feel like I’ve gone from Get Smart to Charlie’s Angels. I am aware of more than one member of the male persuasion giving me the eye but so far I haven’t caught Hans’s …

  There. I just did.

  I hold his gaze as I close the distance between us. I smile, just a slight lift of the mouth and parting of the lips. He is staring into my eyes and I don’t think he is moving a muscle. I’m not convinced he’s still breathing.

  I stop right next to him, just a tad too close, and appear to give my full attention to the satellite dish pictorial display. Actually what I’m doing is giving Hans time to peruse the goods: the face, the skin, the hair, the cleavage, the legs. Yes, they do come in handy sometimes.

  Finally, he speaks. “You’re not here for the N.A.B. conference.”

  Cassidy is right! He sounds exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger. “How can you tell?” I let my smile widen though I keep my gaze trained on the display.

  “You’re not wearing a name badge.”

  I smile as if this were a clever line. “Actually, I’m trying to figure out whether the group I belong to should hold its convention here next year.”

  “What group is that? The Society of Beautiful Women?”

  Now I favor him with a direct gaze. “No, though that’s very sweet. The Esthetician’s Association.”

  He speaks perfect English but pretends to mangle the name. The ploy gets us both laughing. “I’m Hans Finkelmeister,” he says.

  I’m lucky on two counts. It’s okay for me to be laughing and his surname is spelled out for me on his name badge. I do suffer a moment of panic as I realize that I forgot to pre-plan a fake name. “I’m Harriet”—my brain spins—“Pierce.”

  “You’re the prettiest Harriet I’ve ever met,” Hans reports.

  I’m thinking there can’t be too many Harriets in Austria. “Where are you from?” I ask, even though I know, and that prompts a discussion of how he was born in Innsbruck but now lives in Vienna and how his mother is Dutch but his father is Austrian, blah blah blah. I note he makes no mention of a wife, though Cassidy asserted he is married. He is not wearing a wedding ring but maybe that’s a European thing.

  Foreign tradition or not, I disapprove. Jason wears a wedding band. If he gains a few pounds, he can’t get it off. That’s fine with me.

  I am wearing mine, and even though I wear it all the time, along with my engagement ring, this morning it’s by design. I know some men prefer to have a fling with a married woman because they presume she will be just as eager as they are for a no-strings-attached hookup.

  Hans glances at his watch. I’m guessing he bought this one here in Vegas since his old one is stashed in Cassidy’s apartment along with his wallet and laptop. “I have to go in to the presentations now,” he says, “but maybe we can continue this conversation later over a drink?”

  This is just what I’d hoped for though I didn’t expect success to come this easily. “I might be free later,” I allow with a coy smile.

  He wants my cell phone number but I demur and request his instead. I’ll do a lot for a homicide investigation but I’d rather not change my Happy Pennington voicemail announcement. As I’m entering the info into my smart phone, I note that Hans carries a man purse. It’s about twelve inches square, made from cowhide leather, and hangs from a shoulder strap. It looks worn from use so I gather it’s one item Cassidy decided not to lift. She’s got enough trouble fencing her loot and probably figured that in the good old U.S. of A., a man purse would be one of the harder items to move.

  Hans and I finalize our plans for the evening. I give him a smile and a wink and know as I saunter toward the elevator bank that he is salivating over every last bump and grind of my hips in my carefully selected outfit.

  I realize as I hail a cab that either Hans Finkelmeister has a short memory or an assignation with a mysterious woman represents a triumph of hope over experience. Doesn’t he remember what happened on his rendezvous with Cassidy? I guess his desire for an extramarital romp trumps his good sense. He’s not the first man to make that miscalculation. He won’t end up comatose and wallet-less after his tryst with me but he won’t get what he wants, either.

  I call my mother from the cab. She informs me that she would enjoy watching a Sparklettes rehearsal later in the week but cannot attend that day as the Liberace Museum awaits. “Mom, do you really intend to go there every single day?”

  “I didn’t go yesterday.” It’s closed Mondays but I don’t argue the point. “You know Liberace is half Polish, don’t you?”

  “And half Italian. You told me.”

  “His mother’s maiden name wa
s Zuchowski.” She pronounces it zoo-CUFF-ski. “You have no business making fun of him, young lady. How many other performers broke all records not only at Radio City Music Hall and Madison Square Garden but the Hollywood Bowl, too?”

  “I can’t name any but—”

  “That’s because there aren’t any. And let me tell you something else. Liberace is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the highest-paid pianist in the world. Back in my day, he was the highest-paid entertainer in Vegas history. And he is in Ripley’s Believe It or Not for playing 6000 piano notes in two minutes.”

  I’m thinking I should worry less about my mother’s memory.

  My next call is to Jennifer Maddox, Mario’s producer. I don’t expect her to be thrilled to hear from me but I told Cassidy I would follow up with my reality-show contact and I am a queen of my word.

  Jennifer answers, I begin to explain why I called, and she cuts me off. “Mario told me that whatever you want, to give it to you.”

  I am heartened by this information.

  “So put together your resume and head shot and video or whatever,” Jennifer goes on, “and send it to my office. I’ll see what I can do to get you placed on a reality show.” Her words make it sound as if she’s ready to oblige even if her tone doesn’t.

  “It’s not for me, it’s— ”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see what I can do when I get back to L.A. later today.”

  “Oh. You’re leaving town.” I realize I’m disappointed. It’s not because she’s leaving, mind you.

  “We’re done here. Anyway, catch you later,” and she hangs up.

  I have no time to dwell on Mario’s departure from Sin City for in short order I meet Shanelle and Trixie at rehearsal. I see that in twenty minutes of acquaintance Ms. Congeniality is already a BFF of three of the dancers. All of us partake enthusiastically in the pre-rehearsal eating. Today it’s egg salad or PB&J on whole wheat.

  “What Michael Phelps eats,” trainer Elaine says, referring to the American swimmer who won sixteen Olympic titles, including a record nine gold medals at the 2008 Beijing Games.

  Then I learn there’s another warm-up ritual I wasn’t aware of.

  “Jumping on the trampoline really gets your blood flowing,” one of the dancers pants as she gets going. I see she’s wisely taken off her silver splayed-heel dance shoes. “Tuck your abdomen and your bottom and let your body’s momentum naturally lift you.”

  I watch with skepticism but Shanelle really gets into it. Before long she’s doing kicks and full body twists.

  I reserve my kicks for the dance floor. Rehearsal is once again epic in terms of duration and difficulty. I feel like I’ve gotten the cardio workout of the century by the time we’re released for the day.

  “Are either or both of you game to visit Samantha St. James after we get cleaned up?” I shout as we drag our depleted bodies down the Strip back to the Cosmos Hotel.

  “Not on your life,” Shanelle yells. “What I have in mind is a massage.”

  “I’ll come with,” Trixie shrieks. “You know what I want to do tonight? Go see that volcano.”

  I’ve heard about that. One of the hotels puts on a faux volcanic eruption every night. It’s apparently quite the spectacle but what entertainment on the Strip isn’t?

  “So long as it doesn’t interfere with cocktails,” Shanelle hollers.

  This queen has a great deal to accomplish before the cocktail hour, which tonight she will be enjoying with one Hans Finkelmeister. “I’ll call Samantha and make sure she’s willing to see us,” I tell Trixie when we part at the hotel to shower and dress for the afternoon. I think of the crystal bowl in my shopper. It’s my bait and I’m betting Samantha will bite.

  A few minutes later on the phone, she does. “A memento from Danny?” she says in her breathy voice. “Get here as fast as you can. Pucci and I will be waiting.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The St. James home is a wondrous thing. The neighborhood surrounds a swanky golf course and the house itself is a humongous white stucco Spanish-style with a red-tile roof.

  “It has a turret,” Trixie whispers as we walk up the curving path to the columned portico. The path is bordered by a boxwood hedge whose perfect manicuring puts my finger and toe nails to shame. Unlike Cassidy’s neighborhood, these residents have irrigation systems. Instead of gravel and cacti, there are lawns and flowerbeds. Under the desert sun, I can’t imagine how much watering is required to maintain such lushness.

  I am glad we dressed for the occasion. We are both wearing maxi dresses, mine a blue green abstract pattern with a halter top and Trixie’s a floral boho-inspired with graduated tiers.

  Samantha greets us with Pucci in her arms. Both dog and mistress are sporting pink and mint green today, the former by way of a tartan collar and matching bow and the lady of the manse in a tunic and capris.

  “Would you care for some iced tea, dears?” she inquires as she leads us into her living room. It’s a spectacular two-story space with loads of natural light and a pristine white carpet. I guess that’s not a problem because Pucci’s paws never touch Terra Firma. Beyond huge windows is the golf course, edged by soaring palm trees of the type I imagine in Beverly Hills.

  We accept and Samantha disappears into the kitchen beyond the adjacent dining room, after depositing Pucci on an upholstered doggie sofa next to the grand piano. I amble over to what I suspect is an antique sideboard to glance at the framed photographs artfully arranged on top.

  I have one in my hand when Samantha returns bearing a tray loaded with crystal glasses and a pitcher. She gasps as if she caught me stashing the frame in my shopper. “Why are you so interested in that photo?” Her voice quavers.

  “I’m so sorry.” I return it to its place. “I was just looking at it.”

  Trixie gently takes the tray from Samantha. “Is it your son in that photo?” Her tone is light and conversational, as if nothing weird just happened.

  “My son Brandon, yes.” Samantha’s skin is flushed. Trixie edges her onto the sofa and begins to serve the iced tea. I’m doubly glad Trixie came with me. She’s better than I am at smoothing over rough bits.

  “I like your son’s name,” Trixie says. “It’s unusual. My son’s name is Tag, after my husband’s uncle. My husband is named Rhett, just like you know who in Gone With the Wind.”

  The chatter seems to calm Samantha down. “Calvin and I considered naming him Calvin Junior.” Again today, even just relaxing at home, diamonds blink from her ears and throat. “But I’m glad we didn’t. I’m not sure he’s anything like his father.”

  After that less than complimentary remark, an awkward silence descends. I sip my tea and clear my throat. “You have such a lovely home, Samantha.”

  “I have been blessed with a great deal of material abundance. Calvin was a very successful man.”

  “What business was your husband in?”

  “Junkyards.”

  Trixie gives me a meaningful look, as if to say: You may not believe it but there’s a lot of money in junkyards. I decide now is the time to reveal the crystal bowl. I only hope Samantha hasn’t seen it before, for example on her own sideboard.

  It is with some trepidation that I extract the bowl from my shopper and carry it to Samantha across the living room. “The family wants to give you this as something to remember Danny by.”

  Samantha takes it with great reverence and gives it a thorough examination. Fortunately, she shows no sign of recognizing it. “It’s exquisite,” she whispers. “But of course that describes Danny’s taste to a T.”

  I think of Danny’s girlfriend but keep my lips zipped.

  Eventually Samantha sets down the bowl and becomes weepy. “Poor, poor man! He would have been so much better off if he’d never met me!”

  “No, no,” Trixie and I murmur, but I for one wish her to continue in this vein.

  She obliges me. “What have I done to him? I don’t know how I can live with myself!”

&n
bsp; By this point Pucci, faithful pup that she is, has abandoned her personal sofa to perch at her distraught mistress’s feet.

  “However do you mean?” I ask. I find it almost impossible to imagine this pink and white froth of a woman pumping a bullet into Danny Richter but it’s hard to grasp what she’s getting at otherwise.

  “I just—” She blows her nose into the tissues Trixie has fetched from the half bath. “I don’t know what I mean. I just feel terrible. Terrible …” Her voice trails off and her gaze wanders to the huge windows, beyond which a golfer is lining up a shot.

  “I’m sure you were never anything but kind to Danny.” I say this even though I’m not sure at all.

  Samantha remains silent. Darn. Just when it was getting good, she clams up.

  “How did you meet Danny?” Trixie asks.

  This gets her going again. “Please don’t judge me,” she begs.

  “Of course not!” Trixie and I both exclaim.

  “I met him through an escort service. I got so lonely after Calvin died.” She lifts Pucci onto her lap. “After all, I can talk to this little dearie but she can’t talk back.”

  “Of course we understand.” Trixie strokes Samantha’s arm. “Rattling around in this big house all alone.”

  Samantha seems buoyed by the commiseration. “My friend Dottie suggested I give the service a call. She’s a widow, too. The first few men they sent over, I didn’t like at all. But Danny …” She gazes across her living room as if remembering the first time they met. “I knew right from the start we were kindred spirits.”

  I bet Danny knew right from the start that this rich, lonely woman represented one gonzo opportunity.

  It is true: I do not have the highest opinion of the deceased and maybe that’s unfair given the tough breaks he had in life. But I have trouble forgiving his transgressions. If Cassidy is to be believed, he got her into trick rolls. Then he fenced her stolen items. And given his blackjack-dealer salary, I don’t understand how he procured uber-expensive televisions and Tiffany handbags.