*
“So you see,” Wayne had settled himself down at the table in Ma’s private dining room as if he’d been invited, “I’ll make the tape of your girl like she’s taking her victory walk down the runway, and then I’ll implant it in the judges’ heads, and your Miss New Jersey will win.”
“Really?” Ma used his warm voice. He wanted to keep this bugger talking until Willie, who was out in the car, could answer the beeper. Besides, this was pretty interesting info—from a nut case.
“Yeah, and it works, all this stuff works. It’s just like, well, you know, you use a lot of electronic stuff in your business. Isn’t it great what you can do these days?”
That stopped Ma cold. What did this freak show know about his business?
“Yeah, you know, I was talking with a guy one day who said all the bookmaking in town was high tech. I didn’t believe him, so I tried to tap into it, and I have to give it to you, man. That call-forwarding from the dummy offices to your central office, wow! And the volume you handle on that mainframe is terrific.”
“You don’t say.”
“Hey, I’m impressed. And listen, I brought you something that just popped up. Kind of a surprise, you know. This thing I stumbled into, it’s like this pageant business could be a spy novel, you know what I mean? They’ve got people all over the place doing tricks, planting stuff, I don’t know what all they’re up to. And, of course, it’s hard to get ’em to talk, but I thought that might be more up your alley.”
“What do you mean?”
Wayne rubbed his hands together. He was standing off and watching himself, in a way. It was just like in the movies. “You’re gonna love this! I caught this broad trying to sneak into your Miss New Jersey’s room, so I nabbed her. I’ve got her outside.”
“Where outside?”
“In the trunk of my Mustang. You want to come out and see?”
*
Well, screw it, Darleen Carroll thought, fingering her cut lip. It wasn’t worth a cracked front tooth to apologize to a silly little whore who was doing your husband.
She hoped all Miss New Jersey’s hair fell out and her boobs sagged and her butt dropped. Overnight.
Shoeless and sweaty in her turquoise silk shirt and black capri pants, Darleen retraced her steps back into the Monopoly’s lobby.
Or almost.
Just before that last turn of the hallway, there was a big Phoenix palm in a blue ceramic Chinese pot decorated with white golden-eyed swans. Darleen the decorator was wondering if the pot had come from mainland China and how much it would cost her in volume, when a hand reached out from behind the palm and grabbed her.
*
Inside the wine cellar, Lana stripped off her pink sweater, white slacks, and bra and slipped into her evening gown. There were those who would say that her dress was too racy for Miss America, but Lana wasn’t one of them. The front didn’t show a thing. It was cut high, and there were lots of beads and sequins over her boobs. Of course, in this cold cellar, her nipples were a problem, but tonight she’d do the old Band-Aid number. The back of the dress was something, dipping to below those two cute little dimples just above her butt.
But the point was, it was almost an exact copy of the dress Marilyn had worn when she sang the same song in Some Like It Hot. Lana was doing Marilyn, so it was okay. Right? What was really super was how close this dress was to the original. Her lucky original. The one that was ripped off.
Just thinking about that made Lana mad all over again, that someone would have the nerve! Her eyes went out of focus, seeing the faces of Magic and Connors. She’d get them for this. Oh, yes, she’d get them. But then she saw what she’d been staring at. Stacked in the mahogany shelves above the orange pop were cases of nothing but the best. She ran her fingers across a few bottles, then pulled out a Veuve Cliquot. No glasses, but what the heck? One of the nice things about champagne was you didn’t need a corkscrew.
*
“Tell you what,” Ma said, folding his napkin. “Your car’s out front? Why don’t you drive it through the alleyway to the side of the club around to the back? There’s a private parking lot behind the back door. I’ll meet you there.”
“Fine and dandy.” Wayne was feeling good, sounding more like Mr. You Know Who all the time. Letting those slick phrases he’d learned from him just roll right off his tongue. “Speaking of alleys, this’ll be right up yours. You’re gonna love it, I guarandamntee you.”
“I’m sure.” Ma nodded at Willie, who’d just stepped to the dining room door.
*
Rashad was all over the place in the living room of Sam and Harry’s suite, arranging chairs, plumping pillows, slipping the tape into the VCR. “Hey, did you bring any popcorn?” Harry asked.
“Oh, my God.” Rashad slapped himself in the forehead. “I forgot it. I can call room service.”
“He’s teasing,” said Sam. “Calm down, Rashad. Now tell us what this is about.” Then she leaned over and whispered to Harry, “This better not take long. I want to get moving on this Wayne Ward thing.”
“Well. Harrumph.” Rashad cleared his throat and looked over at Junior, who gave him the high sign. Rashad was wearing full formal dress this morning, down to the gray spats. Junior was more informally attired, but cool.
Whatever they lacked in filmmaking skills they more than compensated for in style, thought Harry. These two would land buttered side up.
Rashad began to explain about the film’s subject, Bette Cooper, Miss Bertram Island, New Jersey, who’d decided in the middle of the night, after being crowned Miss America 1937, that she’d just as soon pass. And Lou Off, the Atlantic City socialite, who’d helped her make her grand escape.
Junior added, “That part’s true. What we’ve done, though, is tie it in with a fictional gangster story that takes place in the Pine Barrens. You know, kind of a film noir. The beautiful versus the bad. Innocence played against evil.”
Rashad stared at his normally silent partner, then said, “Why don’t we just roll it for you?”
And so they did.
On the TV screen Rachel Rose shimmied down a fire escape and landed in a convertible. Junior, playing Lou Off, drove her, as Bette, still sniveling with a terrible head cold, down along a beach road. He was telling her how he was sure she was doing the right thing. The Miss America business was just too gauche. He headed toward Margate and a fishing boat he had docked there. As the sun rose on Sunday morning and the Steel Pier where the Miss America festivities were about to be thrown into turmoil by the disappearance of its Cinderella, the fishing boat headed north toward that same pier, where it would dock.
“Neat!” Harry exclaimed. “Did this really happen?”
“Every jot,” Rashad replied.
*
Darleen awoke to total darkness. At first, she thought she’d gone blind.
Then she realized that she was in a storeroom of some kind. It smelled of cheese.
“Let me out of here,” she shouted and kicked the door with her bare foot.
“Hold your horses!”
The door opened slowly, and Darleen blinked. At first she couldn’t make out a thing in the bright light. But then she focused.
It was the old guy with the windbreaker and the limp who’d been following her.
“So, how much,” he said in a gravelly voice, “do you think your husband Billy loves you, Mrs. Carroll?”
Oh shit. If that was the scam, she was a goner.
51
Inside the wine cellar, Lana had finished practicing the boop-boop-a-doop routine she’d perform tonight. She was good. She was sure she’d be one of the ten finalists. Then she’d changed back into her pink sweater and white pants and taken a little nap.
Now she was rested and relaxed and ready to go back upstairs and face her chaperone, who would be mad as hell, but so what?
Lana stood and stretched like a kitty, grabbed her dress, and reached for the door.
But it was locked.
; She tried turning the knob to the right, to the left. Nothing.
That was because the dead bolt had to be unlocked from the inside, and Lana didn’t have the key.
She’d smacked Darleen Carroll in the mouth with it and then slammed the door.
*
“Okay, open it up,” said Michelangelo. Willie was looking over his shoulder, though there was no one else in Va Bene’s parking lot. The Lincoln was pulled up right beside the red Mustang.
Wayne licked his lips. Oh, this was going to be so good. Michelangelo was going to be so pleased. He could just tell by the look in the man’s eyes. He wanted to make this last as long as possible.
“Now,” said Michelangelo.
Okay, okay. For an Italian, the man sure didn’t have much of a sense of drama. Wayne unlocked the trunk and paused with the lid still down. “She says she doesn’t know anything.”
“Open it!” Michelangelo growled.
And his manners weren’t nearly as good as Mr. You Know Who’s. But Wayne could adjust. Wayne could get used to his style. It was just a matter of time.
Wayne flipped up the lid. There was the tall redheaded woman, bound and gagged. But she wasn’t moving at all.
*
“This is great stuff!” Harry exclaimed at the video. “You guys are really good!”
Junior and Rashad beamed with pride in the darkened hotel room. The show was on hold.
“So that’s what they really did?” asked Sam. “They docked right there beside the pier where the Miss America festivities were supposed to be held? While people were looking for Bette Cooper everywhere else? It’s like ‘The Purloined Letter.’”
“Exactly,” Rashad grinned. “Now, do you want to see the rest?” He punched the remote button again. “This is the second intercut of the subplot. You saw the red Mustang earlier driving into the Pines. Now here’s the action.”
*
“Get me out of here!” Lana screamed. She had great lungs from her singing lessons. “Help! Help!”
But no one heard her. The walls of the wine cellar were two feet thick with heavy insulation.
Lana plopped down on a case of orange pop and buried her face in her hands. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was Lana DeLucca of the Sea Girt DeLuccas. Her daddy was an underboss. She’d won swimsuit. She was going to make 10. She had an excellent shot at taking the crown. Shit like this didn’t happen to Miss America finalists.
*
“I’m going to smell like a pizza,” Darleen said, “if you don’t get me out of here.”
“You’re awfully cool for a lady who’s being held for ransom.” Angelo pulled up a chair beside her and handed her a little glass of Chianti.
“If you think Billy’s got any money, you might as well shoot me now.”
“I know Billy ain’t got no money. He owes me money.”
“So you’re the loan shark. That’s what this is all about?”
“Sort of.”
“Look. How much is he into you for? I run my own business. I have some funds.”
Angelo reached over and patted her hand. “Nice thought, but it don’t work that way. Listen, you hungry? You can have some pizza. Or we’ll make you some noodles. See, the way this happens, Billy’s gonna do me a little favor, we’re gonna let you go.”
Darleen sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
*
“She’s dead,” said Michelangelo, staring into the trunk.
“Oh, well, listen. These things happen. This was just a little added extra attraction. But, what do you think? I’ll go get Miss New Jersey, make the tape, plant it in the judges’ rooms. Though—” Wayne pushed his Monopoly Special Services hat further back on his head. His aviator glasses were fogged. And suddenly he realized that he’d lost it somewhere in a little blip, just like when he’d had the shock treatments. His plan didn’t make sense. There was no time for subliminals to kick in. “—maybe we ought to do something else, too. You got any ideas?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” said Michelangelo, turning and giving Willie a small nod. “I tell you what. Willie here is going to drive you in my car over to the Ventnor office. I’ll stay here for a few minutes and make arrangements to have this,” he gestured at the Mustang’s trunk, “taken care of, and then I’ll join you over there. Your car will be fine.” He placed a heavy hand on Wayne’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Great! Great!” Wayne was really excited. Things were going even better than he’d hoped.
*
“Oh, my God!” said Sam.
Rashad flipped Junior a look. This was going really swell. Both Harry and Sam loved the video. Especially this scary part they’d spliced in with the guys out in the Pines. Like the old Miss America footage they’d used—no need to reinvent the wheel when the stuff was at hand. Especially when you were under the gun of a deadline.
“Do you know who that is?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” said Rashad. “That’s the dude who pushed Junior in the swimming pool, the one who’s playing dead. He’s a photographer—not a bad actor, either, huh? The other one is this spaced-out nerd who works in the Monopoly. Junior’s mom knows him, right, Junior?”
“Yeah,” Junior nodded. But he was getting a little nervous. Sam and Harry were acting weird. He bet they knew something about the equipment being lifted. He was beginning to wonder if Harry wasn’t lying about the cop business.
“It’s Wayne Ward, isn’t it, Harry?” said Sam.
Harry nodded, mesmerized by the sight of Wayne rolling Kurt Roberts’s body over and over through pine needles, then down a bank and into a river of dark water. “That’s Wayne, all right.” Then he turned to the two young men. “Hey, guys, where’d you get this footage?”
Damn, thought Junior.
52
At nine o’clock, an hour before the broadcast of the Miss America Pageant live from Atlantic City, Michelangelo and Willie were driving through Ducktown in the Lincoln. Michelangelo picked up the phone.
“Ma?” It was Petey from the Ventnor office. “Listen, a call came in from Vince over at the club. There’s this woman, Stein or something, from Convention Hall trying to reach you. She practically called the cops, trying to track you down. I thought you’d want to know.”
“What’s it about?”
“Something about Miss New Jersey? Missing in action? I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, boss. You want the woman’s number?”
Goddamnit! Ma slammed the receiver so hard Willie jumped in the front seat.
“That little bimbo! Now she’s missing. Pageant’s looking for her, looking for me. Remind me never to get mixed up in this kind of business again, Willie.”
So where did Ma want Willie to take him? Did he want to forget going by Tommy’s? No. It was only a block. They’d go see what Angelo Pizza wanted first.
*
Billy Carroll tripped over his own words introducing the governor of New Jersey in the preshow up on the big stage.
“Stuttering. God, he’s worse than ever,” Sam said to the Inquirer from their vantage point rampside. “And his color’s bad.” Had he caught Gary Collins’s stomach flu? Was he going to faint halfway through the show?
The Inquirer predicted a rocky evening. Then, looking over Sam’s shoulder, her eyes widened. “Uh-oh. Uh-oh.”
Sam turned. No. Please, no. She didn’t have the strength.
Sam was already running on pure adrenaline. This beauty business had turned out to be so much more exhausting than she’d ever dreamed.
Not to mention that she and Harry had spent a good part of the day with Rashad and Junior and Captain Kelly who wanted to hear everything they knew, from the top. Meanwhile, he said, the APB on Wayne Ward hadn’t turned up a thing. Wayne had probably split.
Later, Kelly got back to her. He was a nice man. Cindy Lou had copped to making it up about Roberts in the Bahamas. “Said she did it to get you off her butt.” Sam could hear his wry grin. Not funny. N
ot funny at all, she’d been 15 years in the business and had taken the woman’s word just like that. Kelly had sent a man up to Cindy Lou’s room to see what the hell this voice business was she kept yapping about. And they’d sent a crime scene team off to the Pine Barrens. Nothing there yet.
Then Rae Ann called. She wanted to know if Sam was still interested in a last interview before the big show.
It had been worth the time.
Rae Ann met her in the pressroom in Convention Hall. She’d brought along the field director for the Georgia state pageant. Ron Templeton was tall, dark, handsome—and a flight attendant who lived in Dallas. But he grew up in Valdosta, and his heart lay with the Peach State and its pageant, and flying back was no big deal. He was responsible for coordinating the efforts of 12 local pageants. Pageants were his hobby, his passion, his religion, his life. All his best friends were into pageants. “We all love each other,” said Ron. “It’s just like when I used to do local theater. Romance, the spectacle, the magic of fairy tales come true. Don’t you love fairy tales?”
Sam left them visualizing victory and raced over to the trade show to pick up a package from Jeannie Carpenter, the bugle bead lady, before the sales floor shut down for good at five.
Back in the hotel room, she’d sprawled on her bed to catch her breath when Big Gloria pounded on the door. The cops were still holding Junior! And Rashad!
It took Sam half an hour to calm her down, explain that Kelly had promised to get the wallet-snatching and burglary, which had come out as the boys had told their tale, reduced to probation. All Gloria and Rashad’s folks had to do was go sign for them.
In the end, Harry had poured Gloria a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s, which worked better than the explanations, then called Lavert to drive her over to Northfield Barracks.
Seven-thirty and counting, Sam had already blown off the Old South Ball. She grabbed a ham sandwich, a quick shower, and tossed on her turquoise Carnival gown.
“Gorgeous as the first time I laid eyes on you,” said Harry, buttoning the studs on his tuxedo shirt. “Sazerac Bar of the Roosevelt.”
She Walks in Beauty Page 31