She Walks in Beauty Page 6

“He’s such a creep.”

  Harry read her face carefully. “Did he say something to you, Sammy?”

  She looked at his bruised lip and then at his hand, which he’d scraped on the bottom of the pool. He hadn’t even noticed it was bleeding. No, she didn’t need to tell Harry that Kurt Roberts came on to all the ladies. Not today.

  Over at the other side of the pool a woman Sam had met joined the security men, the manager, and the youngster. Sam watched them over Harry’s shoulder for a minute and then said to him, “You know what happens when you save somebody’s life, babe?”

  “They live.”

  “The Chinese believe you’re responsible for them forever. So I guess old Malachy Champion’s responsible for me and you’re responsible for that young man.”

  “No way. Besides, I didn’t do that much. If I hadn’t jumped in, someone else would have.”

  “I don’t think Gloria thinks so.”

  Harry turned to see what Sam meant and came nose to nose with Big Gloria, who grabbed him up in a bear hug.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” she cried. “You’ve already been so generous—” Her voice broke. “And now saving my Junior’s life. But I will repay you! I will!”

  4

  Wayne loved sitting in his studio in front of all the monitors. The third floor of the Monopoly, Action Central, that’s what he called it.

  He had eight screens going. On a table in front of him, three double cheeseburgers were lined up along with a large order of fries and a half-gallon of cola. Wayne really loved pop. And a super-large box of Cracker Jacks. He couldn’t wait for the prize, but work came first.

  He’d already reviewed the stuff from that morning through early afternoon. There hadn’t been anything useful. The cameras were triggered by motion in the rooms. So there were the maids, making beds, cleaning bathrooms. That was a waste. But he couldn’t rig to timers, because you couldn’t tell when the guests might pop in and out.

  In 1801, the man was shaping up to be a player—the one he’d punched in the mouth. Wayne grinned at the memory of his fist connecting. The room was registered originally to the tall brunette. The little dog and the boyfriend were extra. She was worth watching, for sure. But the dog was a real pain in the ass. Twisting, turning, twitching even in his sleep, setting off the camera. There he went, up for a drink of water, over to the floor-length window. Short little sucker, what did he think he was gonna see? A Mighty Dog train pulling into town? Wayne laughed at his own joke. Now the dog was rolling over. Licking himself. Boring.

  Then, uh-oh, middle of the afternoon, here comes the brunette. Had the boyfriend told her somebody had been fiddling with their room? Naw, she didn’t have that look about her, like she was afraid, paranoid, checking things out. Nope, she swooped in, big smile on her face, talking to that stupid little dog, kissing him, then talking to herself in the mirror. Kind of strutting back and forth like she was Miss America.

  A little old, honey. Not bad, but hidey, hidey, ho. What was she up to? All right! Changing clothes. Off with the skirt, the blouse, keep going. Not bad. Absolutely not bad at all for a broad with a couple years on her.

  Oh, yeah! Now, that was more like it. Off, off, take it all off, honey. Bonanza! Uh-huh. What now? Want to parade around a little while? Nope. Into the bathroom. No problem. Wayne punched a button and the bathroom camera switched in. There she was, turning on the shower. No time for a long soak in the big tub, honey? Too bad—and too bad about the shower door. It was clear, not frosted, but the water and the steam clouded it just enough so he couldn’t get a clear shot.

  Then out, toweling, baboom, baboom, slipping into that pretty red swimsuit. Gonna knock ’em dead at the pool, honey. Go get ’em. Why don’t you take that squirmy little dog out there with you?

  A little while later, there’d been some even better stuff in 1803.

  A twofer: 1803 and 1805.

  Not combining their suites. They could have if they’d had the keys to the door between them. But rooms wasn’t what they were interested in joining.

  They did it in 1803, his room. He stormed in first, slamming the door open. He was mad as hell about something, but not saying a word. Eighteen oh five jawing a mile a minute. “Kurt, honey.” Wayne could read her lips. He could have turned the volume up and heard every word. But he had the audio recorded anyway.

  It was a little game Wayne liked to play, watching with the sound turned off, trying to figure it out. He was pretty good at it, usually. Especially when the actors, that’s how he thought of them, actors playing out scenes just for him, were really into it. When they weren’t talking about something dumb, like the stock market.

  There was nothing like that on 1805’s mind. No sirree. She was a real tall, pretty woman, nice set hanging out of her little blue bikini top, pleading with 1803, “I didn’t mean it. I was just joking.” She followed him into the bedroom.

  Eighteen oh three was playing the tough guy. Quiet. Not a word. The Sly Stallone part. She pulled on his arm. He flung her off and gave her a stiff arm, just to make sure. She landed on the bed. Big boo-hoo. Sly stepped into the head and slammed the door.

  Wayne flicked on the bathroom camera, just to make sure. There was nothing happening, except that Sly wasn’t the least bit upset, playacting in the bedroom, checking himself out in the mirror. He got up real close so he could see his pores. Gave himself a big smile. Looked this way and that, right profile, then left. He ran his hand over his jaw, feeling a couple of days’ growth. Winked at himself, deciding to leave it. Then he peeled off his white trunks and headed for the shower. Wayne switched back to the bedroom.

  Miss Boo-Hoo had gotten ahold of herself. She was over at the dresser with her big bag, pulling out her makeup. Pat pat, slick, lick. Polishing herself up.

  That was the one thing you noticed about these people this week. All of them were good-looking, well, almost all of them, and dead set on staying that way. Wayne could understand the girls, that’s why they were there, but the judges? Go figure. Maybe whatever the girls had, it was catching.

  Anyway, Miss Boo-Hoo finished with her lipstick. Checked her teeth. Fluffed up her hair. Adjusted herself in her swimsuit. Got ’em just how she wanted ’em, checked herself out back and front, looked down, picked up 1803’s red judging binder. Flipped through a few pages. Flopped down in a chair to take a closer look.

  Wayne zoomed in. He wanted to look too. It wasn’t every day you saw something like this.

  Wasn’t this great? He could read every word: Homecoming queen. Graduate nursing school. 23, 5′7″, 117.

  Now here came trouble slouching back into the bedroom like Mr. Cool. He was wearing a towel and carrying something in one hand, kind of hidden behind him. Wayne couldn’t quite see it from this angle.

  Damn! There was 1801 and that stupid little mutt. Now 1801 was making a phone call. Should he listen in? Nawh. The tape’d get it.

  But back to 1803. They were lying across the bed. Hadn’t pulled the covers back. He had her all snuggled up. They were flipping through the red binder.

  Look at that dog, he was saying. Ahwooooo! Flipped a couple more. Now, that’s more like it. Who’s this blonde? Miss New Jersey. She looks a little like you, Cindy Lou. He reached over and gave her boobs a lift. Or like you used to.

  She swatted him one. She does not!

  Then they were fooling around too much for him to read their lips. This could be important. Wayne flipped the volume up.

  Sly was still turning pages, looking at girls.

  I like her, Cindy Lou said, pointing at a titian-haired beauty with big brown eyes. I think she’s got it. I gave her a 10 in the interview.

  Sly shook his head. No way.

  Old Cindy Lou wasn’t giving up. Listen to me, Kurt, she said. I know what I’m talking about. This girl’s got it. She tapped the picture again.

  He still wasn’t buying it. Give me a break. The state’s had too many winners. And look at that mole.

  Cindy Lou rolled her
eyes. It’s a beauty mark. Don’t you know anything? Don’t you know that model Cindy Crawford, Madonna? Beauty marks are in.

  He grabbed her by the arm. Don’t tell me, you stupid twat. Modeling? You’re talking about my business. And you don’t know diddle. I wouldn’t vote for this girl if she were the last piece on earth. You like her? Then I’m giving her all ones. Cancel you out. She’ll never make 10.

  Cindy Lou pouted. It looked to Wayne like something she had practiced a lot. I don’t think that’s fair, Kurt. And I don’t think that’s any way to talk about a lady. In front of a lady. Especially a lady who made 10 herself.

  Kurt almost fell off the bed laughing. Lady? Lady! Then he pounced on her. It didn’t take but about two seconds for that little blue bikini to hit the floor.

  Red lights were flashing on the monitors of 1804, 1806, 1807. Everybody was coming home. Forget ’em, thought Wayne. They could shower, get dressed for dinner by themselves. Tape would get ’em. Wayne wasn’t leaving this picture show.

  Damn. While he looked away, Kurt had already spread-eagled her across the bed, doing it to her. Bam. Bam. She was rolling her head back and forth, saying something. Wayne flipped up the volume some more.

  “No, no, no, no. You’re hurting me, Kurt.”

  “You don’t know what hurt is, baby. Making a fool of me out there, you sticking your chest in that kid’s face like I wasn’t even there.”

  “That was nothing! It was—”

  Then he really put it to her. The man was a jackhammer.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Let me go!”

  “I told you I wasn’t in the mood. I told you I’m into the room downstairs for 10 big ones—” For emphasis, Kurt slapped her with the back of his hand. Cindy Lou’s head rolled. “—I don’t have. Guy I usually borrow from, I’ve already tapped for two. He’s leaning on me. I’m bleeding to death here, Cindy Lou.” He slapped her again. “Dice table’s killing me. I gotta get out of here. And I don’t need any more crap from you.”

  “It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.” She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Cindy Lou was losing it.

  “Yeah, and it’s not my fault that my building back in New York needs a new elevator either, but who’s gonna pay for that? Somebody’s got to.”

  “But not me, Kurt. Not me.”

  Kurt was still inside her, still putting it to her, his hands atop her wrists like straps. He leaned his face down real close to hers. “What a disappointment you’ve turned out to be, Miss Ohio. Miss Used-to-Be. Miss Washed-Up.”

  That really hurt. Cindy Lou started to wail big time, calling Kurt things Wayne had never even heard of. Misogynist? What kind of curse word was that? Mother raper—now, there was one he knew.

  That’s when Kurt reached behind him and pulled out the thing Wayne couldn’t see before. A razor strop. Kurt let her have it good a couple of times before she got her bearings, started fighting back.

  And she was a big girl. Easily as tall as old Kurt. He probably didn’t have 10 pounds on her, if that. And she was pretty broad-shouldered. She was giving it to him good.

  Wayne was jumping up and down now, shoveling Cracker Jacks so fast he almost ate his prize. Oh boy oh boy oh boy. Wayne knew he’d done good.

  Kurt had said exactly the kind of thing Mr. F wanted to know. Wayne was going to hustle it up to him right then. And now this! The man was absolutely going to love this show.

  5

  Around eight, just about the time the show was starting over on the big stage, Big Gloria got a call from Clothilde. Clothilde’s voice, real tight, said: “Bee Gee, I think you better get on up here to 1803.”

  Oh, Lord. What was it was now? She ought not to be here anyway. She ought to be home having some supper with Junior, pretending they were some kind of nuclear family instead of supervising turndown. But, when they asked her, even two days in a row, it was hard to pass up the extra shift. Especially with the car payment due and Junior spending money like it grew on trees.

  So what was it now? Another drunk had punched his hand through a wall? That was nothing, but multiply it times 6,000 rooms in the casino hotels alone, if she had any sense, she’d be in the dry-wall business. Her daddy and her brothers had taught her how to do all that when she was growing up back in Bastrop.

  Of course, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. People just didn’t want to give construction work to a woman, especially a black woman, even if she was as big as Gloria. So here she was, messing around with a bunch of white people’s bed sheets.

  All the way up in the service elevator Big Gloria was thinking about how much she loved getting her hands on a bunch of brand-new two-by-fours, the clean, piney smell of them reminding her of home, of building kitchens with her daddy. It wasn’t until the elevator stopped at 18 that Gloria remembered who was in 1803.

  “What you doing out here, girl?” she said to Clothilde, who was standing in the hall staring at her. “Come show me what you’re talking about. It couldn’t be that bad.”

  It was a mess, though.

  6

  SHAME! read the placards, big red letters printed on white. SHAME!

  “Who they?” Harry asked Sam, who didn’t know.

  The 30 young women carrying the signs shuffled in a single line outside the main doors to the Convention Hall. They were dressed in long robes of brown burlap, and on their chests hung silver crucifixes that looked suspiciously like aluminum foil. The crowd had to pass through them to get inside. Security police were giving the women hard looks.

  “Disappointed also-rans?” Harry joked.

  Hardly, thought Sam. These pale, grim-faced girls didn’t look as if they’d ever practiced their smiles, much less paraded in swimsuits. And none of them were pretty, though, of course, that would be tough, wearing a long potato sack.

  Now they were shaking tambourines, shuffling in their single line, chanting: Shame, shame, shame.

  Chain, chain, chain, Harry sang, taking Sam’s hand and juking to the opening words of that oldie.

  One of the girls cast her ice-pale eyes on Harry and said, “God sees what you do.”

  He shivered in mock fright and hurried Sam into the auditorium. There they were sucked into a buzzing, glittering crowd where no one wore burlap.

  “Who’d of thunk?” Sam stared amazed at men in black tie, women in sequined gowns. Of course there were elderly day-trippers too, who hadn’t changed from their ice cream–colored polyester and sensible shoes. And gangs of New Jersey boys in T-shirts, jeans, and running shoes who’d come to punch one another and leer.

  The seating in the mammoth space spread across the floor, up tiers, risers, and then two levels before disappearing into the rafters.

  They found Harry’s seat near the ramp with the Louisiana delegation. His friend Lavert hadn’t yet arrived.

  Sam was in the press section nearby, directly rampside. The seat itself was of the orange padded plastic 1940s kitchen chair variety, but there was a ledge for her laptop computer and an electrical outlet. The Inquirer, on Sam’s right, was carrying her own phone.

  Sam hadn’t realized the girls would have cheering sections. Each state marked its territory with banners and flags. The fans wore huge badges with color photos of their favorite girl trailing red, white, and blue ribbons. Hawaiians boasted orchid leis, Texans were in 10-gallon hats and boots. Alaskans were in furs.

  “Some of the state delegations bring a hundred people. So you could easily have five thousand groupies here,” the Inquirer informed her.

  It was hard to believe.

  “Oh, they’re real enthusiasts. They do pageants instead of football, or gardening, or torturing small animals—whatever it is Americans out there do.”

  “Look at all the spangles!”

  “They’re bugle beads.” The woman on Sam’s left corrected her. “That’s what their dresses are done with, hundreds of thousands of hand-sewn bugle beads—just like the girls’ gowns. But tonight’s nothing. It’ll get dressier tomorrow and Thursday,
but Saturday’s when you see the really fancy duds.”

  The woman’s own scarlet suit was aglitter with the dancing lights of intricate beadwork. She had snow-white hair and a beautiful face. She was quite something.

  “I’m Sally Griffin.” She had a firm handshake. “I’m an image consultant from Raleigh, NC. I just finagled this press seat because I want to see close up what my girls do.”

  Image consultant? Her girls?

  “Sally does figure and wardrobe analysis for pageant contestants,” explained the Inquirer.

  “And interview coaching,” added Sally. “I’m full-service. I also recommend speech coaches and designers, hairstylists and makeup artists, and workout coaches for swimsuit. And, of course, I have my pageant workshops.”

  Workshops?

  Sally laughed. “Your first time? Well, most girls are as naive as you when they first enter pageants, but once I get my hands on them, they learn fast. They have to, if they’re going to get anywhere in this business. Listen up and work hard, I tell them. I do a workshop on looks, on interview, on first impressions. I also hold one for judges.”

  Judging school?

  “Oh, my, yes. You know, pageant officials and judges want to move up in the rankings, too. You start off as a volunteer on the local level, doing whatever you can to help your pageant, and then after a while you want to go to state. Once you’re at the state level, you start to get into the nationwide network of pageant people. And, of course, the ultimate is to judge Miss America.

  “For that, you need years of experience, and that extra something, just like the winning girls have, to catch the attention of the judges chairman and make him pick you. I’ve judged and emceed pageants for years. And I used to participate, of course, when I was younger.”

  Sam looked at Sally carefully as the music rose, the lights lowered.

  “I was Miss North Carolina ages ago.” Sally smiled, feeling Sam’s scrutiny. “I’m .” She patted Sam’s knee in that way southern women do. “Better to be over the hill than under it. No shame in getting old.”