A Tale of Two Biddies (20 page)

“What a weekend it’s going to be!” Tumbleweed beamed. “Why, we’re even going to have a wedding.”

“You mean
weddings,
” his wife corrected him. “And speaking of that . . . oh, Reverend!” Ruth Ann waved toward a woman who made her way through the crowd toward us. “Reverend Linda Love,” she told me as an aside while we waited for the minister to come over. “She owns the largest wedding chapel in Vegas and on Sunday, she’s going to officiate at a ceremony that will get her in the record books. The largest mass wedding ceremony—”

“Ever performed in Nevada at a Western-theme hotel on a Sunday afternoon.”

I had to give Reverend Love credit—when she finished the sentence for Ruth Ann, she smiled in a way that told me that even she knew how crazy it sounded. But like I said, this was Vegas, and you didn’t get to be the proprietor of the most mega of the wedding chapels in the town that wild and crazy built without having a little bit of attitude and a lot of circus ringmaster going for you.

I could tell Reverend Love had plenty of both.

She was a tall woman of sixty, slim, and wore her chin-length, blond hair stylishly mussy. The hairdo added a little bit of casual pizzazz to what might otherwise have been a forbidding persona: black power suit, sparkling diamonds at neck and wrists, a watch that no doubt cost more than the worth of Texas Jack’s entire enterprise.

She shook hands all around. “I hope you’ll all be here for the ceremony,” she said, taking each of us in with a glance. “Tumbleweed and Ruth, like I told you when we made the arrangements, you could always renew your vows.”

“That’s a great idea!” I said.

That made Reverend Love turn her attention to me. “And how about you?” she asked. “If you’ve got a special someone in your life, Sunday would be the perfect day to make it official.”

“Oh no!” My hands out flat, I backed away, both from the woman and the thought of such a thing. “Been there, done that,” I told her, which wasn’t technically true because Edik and I were never married. “Not going to make that mistake again.”

The reverend’s smile never wavered. “Love is never a mistake,” she said. “No matter the outcome. It’s that moment of commitment that matters. The way it shines through the universe and touches the world with love.”

Maybe.

Or maybe Linda Love had never had her credit cards scammed and her bank account emptied by a rock band’s lead guitarist who she thought she loved.

The old memories came crashing down and a shiver snaked over my shoulders. I twitched it away and changed the subject as much as I was able, scrambling to remember any little bit of info I’d heard about the weekend ceremony. “One of the performers from here at the casino is going to assist you, right?”

“Absolutely!” Reverend Love glanced around at the crowd, obviously looking for the performers. Like The Great Osborn, each of them—except for Dickie Durbin who was slated to be up on stage next—had already done an abbreviated show for the gathered vendors. “Each of the regulars here is going to perform one more show this weekend, and whoever sells the most tickets, well, that’s the performer who will help me out with the ceremony and be immortalized along with me in the record books.”

“I hope it’s that magician fellow we just saw perform,” Tumbleweed said, rocking back on his heels. “He was mighty good. Did you see the way right there at the end he made that card magically move from the table back into the box?”

I didn’t have the heart to point out that even I could have gotten away with that trick. That one card had never left the box to begin with.

“Or that wonderful singer, Hermosa,” Ruth Ann piped up.

Again, I kept my mouth firmly shut. Hermosa (just Hermosa, one name, like Cher but without the looks or the talent) had treated us (and oh, how I use those words in the broadest sense) to a medley of songs right before the magician came on stage.

“Or Yancy. Don’t forget Yancy. He’s a perennial favorite here at Creosote Cal’s.” With a nod, the reverend indicated the elderly African American man who chatted with a group of people on the other side of the room. I’d come in late and had missed Yancy Harris’s performance, but I remembered seeing the poster that advertised his act when Sylvia and I checked in. Yancy was blind, had been all his life, and according to what I’d heard about him, he could wail on the piano keyboard like no other man around.

“And then there’s Dickie, of course.” Was it possible? Did I actually see the reverend’s eternally pleasant expression droop at the mention of the comedian’s name? It sure didn’t last long. But then, a middle-aged balding guy in an orange-and-brown-plaid sport coat came up behind the reverend and wound an arm around her waist and whatever expression had been on her face, it was lost in a tiny screech of surprise.

“Talking about me, aren’t you, sweetie?” Dickie Durbin himself. I recognized him from the posters out in the lobby. His publicity photos had obviously been taken by a skilled professional—or thirty years before. They didn’t show the bags under Dickie’s eyes, or the blubbery jowls. They definitely weren’t scratch and sniff, either, because if they were, I would have caught wind of the musky aftershave Dickie must have applied with a soup ladle.

“You are going to stay around for my act, aren’t you, Reverend?” Dickie asked, then gave me a broad wink. “She’ll stay. I know she’ll stay. Reverend Love here, she’s a real doll!”

One more squeeze and Dickie hurried onto the stage.

It was our cue to get back to our seats.

I slipped into mine just as Sylvia came to hers from the other aisle.

She smoothed her skirt. “Busy mingling, I see.”

“Maybe.” We’d just gotten off the road a couple hours before and parked our RV and the food truck we hauled behind it, and I hadn’t bothered to get dolled up like Sylvia had. I was wearing skinny jeans and a skin-hugging top that was nearly as dark as my short, spiky hair. Vegas, remember, and I wasn’t about to be intimidated by the likes of Sylvia because I went for casual (and pretty sexy, if I did say so myself) rather than for her sober good taste.

I smoothed my hand over the legs of my jeans. “Mingling is good for business.”

“Business is good for business,” Sylvia shot back and I braced myself. If she started into another lecture about price points and profit margins, somebody was going to have to call the Vegas boys in blue because I was going to go off on her.

Good thing she didn’t have the chance.

The stage lights dimmed and a single spotlight turned on Dickie Durbin.

We clapped politely.

And I settled back, all set to enjoy a little comedy.

At least until Dickie opened his mouth.

“Hey, did you see who’s here? It’s the Lee family!” The comedian pointed down toward the front row and like everyone else in the audience, I craned my neck to see who he was talking about. Turns out it was Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann.

“Ug and Home!” Dickie announced with a flourish. “Get it? Ug Lee and Home Lee.”

A couple people actually had the nerve to laugh.

I was not one of them.

“Not here.” Just as I was about to pop out of my seat, Sylvia’s hand came down on my arm. “You’ll embarrass us,” she said.

“I’ll pop that idiot in the nose.”

As if this was exactly what she expected, Sylvia was ready with an answer. “That’s what he wants. It’s how he gets attention. Dickie picks on everyone and everything in the room during one of his shows, and the madder they get, the more he picks. Look, Tumbleweed’s laughing.”

He was, but not with a whole lot of enthusiasm.

Ruth Ann, it should be noted, was not.

“And that Reverend Linda Love!” Both hands to his heart, Dickie went into a pretend swoon. “Have you heard about the big wedding on Sunday here at Creosote Cal’s? That’s going to be something, huh? And I’ll let you in on a little secret. . . .” As if it was actually what he was going to do, he leaned toward the audience. “You know, the one who sells the most tickets to his show in the next couple days is going to help out Reverend Love with her ceremony. Come on, folks! You know where you’re going to be on Saturday night. My show. My show!” He pointed a finger at his own chest. “If you’re not, you’re idiots. Or you’ve got lousy taste. But then, I’m guessing you must not be the brightest bulbs in the box, anyway. Otherwise you wouldn’t be traveling around with this crazy cook-off show! I don’t even think any of you are Americans. I think you must all be from Chile. Chile! Get it?”

Somebody must have; there were a few laughs.

“Hey, as long as you’re all here.” Dickie glanced around the audience. “I figure you’re all experts, and I’ve been meaning to ask you, where do you find chili beans?”

Someone in the back row thought Dickie was serious and called out the name of his own stand to which Dickie replied, “Idiot. You find chilly beans at the North Pole.”

He actually got a couple laughs out of that one.

“So, back to that wedding ceremony. You know, the one Reverend Love is going to perform. Reverend Love, she’s a real doll.” He put a hand to his eyes and scanned the audience. “Where are you, Reverend Love?” he asked and waved when he saw her. “A doll,” he said. “A real doll. And since I’m going to sell the most tickets this weekend, I’m going to be the one who’s going to help her out with the ceremony. She’s going to be marrying a whole bunch of people, all at the same time. Hey, Osborn!” He leaned back and looked into the wings. From where I was sitting, I could see that The Great Osborn was watching the show. “Bet you’re not gonna be one of them, huh?”

It was an inside joke so it was no wonder nobody laughed. Especially not Osborn, who threw a look at Dickie that could have incinerated asbestos.

Water off a duck’s back. This time, Dickie aimed his sights on Yancy Harris.

“You see who’s over here.” From the stage, he pointed down to where Harris sat, all the way down at the end of the same row I was in, sunglasses on and a white-tipped cane in one hand. “Hey, Yancy, you see what I mean by all this, don’t you? I mean, you
see
what I mean, don’t you?”

Yancy shook his head and I couldn’t hear him, but I saw a muscle bunch at the base of his jaw at the same time his lips moved. Something told me the words weren’t a glowing review of Dickie’s shtick.

“And then there’s Hermosa! You all saw her here earlier this evening, didn’t you, folks?” Dickie pointed to the back of the theater and we all turned in our seats when he waved Hermosa toward the stage. It took a moment for the spotlight to find her, but when it did, it followed along. She was a chesty woman with a big head of bleached hair, and she was squeezed into a green dress that fanned out at the bottom, like a mermaid tail. She took tiny, mincing steps up to the front of the theater.

“She’s something, isn’t she, folks?” Dickie clapped and the audience joined in. “Hermosa has an unforgettable voice. And have you seen the way she sways left and right when she really gets into a song?” Dickie swung his hips back and forth. “You know why she does that, don’t you? It’s harder to hit a moving target!”

I didn’t even bother to groan. But then, I was pretty busy watching Hermosa curl her lip, toss her head, and turn on her heels to march out of the theater.

Me? I was pretty much with Hermosa. I’d had enough of Dickie Durbin. I got up out of my seat to leave.

“Hey, where you going, sweetheart?” Dickie called after me and checked his watch. “We had it all planned. You’re not supposed to meet me in my dressing room for another fifteen minutes. Hey, that would be something, wouldn’t it? That little chickie and me.” He whistled low. “Talk about a hot tamale! And believe me, when it’s all over, I’m going to talk about it plenty!”

By the time I punched open the door and walked out into the lobby, I wasn’t even mad, just disgusted by stupid Dickie and his stupid jokes.

Come to think of it, I guess I wasn’t the only one. There hadn’t been very many laughs packed into Dickie’s performance, but there had been plenty of people—Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann, Hermosa, The Great Osborn, Yancy Harris—who looked like they would have liked nothing better than to commit murder.