She Walks in Beauty

by Sarah Shankman

  “Yes, I would mind very much,” she said to Harpo, who gave her his worried look. “He knows how much I hate going places alone.”

  Now, was that true? If it were, then why didn’t she move over to New Orleans and keep Harry permanent company? She didn’t mind squiring herself solo all over Atlanta.

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said to Harpo. “When we are in the same town, I want him to escort me. Know what I mean, little dog?”

  Harpo jumped up into a comfy chair and watched her undress before she stepped into the shower. No time for a bubble bath. She’d been longer than she’d meant to with Rae Ann, who just couldn’t stop burbling about how happy she was, winning talent last night, then Fruit of the Loom today: God had surely heard her prayers. Sam wasn’t so sure that God cared who won Miss America, but then, how did she know? Maybe beauty pageants were what was on His mind when He got overloaded with crack babies, wars, revolutions, AIDS.

  Harpo gave her his fishy look. “Okay, okay,” she said, toweling off. “That was uncalled for. I know what a pious little dog you are.” She reached over and gave him a nuzzle. “And incredibly loyal. I don’t see you hanging out with another guy, passing up the opportunity to watch me get dressed.” She did a little hootchy-kooch for Harpo, who looked away. “Well, excuse me.” She threw on her gold silk dressing gown and continued muttering. “Don’t see you passing up the chance to listen to my day.

  “Now, let me tell you about my incredibly illuminating interview with Cindy Lou. Boy, talk about your waste of time.” She threw open the closet and ran her fingers across her choices. “Help me pick something out here, Harpo. I’ve got to save the turquoise-blue silk I wore to Carnival for Saturday night. Let’s see, no bugle beads, but what do you think about the black velvet evening pants?” She held them up for Harpo’s inspection. “That and the red satin smoking jacket, show a hint of black lace camisole under it? You like it? No comment? Well, Harry’ll like it. That crud. Do you really think he’s found Roberts alive and well?”

  She slipped into her clothes, then sat at the dressing table. Her damp curls could dry by themselves with a little fluffing. Now, what jewelry? Maybe her pearls and diamond studs. She picked up the earrings and considered them. They reminded her of June, the woman who’d shown her backstage.

  “I must remember to tell Harry about the dressing room and Sleepy Hollow,” she said to Harpo, who jolted awake from his nap. She paused while she applied her mascara. She never could talk and do her eye makeup at the same time. “Can you believe that Cindy Lou? A voice in her room telling her which girl has to win? A voice! Girl needs to get herself into the program, pronto. Poor thing. I’d love to help her—but you know the drill. Got to come to it yourself. Got to bottom out. Isn’t that right, Harpo?”

  At the mention of his name, the little dog, who’d dozed off again, jumped up and fell off his chair.

  Later that evening in Action Central, Wayne Ward would do the same thing when he heard the tape of her conversation with Harpo.

  18

  See, Gloria, said the voice of her conscience, that’s what happens when you start with the gray areas, like you didn’t know there was black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. In no time at all it starts to back up on you.

  Hush up, she said. I’m trying to watch my game show. Bill Carroll and “The Big One.” Though Bill Carroll’s not on. Who’s that?

  You’re just hiding, Gloria. Don’t want to face the truth. Isn’t that what you always tell Junior? Boy, God knows what you been doing. No peeping and hiding with Jesus.

  It was true. What kind of role model was she for her son, stealing that Kurt Roberts’s racehorse money? Taking from a dead man. Just like stealing the silver coins off his eyes.

  Now, wait a minute, said her conscience. Even I don’t know the dude’s dead.

  Yeah, and we’re not gonna know, are we? I sent Clothilde out of that room, cleaned it myself. Removed every trace of him. Every fingerprint. Now there it sits. Empty as a tomb. I opened the door about 200 times today, hoping the man’s back in it. And is he? No.

  Did you ask Junior what he’d been up to, since that’s what you’re so afraid of, Junior did a number on that sucker?

  Sure, I asked him. He said he was on the Boardwalk with that little white girl named Rachel Rose. You think I believe that?

  Why not? Why don’t you go ask her?

  Yeah, I’m sure she’s gonna tell me the truth.

  Well, I think it’s come to a sorry pass, you don’t believe your own flesh and blood.

  I want to. I do want to. And then—

  Then?

  Then—oh, Lord, I’ve just about convinced myself everything’s cool, Junior did tell me the truth, didn’t have the slightest thing to do with that Mr. Roberts, I’m the only evildoer in this story, when here comes that Harry—with that huge brother from back home named Lavert. Asking about Kurt Roberts. Asking me, seeing as how I’m the head of housekeeping, had there been anything weird happening in his room?

  Uh-oh.

  That’s what I said. That and more. Though I said it to myself, of course. What I said to them—well, I feel just awful. More lies and deception. Exactly like they teach you at Community Baptist, at every church I’ve ever been to: you start on those lies and deception, they’re just gonna keep right on tripping you. And they do. Even with the likes of that Harry who’s been so kind to me. Saved Junior, and didn’t I vow to pay him back? And he keeps giving me money like it’s Christmas and he’s Santa, my ticket to get back home. Get Junior out of this hellhole.

  Get me out of here, too. Flames about to burn me up. Flames of lying and cheating and creeping and peeping, flames of deception, that’s what.

  On the TV a skinny blond girl with not enough clothes on, was once a Miss Nevada—is now the one who jumps around like she’s got ants in her pants and goes and gets the prizes for the winners on “The Big One”—she’s giving some fat redheaded man a video camera.

  Oh, my God, he says, over and over. Oh, my God.

  Which isn’t how you’re supposed to talk on the TV.

  And then Big Gloria says it herself, Oh, my God.

  Because looking at that fat redheaded man cradling that prize, she suddenly sees those security cameras at the Monopoly—clear as day in her mind.

  Not just the ones in the hallways, though those too could be incriminating, recording her and Clothilde outside 1803, Clothilde with that long face telling her there’s a hellacious mess inside.

  Then there’s those secret cameras on top of that. That Wayne doesn’t know she knows, but what does he think she is, a stupid fool? Those are her rooms. And she’s not just some dumb cluck can’t tell a dust mop from a head cold. She knows about construction. She knows about sawdust. She knows what Wayne’s been doing with those tools.

  And that means that Wayne knows what happened in Kurt Roberts’s room. Wayne knows about Junior. Or not.

  Now the former Miss Nevada is saying to stay tuned for a special announcement about Bill Carroll!

  As if Big Gloria cared. What Big Gloria cares about is figuring out what she’s going to do. About Wayne. About Junior. About getting herself back on the right side of God—and Harry Zack.

  19

  Va Bene was a throwback—a social club in a yellow-brick and brownstone mansion that had once belonged to a mayor of Atlantic City. That was back in the days before a goodly number of the city’s elected officials routinely ended up in the slammer.

  Harry and Lavert were waiting for Sam on the marble steps when her car arrived, looking, in their evening clothes, like an ad for some $100-a-whiff perfume. Well, they were a dashing pair, she’d give them that.

  “Miz Adams,” said Lavert with a deep bow.

  “Wow!” Harry beamed. “Double wow!”

  “I’m pissed at you both.”

  “See what I told you,” Harry said to Lavert. “You can always count on my Sammy. I know”—and he gave her a big kiss before she could say another word—
“you’re going to tell me to hush up. But before I do, I want to tell you we’re closing in on Mr. Roberts—and your dough.”

  They probably were—while she’d been wasting her time with that crazy Cindy Lou. Well, she didn’t have to be nice about it. She gave Harry a cool profile as they ankled through a lobby deep in whorled black and red carpet. On the second-floor landing a maître d’ in a tuxedo said, “So pleased to see you this evening,” and led them into a high-ceilinged room of blinding white linen and dark-suited gents bent over pasta, roasted peppers, mushrooms, and large stogies.

  “This way, please. Mr. Amato is expecting you.” He slid open a door hidden in the cherry wood paneling.

  Sam gave Lavert and Harry the Groucho eyebrows. This wasn’t the mob, huh? Secret doorways? Inner sanctum? Was there a story here?

  Michelangelo Amato stood up from the sole table in the handsome, green-papered octagonal room. He was almost as tall as Lavert.

  Sam had pictured a short, dark gangster with a potbelly, heavy gold chains, shiny gray silk suit. Not this suave movie star type with serious tailoring and a headful of silver curls.

  “How very kind of you to come, Miss Adams.” He bowed over Sam’s hand, then kissed it.

  Puhleeze. But you had to admit it was a charming gesture. Maybe she was going to enjoy this evening, after all. Maybe she’d chat up this ever-so-handsome mobster and see how that sat with her smarty-pants boyfriend and his sidekick.

  “I told our friend Mr. Washington here that I always love meeting members of the press. Especially such lovely members.” Then he nodded at Harry, paying him the compliment. “Shall we be seated?”

  The mob welcoming the press, uh-huh. But Sam fluttered her eyelashes.

  The small round table was set with creamy china and Baccarat crystal for five. The heavy silver was Italianate. Camellias floated in a Lalique bowl the color of pomegranates. On each plate sat a tiny edible sculpture Cellini would have been proud to claim. Sam took mental notes.

  Michelangelo Amato seated Sam on his right. The spot on his left was empty. Sam snuggled close.

  Ma smiled. “My other guest will join us shortly.”

  “We do indeed appreciate your kind invitation,” said Lavert.

  “Any friends of Joseph Cangiano’s—and besides, we can’t have you going away from Atlantic City hungry, can we?” Smiles all around. “Now. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of asking our chef to prepare a special menu for us. The fame of your own considerable culinary gifts has preceded you, of course, Mr. Washington, so what Gianni has proposed to do is invite you to indulge him in a little amusement. If you will be so kind as to taste each dish in its turn and identify its ingredients.”

  “Oh, no!” Lavert laughed.

  “Yes, indeed. Since your extrasensory palate discerned, by taste alone, the components of our friend Joseph’s mother’s prized pasta sauce—even after she’d slipped you a bogus recipe—well, it hit the wire.”

  I bet, thought Sam. The wire that hooks up all you fancy hoods.

  The same wire that bullets your bets to Vegas. Yet, who was she to sneer at a good meal—or a charming dinner companion who spoke such pretty copy. She smiled at Ma, then at Harry, who narrowed his eyes. He was onto her.

  “Ummm,” she moaned over the morsels of the nuova cucina pizza. “Ethereal, earthy, yet light on the tongue.”

  “You sound like Gael Greene,” Harry said dryly.

  “Do you read her?” Sam turned to Michelangelo. “Her food writing is practically pornographic.”

  Harry shot her a warning look.

  “Potato and truffle with fontina cheese.” Lavert stepped into the breach.

  “Bingo,” smiled Ma. “Now let’s get serious.” He pressed a buzzer on the floor. A door opened, and a captain and a waiter marched in with a massive green and white tureen. When the captain raised the lid, a heady aroma filled the room.

  And a tomato filled the doorway. “I’m so sorry,” gushed the luscious young blonde in her little-girl voice. “It took me forever to sneak away.”

  She was as close to a dead ringer for Marilyn as Sam had ever seen. Except her eyes were brown, which also meant the platinum curls weren’t for real. But with those curves and that voice, who cared? Now, where had she seen this lovely young thing before?

  “Lana DeLucca,” Ma said.

  The gentlemen stood. Sam nodded and extended a hand. Michelangelo tucked Lana in close at his left side, and Harry smiled at Sam, who held his gaze. Okay, so there went her plan to spend the evening flirting with Michelangelo.

  This Lana was a real piece of work, a plum, a peach with a valentine for a face. A tad short in the leg beneath a tight black sequined sheath, but she made up in the chest for any slight deficiency in the gam department. “Miss Adams,” Lana nodded back, her smile big and red and bright.

  “Please, call me Sam.” No need to stand on seniority here, honey chile.

  “Lana is the daughter of a cousin of a very good friend of mine.”

  I bet, thought Sam.

  “Michelangelo’s been like an uncle to me since I’ve been in Atlantic City,” the young girl gushed. “Oooh, soup. I’m starving. It smells so good. What kind is it?”

  “Mr. Washington?” Ma deferred.

  Lavert lifted his spoon, breathed in the heady fumes, rolled a sip around his mouth like a fine wine, closed his eyes. “Fennel and celery root. Delicious.” He bit into the accompaniment of four kinds of bruschetta, whole wheat toast topped with—he identified garlic, green olive pesto, plum tomatoes, and Maryland crab spread.

  “Damn!” said Ma. “Gianni’s going to slit his wrists.”

  “Why?” Lana was all big brown eyes.

  Ma explained the culinary game. “Oooh,” she said. “How cute.” Then her forehead wrinkled, for just a moment. “But is there a prize? I don’t think I can stand another competition. I’m just about worn out with competition.”

  Sam got it. She knew she’d seen Lana somewhere before. “Are you, by any chance, Miss New Jersey?” The very girl Magic and Connors had wanted her to talk to.

  “Why, yes!” Lana dimpled, then the tiny frown reappeared. Ma had said in his introductions that Sam was covering the pageant. “You don’t remember me?” Heartbreak of heartbreaks.

  “You know, I do, but—wait, were you in evening gown last night?”

  “Yes!” Lana clapped her little hands. “How’d I do? I was so nervous. I mean, when Phyllis George asks you that question, well, I really do care about the environment, those creeps dumping stuff in the ocean you can’t even go to the beach, and I’ve read everything there is to know about waste disposal, but, God, I mean, gee, you’re up there in front of all those people, and—”

  “You did great,” said Harry, smiling into Lana’s wide eyes.

  Oh, yes, Sam knew that smile. “I had to leave at the beginning of evening gown to file my story,” she said evenly, “so I missed you. But I do remember you from the Parade of States.”

  “The Sierra Club couldn’t have given a better answer,” Harry said to Lana.

  “The what club?”

  Ma patted Lana’s creamy arm. “I thought it would be nice for you and Samantha to meet one another. It’s uncommon for a journalist of Ms. Adams’s stature to grace the pageant with her presence—and on the other hand, it’s rare for a journalist to have such personal access to an about-to-be Miss America.” Ma was all smiles. Lana lowered her eyelashes.

  He was smooth, he was suave. But what was his game?

  Was this little evening about extending hospitality to a friend of a friend? Engaging in a good-natured culinary rivalry? Putting together two women who could possibly help one another?

  Sam doubted all of the above. But why was she so sure this evening had something to do with business—and she didn’t mean pizza. Had she watched The Godfather too many times?

  “I can’t imagine how you sneaked out,” she said to Lana. “I thought the pageant’s security was tighter tha
n that of the White House.” Saying that, she saw a picture of Marilyn, the real Marilyn, in her spangled dress singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to JFK. Poor, poor Marilyn.

  But Lana was too young to have heard the many rumors about how Jack and Bobby both used and abused Norma Jean and then cut her off—her private Justice Department number for Bobby supposedly changed so she had to use the main number like any peon.

  “Aren’t I awful, sneaking away? I hope you won’t tell anybody. I’ll get in huge trouble.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Sam.

  “Well, I made real loud noises about going up to Sleepy Hollow to take a nap, and then I rolled up a couple of blankets under the covers on the bed and put a blond wig on the pillow—” She dissolved in giggles. “I just get so tired of being locked up with that chaperone. Do you know they even sleep in our rooms? Isn’t that silly?”

  “It is silly. Now tell us something about yourself, Lana. Where are you from?” Harry was all ears.

  “Well, I grew up in Newark. But my folks moved us down to Sea Girt a few years ago. I really like it on the ocean. It’s not so nice up in Newark anymore—what with one thing and another. There are too many bl—”

  And then, just before she finished that word, Ma laid a hand on her wrist and directed his gaze from her brown eyes toward Lavert’s—which were very big and very black. Lana gulped.

  “Very bad people,” she recovered. “There are lots of bad people in Newark these days.”

  “I bet,” smiled Lavert. “I bet there are lots of bad people there who can’t tell a citrus vinaigrette from a balsamic vinegar.” He flashed Ma a dazzler of a smile. “I’d be right about the citrus, wouldn’t I, Mr. Amato, on this insalata di mare? It’s especially good with the red and yellow peppers and the waxy potatoes. And where does Gianni get his seafood? The clams, shrimp, the squid, the sea scallops—incredibly fresh. Not from the Fulton Fish Market?”

  Michelangelo didn’t miss a beat as they danced together past Lana’s faux pas. “That cesspool—? No way. Their fish’ve been two weeks out of the sea by the time they get to your table. Gianni has sources in Maine. Day boats, we get it in hours. The shrimp are from Louisiana—flown in every morning.”