“The pageant staff, his office, his mother, his girlfriend in New York. His girlfriend here thought it strange he was here one minute, gone the next, but then—she hears voices, too. After enough vodka.”
“Not a reliable witness?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did the voices tell her?”
“You really want to know?”
“I’m waiting.”
“She said there were voices in her room that told her she’d be hurt if she—she’s a preliminary judge for the pageant—if she didn’t vote for Miss X to make the final ten. She thinks something happened to Roberts because he didn’t like Miss X. Or at least that’s what she thought a couple of days ago. Yesterday she seemed to be considering suing me for slander.”
“You’re kidding.” Ma was impressed. “So, who’s Miss X?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“That’s pretty funny. Sounds like a great gimmick for a bookie, he could get voices to speak to quarterbacks, jockeys, pitchers.”
“Uh-huh.” Then she paused, trying to frame the next question.
“I’m not making book on the pageant, if that’s what you want to know. There’s no percentage in it. Wouldn’t be good business.”
“It had occurred to me.”
“Now why’d I tell you that? You going to ask me that next?”
“Right.”
“I hate to see a nice woman like you wasting her time. You think there’s betting on Miss America, I’m telling you there’s not. Sports, that’s another story. But you don’t want to go around asking questions about that.”
“Got it. But let’s just say, speaking hypothetically, if someone were making book on Miss A, would the odds come from Vegas?”
“Sure. Hypothetically. That’s where all they all come from. On anything. Who’ll be in the Super Bowl. Which unions’ll go on strike this year. Which Latin dictators are going to fall down boom boom and hurt themselves.”
“How would they be made—on the girls? Hypothetically?”
“Well, the closest thing would be race horses. You’d look at the stats. Which states have won a lot?”
“California, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Texas, Oklahoma.”
Then Michelangelo started to noodle around with the idea. “Being a fan of the pageant, I’d say your minorities stand a good chance. After that, blondes over brunettes.”
“Redheads aren’t big winners. Freckles don’t photograph well.”
“I’d spot tall over short.”
“What do you think about talent?”
“Piano or singing over some oddball thing. Then, once the prelims begin, you’ve got your swimsuit and talent scores. You know swimsuit’s the biggie. Of course, if you were doing it, any money that went down before midnight Thursday is sucker money. After that, things get serious.”
“After the preliminaries are over?”
“Sure. They’re like the playoffs. After those, you’ve got your ten.”
“But we don’t know who the ten are until Saturday night.”
“You don’t know.”
“You do?”
“Sammy, Sammy. It’s a small town.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re still telling me nobody’s making book?”
Michelangelo laughed. “Right. You sound like somebody dying to put down some money.”
“I don’t think so. I’m already overextended.”
“Look. My advice to you would be this: Take what I just gave you if you want to play around with what-ifs in a story. I’ll be your ‘informed source.’”
“I appreciate that.”
“And forget nosing around. I’m serious.”
“I understand. But can you tell me one more thing?”
Michelangelo sighed. “I can try.”
“Has anybody ever fixed the pageant?”
“Not that I know of. Naaah. It’d be too hard. What’re you gonna do? Buy off both sets of judges? It might’ve been easier when there was one. Now with two—too many variables, too many pockets, too many mouths. Naaah. I’d say it can’t be done.”
And that was indeed the truth—as Michelangelo saw it. He’d done a little asking around since his conversation with Willie, and the pageant did seem to be bribeproof.
“So that wouldn’t be why your friend Angelo was looking for Kurt Roberts?”
“Usually, I’d say, if Ange was looking for somebody, it’s because the somebody owed him money.”
“Ange is in the habit of lending people money?”
“Ange can be a very generous man.”
“I see. And how do you think he might feel about someone who took advantage of his generosity?”
“I think he’d take a dim view of it.”
“Uh-huh. So, you think it might be possible for you to ask Ange if he found Mr. Roberts?”
“I think it would be. But I want to get back to your interest in this Roberts. I fancy myself a student of human psychology, and what I’m hearing you say is that you’re going to a lot of trouble to track down a guy simply because you think he’s missing—even though nobody else does? And nobody else cares?”
“Well, I have these intuitions. Feelings.”
“Hunches. Yeah, I know a lot about hunches. Lot of people in AC have hunches. They can be very expensive—you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, well, mine could, too. If I’m wrong, I stand to lose a bundle.”
“This is a bet? The Kurt Roberts thing is a bet?” Michelangelo’s laughter this time was richer than Angelina’s chocolate gelato.
38
Lana DeLucca sat at her dressing table teasing her hair, which didn’t seem to want to behave this morning. It was a crying shame, she thought, knowing that you couldn’t trust anybody anymore. Oh, the girls acted like they were the sweetest. They’d do anything for you. Lend you lipstick, nail polish, you name it.
And steal your custom-made evening gown.
Well, Michelangelo had certainly come through in a pinch on that one. The dress he’d had delivered to the dressing room wasn’t the same, of course, but it was close. The thing was, once she’d realized these girls were like anybody else, it had made her uneasy. That meant the pageant was like real life. Disaster could strike again at any time. From any place.
Lana narrowed her eyes—she was more than a little nearsighted—and peered across the room. Naked girls were everywhere, changing into swimsuits and wraps for the beach number rehearsal. That was one thing about this pageant business. You couldn’t afford to be modest. Every time you turned around, somebody was stripping you down, zipping you up, measuring your butt, your boobs, your body fat, your muscle tone, taping, spraying, teasing, combing, currying you. Now she knew how her Uncle Jimmy’s racehorses felt.
Well, it was almost over. Rehearsals the rest of today and the parade this evening. More rehearsals tomorrow, and then the finals, and they could all go home and fall down. And pork up. Lose those diets.
Except Miss America, who would hit the road.
And Misses Louisiana and Texas, who would be swimming with the fishes if she had her way.
Look at them over there, giggling together. She bet they were lovers. She just bet. She’d never liked Southern girls. She couldn’t understand a word they were saying. And these two thought they were so smart. Taking the wind out of her Jersey Devil story. That big redheaded Connors giving girls financial advice like she was some kind of stockbroker, for chrissakes. The other one, Magic, reading palms, telling fortunes, making everybody laugh with her tricks. Pulling coins out of ears, rabbits out of makeup kits. She bet that’s what they’d done with her dress—just made it disappear.
She knew it was them. All sweetness and light like they were just here having a good time, didn’t give a hoot about winning.
That was a joke. Any girl here would sell her first kid to win, and anybody who said different was full of it.
Well, they weren’t getting to her again. She had her dresses and her costumes hidd
en away in a place in her hotel so safe they’d never think of it.
So there!
“Hi, Lana, how y’doing?” It was Rae Ann, Miss Georgia. Now she was different. She really was sweet. And, like real. “Have you been doing your visualizations?” Rae Ann asked.
Lana didn’t know what she was talking about.
“You know, what I told you the other day. I do this every time before I step on a stage. You draw an imaginary circle on the floor, and in that circle is what you want. You stand outside that circle and you really concentrate on what you want. And then you concentrate on what it’s going to feel like when you have it. When you can really feel that, feel it in your bones, then you step inside the circle, and it’s like a glow comes all over you. Then you know. You have it.”
Lana frowned, and that little wrinkle appeared between her eyes. She’d felt tingly glows before, sure, but they didn’t have anything to do with imagining. They were real. Rae Ann was so religious, though, she probably didn’t want to hear about them. But speaking of religion. “That may work for you, Rae Ann, but I wonder the same thing about that as I wonder about guys praying before, like, a football game.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you know. If the Giants pray to win, and then let’s say the Redskins pray to win, how does God decide?”
“Well, gosh, Lana, I don’t know. I never thought about it like that before.”
“This is the same thing. If we all imagine stepping in that circle and winning, what’s gonna happen? Does God flip a coin like the umpire at the beginning of the game, or what? Or is it like little kids asking for things from Santa Claus? Is it whether you’ve been naughty or nice?”
Rae Ann just stared at Lana. Lana could tell Rae Ann was super-impressed with all this philosophical stuff.
Just about then, wouldn’t you just know, Miss Louisiana waltzed over and leaned down to her and said, “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and there’s something I’ve got to tell you. In fact, I dreamed about you last night.”
Uh-huh. Right. Dreamed what? An apology for snitching her gown? Well, it was too late. Lana had already taken care of her and her buddy. Sometimes you couldn’t just say I’m sorry and walk away. Not if you crossed a DeLucca.
“Yesssss?” she smiled up at Magic.
“There’s good news and bad news. I’m going to give you the bad news first.”
Oh boy. She was really full of it, wasn’t she? Like all this mumbo jumbo magic bit meant something.
“Look at me, Lana,” Magic was saying. “Look into my eyes.”
Lana rolled her big browns at Rae Ann, who was standing there with her baby blues looking like saucers, her mouth open, gaping at Magic. Then Lana slowly, like she was bored to spit, met Magic’s. In that instant, a thrill shot straight through her. It was like brushing up against a live wire.
Magic said, “You need to be careful. Very careful. I think there’s someone trying to hurt you.”
Right. You, that’s who!
“So you stay on your toes. I heard about your dress last night, but that’s not the whole bad thing. That may be part of it—”
“Well, you ought to know,” Lana blurted.
“Why, Lana!” Rae Ann, who was still standing there, wasn’t used to people being so rude.
“You get away from me, Magic Washington! Get away and stay away! I’m warning you!” Heads snapped all over the dressing room.
Magic said, “You don’t understand.”
“I understand all I want to.” Lana picked up her hairbrush and waved it in front of her. “You back off. Do you hear me? Out of my face!”
Magic turned tail and strolled off, trying to look casual, but Lana knew she’d rattled her. Good! “There, there,” Rae Ann soothed.
She took the brush out of Lana’s hand. “You’re just going to upset yourself. Shuh. Shuh.” She ran the brush through Lana’s hair like she was soothing a baby. “This is no time to get yourself all upset. You’ve got to keep your concentration. Keep focused on winning.”
“Well, I know she’s the one who took my dress. She and that Connors. And then she comes sucking around, trying to freak me out with that mumbo jumbo.”
“I know that’s what you think, but that’s just nerves. Nobody’s trying to hurt you. Hush, now. Hush.” Rae Ann brushed and brushed. She hummed a little lullabye under her breath. And then she stopped.
“What?” said Lana.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I was just wondering what the good news was. You know, the good news Magic mentioned.” And then Rae Ann looked down at the brush she was holding in her hand. “Oh, my God! Blessed Jesus!”
Rae Ann never took the Lord’s name in vain.
“What?” Lana wheeled around.
Rae Ann, open-mouthed, held out the brush. It was filled with a handful of Lana’s long blond hair—snapped right off at the roots.
39
Wayne daydreamed a lot. He imagined all kinds of things. But never in his wildest had he painted this picture.
He was sitting in Action Central thinking about the conversation he’d had with the equipment van man, wondering if there was somebody else trying to fix the pageant and why, when all of a sudden, like the voice of God coming out of the wall, Mr. F says, “Wayne, I’d like to see you in my office right now.”
It was amazing. Wayne had never been on the receiving end of this voice thing. It really did feel like God talking to you. And, in this case, of course, it was, sort of—Mr. F being his daddy and his mama and his teacher and the Baby Jesus all rolled into one.
So he dropped his cola, stopped mid-bite of a cheeseburger, and hustled his butt over to the executive offices faster than a speeding bullet—that’s what Mr. F would say.
“He’s expecting you.” That’s what Crystal had to say. You could tell it really burned her.
“Come in, Wayne. Pull that door to behind you.” Mr. F was sitting in his black calf executive chair, the very one that Wayne had copied, wiping his little round rimless glasses with his left (and only) hand and a handkerchief monogrammed TUF in one corner. T-U-F. Wasn’t that something? Wayne had never known Mr. F’s middle name. On the top of Mr. F’s specially built desk, his trains were going. Sante Fe. Southern Pacific. B&O. Rolling stock. They were really something.
“Could I offer you some orange pop?” asked Mr. F.
“Why, yes. That’d be nice.” Wayne settled back in the chair Mr. F had waved him into, across the desk. It was black leather too, but with chrome. By Vanderow, he’d heard Mr. F tell somebody once. “I’d like some, thanks.” Wayne sneaked a peek around the room to make sure Dougie wasn’t hiding in a corner. He didn’t seem to be. Well, that was good. It was about time he and Mr. F had a heart-to-heart. There were lots of things he wanted to tell him, and Dougie’s double-dealing, sneaking and hiding and stealing were right up there at the top of the list.
“You know, Wayne, I’ve been thinking it’s about time we had a heart-to-heart. Laid a few cards on the table.”
Wayne was absolutely amazed. No wonder the man was a billionaire. He was also a mind-reading genius.
“Wayne, one of the things you learn if you hang around this gambling business very long is when to hold and when to fold. And when to pull in your horns.”
Wayne nodded. He wasn’t sure what Mr. F was getting at, but he knew he’d figure it out. As long as Mr. F hadn’t started out yelling at him about those tapes, well, Wayne was happy.
“They’ve always said that this business is recession-proof, but it looks like that may not be the case. We’ve got shallow pockets all over the place.”
Shallow pockets. Wayne tried to picture them.
“What we’ve got here is a trickle down.”
Wayne saw a leaky faucet.
“It all snowballs.”
That was easy.
“We all took it in the shorts from Trump, just for starters.”
Wayne winced and crossed his legs.
&nb
sp; “You know, the man overdeveloped. Already had two casinos, he opened the Taj, just a monument to his dick. It didn’t bring more business into the city. All it did was divide it up, take from the rest of us. And we’re not going to get the business back till he folds one.”
Wayne saw the Donald standing in a corner. Holding his dick. Everybody pointing at him.
“On top of that, we got this oil business. Crazy Arabs, oil prices go up, gasoline goes up, we don’t get the drivers.”
Wayne saw cars full of gamblers turning around on the Garden State, heading back home.
“Your high rollers, they gamble discretionary income.”
Wayne got a blank screen on that one.
“Person owns his own business, he’s cutting back, because he’s not bringing in as much.”
Okay, Wayne could see that guy, frown on his face, staring at his cash register.
“You’d be surprised, the variables. Bad weather, they stay home. Flu season, they stay home. War. Football playoffs. Super Bowl. Then freaks like this Reverend Dunwoodie, that’s very bad for business, Wayne. Man shut the expressway down two hours yesterday, cost us a million. Us! And that kind of stuff spills over. People don’t want to be around trouble, especially with the coloreds.”
Wayne could see the solution to that. Just get an 18-wheeler, run that sucker over.
“The players who keep coming, high or low, are the retirees on a fixed income who pop over every other week for entertainment. They’re still coming in droves.”
Wayne could sure see that. Those AARPs on the buses with their coupons in their spotty old hands.
“We’re cutting back on the buses, cutting back on the free chips and meal vouchers. Lots of those grandmas just play those freebies, gobble the meals and get back on the bus.”
Shame on them. No free lunch. Everybody knew that one.
“So here’s what we got. We don’t want to cut back too much on marketing because we don’t want to lose market share. But we’ve got to trim expenses where we can. And back-of-the-house is the most sensible place to start.”
Wayne saw a big pair of scissors. He nodded at Mr. F who was looking right at him through his little rimless glasses.
“Well, I really do appreciate your taking this so well, Wayne. I knew if I explained it to you, you’d understand.”
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