“Shut up! Stop your lying!” Then the brother was back in his face again. His breath was hot and smelled like coffee. “You ever been in jail, little dude?”
“No, sir.”
“Cute little thing like you, you know how long you’d last before a bunch of dudes big as me’d have you in the shower playing pick-up-the-soap? “
“No, sir. Yes, sir.” It wasn’t something Junior wanted to think about.
“You know what you’d have to do every night to make sure somebody didn’t kill you in your sleep?”
“Yes, sir. No, sir.”
“Well, whatever you think it might be, smart little dude, double it and then triple it, and then kiss your ass good-bye.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, we want you to watch your step, Junior. Do you understand what we’re saving?” That was Harry.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?” The brother bellowed in his ear like a drill sergeant.
“Yes, sir!”
“Then get your ass back in school and straighten up and fly right and watch your p’s and q’s!” The brother whacked him one more upside the head just to make sure.
After Junior had marched smartly back up the steps as if he’d made straight As in Basic at West Point, Lavert said, “How’d we do?”
“I think maybe that last set of orders you gave him was a little confusing.”
“In about a New York second I’m gonna confuse you,” Lavert growled, then leaned his head back and laughed. They were slapping hands before they were through.
“He didn’t know nothing about Roberts,” said Lavert.
Harry agreed, then asked, “You think we did it? You think Junior’s gonna mind his mama and watch his butt? You think I can stop worrying about him? I really hated it when Sammy told me I was responsible for him since I dragged him out of that pool.”
*
Darleen looked around the lobby at the crowd waiting for the elevators. Everyone else was wearing pageant badges, big hairdos, and polyester blouses. Darleen hadn’t figured out exactly how she was going to get into this trade show, but she knew that if she didn’t do some serious shopping soon she was going to go into withdrawal—or kill her husband. She thought maybe if she spent several thousand dollars of his money on a little beaded number, Billy Carroll might live a few more hours. Waiting for the elevator, she rooted around in her bag, wondering if her California resale license would get her in.
“Oh, I wish we didn’t have to go home,” said Rachel Rose, whom she’d dragged along.
Darleen stared at her daughter, who was dressed head to toe in tattered black. She looked like a refugee from some Eastern European country. “A week ago you were kicking and screaming you wanted to stay home and hang out with your friends, the last week before school starts.”
“I know. That seems like a lifetime ago.”
Oh, Jesus. To be 15 again and in love. To be 36 and in love, for that matter.
“Now, you’re being—prudent—with this boy, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Mom.” Rachel Rose rolled her eyes. “Not so loud. And please, not in public.”
Her daughter was right. She apologized.
“It’s okay.”
God, how nice her kid was. And they were still able to talk. It was amazing, Rachel Rose hadn’t gone completely mute when she hit puberty.
Darleen gazed fondly over the top of her daughter’s head—and there he was again. The old man with the white shirt, the dark pants, the windbreaker, and the limp.
This wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him. It was like every time she turned around today, he was in the corner of the picture. At breakfast, on the Boardwalk, and now—
“Do you know that man?” Darleen pointed.
“Who?”
“Him.”
“I don’t see who you’re talking about.”
He was gone. It was nothing, she said. No need to frighten Rachel Rose. That would make her feel more guilty.
And God knows she felt guilty enough. Darleen had lain awake all night thinking about the terrible things she’d done to Lana DeLucca—wondering why she’d put the blame on her.
Billy was the one she ought to be trashing. Little sucker didn’t even wear his wedding band, said it was too tight. Yes, indeed, the real culprit had been lying there right next to her while she was staring at the ceiling. She could have reached over and picked up that big lamp and crushed his skull. That would have been doing things right. Except, given his hair helmet, the damned lamp would’ve probably bounced back in her face and broken her nose.
Darleen smiled at the thought. At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. Anyway, she knew what she was going to do today, right after she bought herself and Rachel Rose some very expensive little numbers.
She was going to find Lana and fess up. She was going to apologize to her and return her gown and see what they could do about her hair. Darleen knew this Hollywood hairdresser who had the most fabulous wigs—he could air-express one.
It was times like these Darleen wished she were Catholic. She could go to church, confess, light a few candles, it’d be over and done with. Jews, no way, they had to stare their transgressions in the face, apologize, make restitution, and still feel guilty the rest of their lives.
“Hi!”
Darleen jumped.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Aren’t you Billy Carroll’s wife?”
Darleen looked up at the tall brunette. She was vaguely familiar.
“I’m Sam Adams, Atlanta Constitution. I saw you out at the pool with Billy a few days ago.”
Not exactly an afternoon she wanted to remember. Billy being a horse’s ass with the waiter. Embarrassing her like she’d just embarrassed her daughter.
“You two going up to the trade show?”
“Yes,” Darleen smiled brightly, then introduced herself and Rachel Rose. “I don’t know if we can get in.”
Sam said come along with her. She was sure she could help them.
*
So they’d be a while. Angelo, hidden behind a tall redheaded woman who was Dr. Mary Frances DeLaughter, would stay on the elevator, then go back down to the lobby and loiter behind a palm. Angelo had a lot of patience, as long as this thing didn’t run over into his date with Angelina.
But seeing as how he was so close to the prize, it wouldn’t hurt to take out a little insurance. Dealing with a flake like Billy Carroll, you could never be too careful. Marks like him never did what they said they were gonna do—unless you had ’em by the short ones. The way Ange figured it, Billy’s short ones had just stepped off the elevator.
*
Patience was not, however, one of the virtues belonging to Dr. Mary Frances DeLaughter. She nabbed Sam the minute she’d pointed Darleen and Rachel Rose in the direction of Jeannie Carpenter and her beaded gowns.
“I’m finding it very difficult,” she said, all atremble with seriousness, “to identify a contestant who epitomizes the transcending qualities of American womanhood. Someone who could serve as an icon for feminism, who understands the game that is being played here and is using it to her own advantage.”
“Someone very clever?” Sam smiled.
“Yes.”
“A young woman who really has her priorities in order?”
“That’s the ticket.”
“Someone who can verbalize all the dreams for power that American women have tucked away in their bras?”
Mary Frances looked at her a bit oddly. Okay, so she’d pushed too far. But she had the girl to twist Mary Frances’s brain all right. And vice versa.
“Miss New Jersey, M. F., is going to be your star. Now, if you have trouble reaching her,” Sam leaned forward, “don’t tell anyone I told you, but she’s staying at my hotel, the Monopoly. Room 1505.”
That done, a smiling Sam sailed toward the jewelry counter, where she would buy Miss America key chains for Malachy and Uncle George. It was a great day to be alive and in full
possession of your faculties as well as a couple of major credit cards.
44
“Junior, my man, it’s going to be spectacular,” said Rashad. “I really love this shot of you zooming down the beach road with Rachel Rose. I mean Bette.”
“It’s going to be spectacular when they put our butts in jail, all right. You think you can get your friend Spike to come and make a movie of us in stir? Fools on the Pea Farm. I can just see it on the marquee.”
“Would you please stop being so melodramatic. You don’t even know they were cops.”
“They were cops.”
“Then why didn’t they arrest you?”
“They’re toying with us. That’s what cops do.”
“We don’t have time for this, Junior. I’ve got to finish editing this stuff today if we’re going to screen it tomorrow. Harry’ll understand that this is rough cut. But I want to see what he thinks. Now hand me that footage of you and Rachel Rose driving around the Pine Barrens, you’re talking her out of being Miss A.”
“I have a terrible feeling about this. That big brother, man, he looked in my eyes and he could see me stealing these cameras.”
“Tape, please. Thank you.”
“He’s about the size of a freight train, and he’s telling me all about how I’m gonna be somebody’s girlfriend in jail. He scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Huge dude? Junior, you are so dense. I met that—” Junior looked up at the monitor. “Awh, man. This is the wrong tape.”
“The label says Pine Barrens. That’s it.”
“It’s the Barrens, all right. But we didn’t shoot this stuff. Hey, that’s the guy who gave me his Rol—”
“Jesus. I don’t know. Wait a minute. That one.” Junior pointed to the other man. “That’s the hard-on who pushed me in the pool. But—oh, God! Rashad! What’s he doing? What the hell?”
“Don’t get so excited. Obviously they’re just goofing. And it’s free! Murder in the Pines. What a great subplot!”
45
Harry and Lavert had decided to try their luck down at the Centurion before the big parade. “Spread some of it around,” Lavert had said, smiling his big smile. But that was a joke, because both of them had been on a winning streak since they hit town. Harry still hadn’t shaved, his special good luck trick still holding. They were standing in line now to cash in, their hands full of chips.
“Big Gloria’s going to have a smile on her face tonight,” said Harry.
Lavert laughed. “You’ve turned into a one-man social welfare department here, my man.”
“Nawh. You know, it kind of started as a joke, but I really would like to see the woman take Junior and get back to God’s country. This place’ll rot your soul. Hanging around inside casinos, eternal night.”
“Be night in the ghetto, too, all the time. You know, I been thinking.”
“Uh-huh?”
“We’ve done this whole thing wrong.”
“Which one?” asked Harry, noticing that the short man with the big hair over in the credit line was Billy Carroll.
“This Roberts thing. I don’t know why we went asking questions, chasing our butts all around. We didn’t have to do jack.”
“What are you saying?”
“It was a negative proposition, my man. All we had to do was wait for your sweet girl to prove us wrong. We didn’t have to prove ourselves right.”
“REALLY?”
“Lookit, she can’t come up with the dude with some holes in him or something, we get the scatch.”
“You don’t think she’s going to hold us to a note from his mama or something? Saying she’s sorry he couldn’t come to Atlantic City no more, but—”
“No! That’s what I’m telling you. She said something’s happened to him. Proof is on her.”
“I don’t know, Lavert. I don’t think she’s gonna roll over on this one.”
It was Harry’s turn at the window now. He shoved his pile of chips through and the cashier counted out $1000. “Just a moment, sir,” he said. He pushed a form through the window for Harry to sign.
“Boy, I hope you pick up a bunch of losing tickets at the track before the end of this year. The IRS is gonna eat up your behind,” said Lavert.
“Yeah, well, I never have any problems dropping it at the Fairgrounds—”
But before he could finish, he was interrupted by Billy Carroll’s yowling. “What d’ya mean, no more? Do you know who I am?”
Lavert looked down at Harry, gestured with a finger to one eye. “Breakfast’s what he is. About two bites.”
“Billy Carroll. Host of ‘The Big One’ and emcee of this year’s Miss America Pageant!” Carroll was bouncing up and down on his lifts so hard he looked like he was about to take flight. “And furthermore, I have played in this town for 25!”
“Casinos ain’t been open that long, fool,” Lavert said softly, stepping up to the cashier. It was his turn now.
“I earn more in one week than you do in a whole year, and you’re telling me my credit’s no good? So what if I’ve drawn twenty-five? I’m good for that and more. Do you speak English? Can we get somebody over here who can?”
Lavert was signing his receipt. “I fairly do hate people who say things like that. I tell you, Harry, the assumptions made by middle-class white people in this country are enough to give you heart failure.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“And I hope a whole bunch of them come and make those assumptions in our restaurant, don’t you? Labor under the delusion that the world’s their playpen and the toys don’t stop. Their pockets full of gold plastic.”
“I do, my man.”
“How are you boys doing today?” It was a little old black lady in a bright red polyester pantsuit and comfortable shoes who was in line behind them.
Her husband, who was carrying her bag, couldn’t help but brag. “We hit the dollar slot for $5000.”
“That’s great!” Lavert beamed at them. Then leaned down to take a closer look, glanced back at Harry with a question on his face.
The little old lady turned to her husband and whispered. “We can’t cash this in, Ange. You have to show ID.”
“You’re right. I forgot. Well, hell, let’s go upstairs. We’ll take a little lie-down.”
“Okay,” she said brightly. And off they trotted.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you people,” Billy Carroll was screaming.
“What’s the matter, man?” Harry asked Lavert.
“Those people—they weren’t black.”
“They looked black to me.”
“I know. But did you listen to them?”
“They’re Yankee colored folks, Lavert. They talk different.”
“Shut up, fool. Those were your folks wearing makeup, I’m telling you.”
“Yeah, and I guess that ID business they were talking about doesn’t mean they left their drivers’ licenses upstairs, it means they’re gonna go up, get their guns, and rob the bank, right?”
Just then a white man in a navy blazer, almost as big as Lavert, pulled up under his own steam, though Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if there’d been a bulldozer behind him, he had that kind of momentum.
“Sir?” he said to Billy Carroll, cutting him out of the line with his body like Billy was a bad little calf. “Sir, could you come over here with me just a moment?”
Shift manager if not assistant casino manager, Harry thought. Hell, maybe it was the casino manager himself leaning on Billy Carroll, whose face was starting to pucker like he might have himself a good cry.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Carroll was right in the man’s face as Harry and Lavert strolled off.
*
Later, Billy Carroll would be ashamed of himself. Ashamed of losing control with a nobody like that. He should have insisted on seeing the vice president in charge of casino operations when the big lug hustled him out.
But, on the other hand, Billy thought—taking
another shower, getting ready for his ride on the float with that bossy Phyllis George who’d probably try to tell him how to wave—maybe it was just as well.
He had already dropped another bundle, all in credit, since he’d gotten the call from Barbara Stein about doing the emcee number.
Only because he was nervous. Which was understandable, primetime exposure like that.
Plus, there was Angelo leaning on him.
He’d told the man he’d do what he asked. But, God almighty, it wasn’t going to be but half a second if he did that before the shit would hit the fan, and his career in broadcasting would be history.
Billy had been in some tights before, but never one like this.
The way he figured it, he’d just keep leading Angelo on, saying, Yes sir, boss to everything he asked. Then he’d do the right thing, and, once he paid Angelo the cash he owed him, plus a little bonus, hell, what difference would it make?
This wasn’t GoodFellas, for Christ’s sake. And the pageant was just a bunch of silly little twists. Who’d care day after tomorrow? It wasn’t important. It wasn’t the Super Bowl. It wasn’t like Angelo was going to fit him for a pair of concrete overshoes, size eight, hold the lifts ’cause the little man won’t be standing in them.
Was it?
46
There was nothing to clear a man’s head like a drive in the country.
About five o’clock, just as everybody else was settling into the Miss America Parade and all that silliness on the Boardwalk, Wayne headed out of town in his red 1968 Mustang, a car he dearly loved. He’d thought for a few minutes about taking a rental car, the Mustang being such a standout, but then, nobody in Atlantic City ever noticed anything anyway, and the people where he was headed, well, there weren’t many of them in the first place, and in the second place, they never talked.
Besides, he didn’t want to waste the money. Now that he was out of a job—well, it might not be long before Michelangelo Amato took him on, probably wouldn’t be, but you could never tell. All that talk Mr. F had done about bad times—who knew how far that might go? Maybe even the mob had more than it could handle, had fallen on lean days. Though he didn’t think so.
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