She Walks in Beauty Page 9

  The very thought of John made him think he might decide to zap this bicycle sucker anyway, when all of a sudden the bicycle man, hidden down there somewhere under the spring-green foliage, Wayne couldn’t see a thing, hollered: You gonna blow me six ways to Sunday or you just fooling around?

  Next thing you know, Wayne never did know exactly how it happened, the bicycle man’s up the tree with him—that’s when Wayne first saw he was missing his right arm, how could he climb—watching both ends of the road on the monitors, listening in to Miz Huckaby in the house talking to her dog. The man’s bright blue eyes were all lit up like Christmas. He said, I think I’ve got a use for you, my good man, in my stores. Of course, Wayne thought, here’s another member of the club. Another crazy. What was a one-armed bicycle man talking about, My stores?

  As it turned out, he was talking about one hell of a lot.

  The man owned half the world. Furthermore, he immediately recognized Wayne’s innate worth.

  Mr. Tru Franken told him all about that, about how valuable each and every human being was. From little acorns great oaks grow. (Wayne thought, yeah, except my brother John, but he didn’t tell Mr. Tru Franken that.) He understood about Wayne wanting to live in a tree house, be left alone to play with his electronic toys.

  He said, Wayne, the world’s your oyster, you can live anywhere you want, and I’ll give you a super-duper bunch of gadgets. And Mr. F had always been as good as his word. He’d worked Wayne in surveillance in FrankFairs for a good long time, then moved him here to the Monopoly—which Mr. F had up and bought one day, the way other people might buy a new TV.

  Of course, a man like that wasn’t happy when people didn’t return the favor.

  Just like late this afternoon when Mr. F had called him in and said he’d reviewed the tape Wayne had thought he would find interesting, Thank you very much, Wayne. Mr. F was always very polite. You did great, he added.

  That made Wayne feel great. So there he was, ready and waiting, standing on his tippytoes, to see if there was anything else Mr. F wanted him to do.

  Especially since Dougie had showed up from Wharton, the same business school as Donald Trump, Wayne had felt like he really had to hustle his butt to prove to Mr. F he was the truest, bluest, most loyal human being he’d ever saved, with probably the most innate worth—stuff you couldn’t learn in some fancy business school. He was hoping against hope Mr. F didn’t lay a lot of store in blood being thicker in water.

  If he did—well.

  Mr. F pushed the remote control in his left, and only, hand and rolled the tape. When he got to what he wanted to show Wayne, yep, it was the part he thought Mr. F’d want to see, he did a freeze frame. Then he backed it up and played the audio again.

  “You hear what this man’s saying?”

  Yep. That’s why he’d brought it to Mr. F’s attention.

  “That’s the kind of behavior we have to guard against,” said Mr. F, his blue eyes very serious behind his glasses. Then Mr. F walked up to the monitor and put his left, and only, forefinger on the screen. “I’m going to have to think about this. This is good, Wayne.”

  “Anything else you’d like me to do, Mr. F?” Wayne touched the bill of his black Monopoly Special Staff cap, the one Mr. F had given him and nobody else.

  Just about then, Dougie had walked in the door. Waltzed in, actually, big as you please, without even knocking. Took a seat. Poured himself a glass of the orange pop Mr. F was partial to. Mr. F always kept a few bottles on a silver tray, along with an ice bucket, crystal glasses, Mr. F being a gentleman of class and distinction. Dougie didn’t say a word, but he had that smirky look on his face like, What’s happening, scumbag? You could feel that he thought he was Mr. F’s only begotten heir, being Mr. F’s only sister Vivian’s only son. Which meant his name ought not to be Franken, unless he was illegitimate, which wouldn’t surprise Wayne one bit, but when he’d asked Dougie about it, Dougie had just given him a look: Like that’s for me to know and you to find out, sucker.

  Mr. F turned, and Dougie started talking with him about something—market share, recession, numbers of players down, same thing in Vegas—Wayne didn’t understand. It made Wayne feel stupid. So he hadn’t wanted to ask Mr. F the question again, What did he want him to do, if anything? Though not in front of Dougie.

  But Mr. F, God bless him, had picked up on his hesitation, and he’d said one word to Wayne.

  Just one.

  Erase.

  So Wayne did.

  He did exactly what Mr. F told him to do. And now, at the end of the day, he was feeling just great. He was going to close up here, go home, and sleep like a baby.

  *

  On the other hand, Big Gloria was wide awake, pacing the floor. She’d come home after working her extra shift, about as bone tired as a person could be.

  And what did she find?

  Nothing, that’s what. An empty house. Junior long gone. She’d laid a hand on his favorite chair. It wasn’t even warm.

  Oh, Lord. She’d thrown herself down in that chair and eased off her shoes. In a few minutes she’d get up and go run a pan of hot water with some Epsom salts in it and give her dogs a soak, but first she had to sit there for a few minutes.

  Sometimes she wished the Good Lord hadn’t made women so strong. She’d sure like to lay some of her burden down. But He knew she could carry it.

  Otherwise, how’d you explain a day like today? She was late to work in the first place, having to go visit Aunt Baby in the hospital, then that crazy Wayne Ward busting that handsome Harry’s lip, the one who’d given her the money. Now, that was a bright spot. Not the lip, but Lord knows the money was. Then that white lady, the Kewpie doll, trying to sneak into a room. For all Gloria knew, she was a burglar. Gloria probably ought to have reported her.

  But then, that wasn’t the least of what she should have reported.

  Thinking about that was when she got up and started pacing the floor, forgetting all about the hot water and Epsom salts.

  Gloria, she said to herself, have you lost your mind? Clothilde called you into that Kurt Roberts’s room, the one who tried to drown your Junior, room was tore up six ways to Sunday. What’d you do? Did you call security?

  No.

  Did you know you ought to?

  Uh-huh.

  So why didn’t you?

  Well, his bags were gone—all his stuff. I thought the man was just a slob, like the rest of them. You think I don’t see lots of messy rooms? You wouldn’t believe how people behave, paying one night’s rent.

  But had he torn his sheets all up and bloodied some of them ’cause his mama didn’t teach him any better?

  Or, it could have been that old man with the limp who came by earlier came back again. Slipped me a phone number to call if I saw Roberts, said he’d make it worth my time. I think he used to be a friend of Nickie Scarfo, you know who I mean? He could’ve have found Roberts, beat him up, cut off all his fingers and toes. They do things like that.

  Old man, huh? With a limp? How many times you seen The Godfather Part III, Gloria?

  Well, I know who that old man is, and furthermore, I didn’t care what happened to any Mr. Kurt Roberts, you want to know the truth. He’s the one who tried to kill Junior.

  So you thought, whatever, he deserved it? No matter that he was a pageant judge, it seemed kind of strange he’d be leaving right in the middle under his own steam, you weren’t gonna worry your head about it.

  Something like that.

  What else, Bee Gee?

  Nothing.

  No? You sure?

  Uh-huh.

  He didn’t leave not one little thing in the room that you might have ought to have turned in?

  Who’re you? The Good Fairy?

  Gloria Sturdivant, your own mama’d be turning in her grave if she could see what you’ve come to.

  Yeah? Well, I bet she wouldn’t. I bet she’d do the same thing.

  She’d take a man’s tickets on a horse race—someplac
e down in Florida is what the man said when she cashed them in, someplace called Exacta, or something like that—and keep the five grand?

  She would. She most certainly would, if she wanted to get out of this hellhole as bad as I do. I know my mama. She’d call it grabbing opportunity by the foreskin.

  She would do no such thing.

  Oh, yes, she would. A woman gets up against it, she’s liable to do anything. What do you know, voice of the devil?

  Unh-uh. You talking ’bout the wrong channel there, girl.

  Oh, yeah? You telling me the Lord thinks I ought to give that money back to that man who tried to kill my son, when I could use it to get Junior out of here before he ends up like all those other mothers’ sons—in jail?

  Isn’t that what you’re really afraid of now? Isn’t that why you’re walking the floor? Afraid that what Junior did, he was so mad at that man, was go up to his room and give him what-for? And then? Then? You don’t want to think about what might have happened then, do you, Gloria, that might really put Junior in jail?

  No, she didn’t want to think about it. But she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t know where Junior was, how long he’d been gone, what he’d been up to. All she could do was what women had done for as long as there’d been men to trouble their minds, keep walking that floor.

  *

  “Harry?”

  “Hmmmmm?”

  “Did I hurt your lip?”

  “Nuunh-uh.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened to your lip?”

  “Unh-uh.”

  “Are you asleep?”

  “No.”

  “You know what?”

  “What, Sammy, what?”

  “Jeeszt. You don’t have to be such a grump.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just drifting off. What, honey?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  Harry sat up. “I can’t now. Tell me, what?”

  “I was just wondering, do you think it would be fun to be Miss America?”

  “I think it’d suck eggs.”

  “Really? If you were that young—it could be pretty exciting. Traveling for a year. Meeting the president—even if he sucks eggs, it’s still pretty impressive to a little girl from Oshkosh, or wherever. Earning all that money.”

  “You sorry you were never Miss America, honey? Ow! That hurt.”

  “I could never have been Miss America.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m hardly the type.”

  “You mean you weren’t malleable enough—even as a girl? No, you’re right. Probably not. Probably had a head hard as a rock even then.”

  “Not pretty enough, either.”

  “You’re a hell of a lot prettier than any of those girls.”

  “Oh, Harry. Don’t be silly.”

  “You are!”

  “I’m old.”

  “You are not old. You’re forty.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to lose no matter what?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Being around this beauty queen stuff makes me crazy. Jesus. As if being pretty were the most important thing in the world.”

  “Well, you know it’s not.”

  “But it is important.”

  “What?”

  “Being pretty.”

  “It’s not important. It’s—it’s nice.”

  “So, you don’t love me because I’m pretty.”

  “I love you because you’re you.”

  “Even if I were ugly, you would.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if you were just as cute as you are now, you’d love me if I looked like an old hog.”

  “Yes.”

  “Harry? You’re full of crap.”

  “I know. Listen, now that I’m wide awake, I’m going to get a beer from the minibar. You want a glass of milk? Some water?”

  “Water, please. Hey! You know what? I just remembered what I wanted to tell you.”

  “Good. I hope it takes a long time. Here’s your water. I hope we stay up all night and feel like doo-doo tomorrow. That’s what I really love, is dragging around feeling like a dead dog on my vacation. Sorry, Harpo. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “Hush, Harry. Listen, what do you think happened to Kurt Roberts?”

  “Who he?”

  “The creep, the judge, out at the swimming pool. The one who knocked the kid in, Junior, you saved his life, remember?”

  “It’s all coming back now.”

  “Roberts didn’t show tonight. Did you notice?”

  “Unh-uh. You mean he didn’t show for the judging? Where was he?”

  “Nobody knows. He said he had to go back to New York.”

  She didn’t tell Harry about the itch, the one she got at the base of her neck, that sure as an aching behind her knees had always been the first sign of flu told her something absolutely hideous was about to go down—or had. The timing wasn’t always precise.

  Sam scratched her itch and wondered about the size and shape of this particular piece of fresh hell. It made her edgy, as if somebody had whacked her with a giant bag of PMS.

  “That’s weird,” said Harry.

  “That’s what I said. It’s also weird that Cindy Lou Jacklin, one of the other judges, remember the big blonde in the blue bikini at the swimming pool with Roberts—left the pool with him?”

  “Vaguely. Very vaguely.”

  “Yeah, I bet, former Miss Ohio. Well, anyway, she was wearing shades tonight. Like maybe she was hiding something.”

  “So what you think, Ms. Big Time Investigative Reporter with a Specialization in Crime, is that Kurt took Cindy Lou back to his room, and in a fit of pique because he didn’t succeed in drowning the kid, he beat her up, and then—God, you have a devious mind.”

  “She killed him and dumped the body in the ocean.”

  “Good. It’s good, Sammy. A great scenario. Now can we go back to sleep?”

  “Something happened to that man, Harry. Maybe not that, what I said, but something equally awful.”

  “Please don’t tell me you have a really strong intuition about this thing. We’re here for you to do a simple story—not to solve a crime. And stop scratching!”

  “Harry. I’m telling you. Something happened to Kurt Roberts. He did not simply check out and go home and leave the Miss America Pageant. That doesn’t make sense. Slimy guys like him do not go to all the trouble to get here, which has got to be a major feather in his little fashion-photographer cap, and then up and split.”

  “A thousand bucks says you’re wrong.”

  “What?”

  “A grand. It’s late. Put up or shut up.”

  “Have you lost your mind? We’re talking about a man’s life here and you want to bet on it? Is this what happens to semi-normal people when they come to Atlantic City? They make wagers on life and death?”

  “This is what happens when you wake people up. You’re betting on disaster, Sammy. I’m betting a grand the man’s back in New York shacked up with some sixteen-year-old model, wait, twin models, having the time of his life. That, or something equally normal.”

  “Sixteen, huh? Sixteen would be the time of his life? Sixteen’s your idea of hot stuff? Sixteen? Give me a break! You’re on, bub. Put it right here.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. Not there. Unh-uh. Stop it, Harry. Now, you stop that right now. I’m going to count to a million, and you better—”

  8

  The next morning in the Monopoly coffee shop, Lavert pushed all six-foot-six of himself back from the table and asked, “How long you said y’all been here?”

  “Monday afternoon late,” said Harry. “Less than forty-eight hours. Why?”

  “I just wondered how long you can eat garbage like this before you have to check into the hospital.”

  Sam laughed. “Lavert, you’ve turned into a food snob. Just because you’re a great cook doesn’t mean—”

  �
��Great isn’t the issue here. We’re just talking about survival, Sam. Honey, you know if G.T. was here,” General Taylor Johnson was his voudou-practicing ambulance driver of a girlfriend and one of Sam’s favorite people, “she’d put a hex on this kitchen. Close it down. Only way of saving people from the ptomaine.”

  “You’re right, Big Man. There’s no decent food in this whole town,” mourned Harry. “The worst dive in New Orleans would be ashamed to—”

  “Hey, bubba,” Sam interrupted. “Who wanted to come to Atlantic City? I could have weenied out, you know. We could be eating lobster in Edgartown—”

  “Wait,” said Lavert. “Hold the boat. You don’t think I left home without a few recommendations from our friends in the business.”

  “This is my man,” said Harry, attempting to throw his arm around Lavert, who’d been his friend since their days at Grambling, where Lavert had played football. “I knew he wouldn’t let us starve. Who’d you get these from, bro?”

  “Well, actually”—Lavert shifted in his seat, feeling Sam’s eyes on him—“it’s only one.”

  “Some mob hangout Joey the Horse turned you on to, am I right, Lavert?” said Sam.

  “This woman is bad,” Lavert said to Harry. “Anybody ever warn you about her? Bad. Not a drop of the blood of Christian fellowship in her entire body.”

  “Cut to the chase.” Sam grinned. “Where are you taking us for lunch, and what’s the password?”

  “It’s dinner actually, early, before the show. Ma couldn’t make it for lunch.”

  Ma? Lavert’s mother was in town?

  “Naaaw. Ma’s Michelangelo Amato.”

  “What’d I tell you, Harry?”

  “Ma’s not mob. I swear to God. He’s in the pizza business.”

  “Right. What else does he do? Pick up things that fall off the backs of trucks? Save the sanitation department the trouble?”

  Lavert shook his head at Harry. “You let her put you through changes like this all the time? I’d fling her pretty bones across the table.” At that they all laughed, for Lavert—despite the time he’d spent at Angola, Louisiana’s state penitentiary, for removing tourists’ extra weight, as in wallets, pearls, and gold watches—was the gentlest of men. “And he owns a bunch of trucks.”