She Walks in Beauty (18 page)

“And,” Angelo had said, “I’m giving you a break on the vig ’cause I know you. And I like your singing. Anybody ever tell you you sound a little bit like the Crooner?”

Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah. Billy knew all that. He also knew that Angelo could charge up to five, six percent on a short-term and nobody would really holler. Nobody desperate, that is. And who but somebody desperate would borrow money from Angelo Pizza in the first place?

Just then, Darleen came up and put her face right beside his. She’d slapped on her full war paint. She began running her fingers through his hair, or trying to.

“Billy, did you ever think you might bring your do into the twentieth century?”

Billy stiffened. He hated talking about his hair. He hated talking about almost anything
personal,
but especially his hair. This was his lucky hair. He’d been wearing this hairdo when he got his shot at the Big Time on “The Big One,” and he saw no reason to mess with success.

“Get out of here, Darleen,” he said.

She pinched him on the behind through his pink boxer shorts. He stared at her, big-eyed in the mirror. She used to do that when she was in the mood.

“Do you have something in mind here, Darleen?”

She did. She didn’t know why, but every time she got right to the edge of leaving Billy, she wanted him like crazy. Maybe it was realizing that once he was out of the picture, loving might be scarce for a while. Maybe it was old times. In any case, she leaned over and kissed him on the back of the neck. “Why don’t you slip into the shower, and I’ll sit outside here and tell you all about what I’ve got in mind.”

He couldn’t believe it. That’s what they used to do, back in the old days, before they lost it. He’d shower, and Darleen would talk dirty to him Sometimes she couldn’t wait, would jump inside ,and they’d make love standing up with the suds and hot water running all over them.

“Darleen—” he started, and then changed his mind. Better not to talk. He ripped his shorts off, adjusted the water, and stepped inside.

“Do you remember,” she purred, “that weekend we spent in Acapulco?”

How could he ever forget it? Darleen hadn’t worn any panties the whole time, and he’d felt like the biggest stud south of the border.

“Do you remember that afternoon when we sat by the pool and sucked down about forty-two margaritas and then in the elevator on the way to the room—”

Oh, yeah. This was more like it. Like old times, when they still liked each other, before he… The phone rang.

“Don’t answer it,” Billy cried. It was probably somebody he owed money, and whoever it was, he wasn’t in the mood. What he was in the mood for now… “Please don’t answer it, Darleen.”

But she did. After all, Barbara Bush may have decided she needed a redo on the house in Kennebunkport. Get rid of all that frumpy old chintz and think about—

But it wasn’t Barbara Bush. Or Nancy. Or Rosalynn. Or any of the other First Ladies Darleen had fantasies about.

Though it was
a
Barbara. Barbara Stein. Who seemed desperate to speak with Billy.

Darleen handed the receiver into the shower.

Billy listened for a moment, then turned down the water. “You said he did what? He can’t? You what?
Me?
You’re sure? Well, of course. I’d be delighted. It’s wonderful. I mean, it’s too bad for Gary, and nobody can really replace him. Yes, I know, Phyllis will be a big help.
She’s
wonderful.
It’s
wonderful.
You’re
wonderful. And, yes, I agree, NBC’s wonderful for thinking of me. I know, the most convenient thing in the world, that I’m right here! Yes indeedy, the show must go on.”

After it was over, Billy leaned against the back wall of the shower, ignoring Darleen outside yelling
What? What? What?
and turned the water back up, letting it pour over him like a baptism.

For he was saved. Yes, he was.

Gary Collins was sick as a dog, puking his guts out, and they wanted
him.
They were going to pay
him
$100K for the three nights, tonight, tomorrow, and the Saturday night live on TV, more than enough to pay off Angelo Pizza and any vig he might dream up.

Miss America had saved Billy Carroll’s sweet patootie.

Way to go, Miss A!
Billy screamed, standing ankle-deep in hot water.

12

“Okay, fill me in on this thing.” Sam flopped herself down in the pressroom beside the
Inquirer.

“You noticed on the girls’ bios how they all do good?”

“Never seen such helpful little munchkins. Seeing Eye dogs, hospital hop-alongs, rest home regulars, funding for AIDS, they do it all. A pageant requirement, right?”

“Uh-huh.” The
Inquirer
was sucking down a giant lemonade. She looked a little shaky. “Since the pageant itself depends on jillions of volunteers to put together the shows on the local and state levels, mostly Jaycees, they’re real big on volunteerism. This scholarship’s winner is usually a girl who’s a victim. Like she had cancer and talks with cancer patients. Gave a lung to her brother, works with transplants—that kind of thing.”

“You’re sounding awfully cynical today for a pageant groupie.”

“I could use a brain transplant myself, if not a whole new head. Too much partying with those Texans. You missed some righteous hooting and hollering.”

“I can imagine. Did you have your stomach pumped last night or this morning?”

“I wish,” moaned the
Inquirer.
“I’d feel a hell of a lot better. Promise me you’ll go to the Old South Ball Saturday if I can wangle you an invite, so you’ll feel as bad as I do.”

Not a chance. But what was it?

“It’s the best of the parties. Right before the final judging, the Southern delegations put this one on. Complete with color guard in Confederate uniforms, flashing swords, stars and bars, hoopskirts, enough bourbon to drown in.”

“Must be hell on Miss Louisiana.”

“Would be. Except contestants don’t go. Press doesn’t either, usually. Let me know if you’re interested.” That said, the
Inquirer
snuggled down for a few winks while Barbara Stein went on about the award, volunteerism, and the wonderful young lady who was this year’s first-place winner.

Sam punched her awake. “Hey, hey, hey! It’s my girl! Rae Ann’s Miss Fruit of the Loom.”

Then Miss Rae Ann Bridges, Miss Dogwood Festival, Miss Georgia, and Miss America preliminary talent winner, stepped right up and took that microphone just like she’d taken the stage the night before.

“This is the proudest moment of my life,” she drawled, letting a little more of her Southern creep in than usual.

Sam knew that one. You turned it on and off with Yankees. A little was charming. A tad more, they thought you were mentally retarded.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could make me prouder. Even if I were to become Miss America, that moment just couldn’t make me any prouder and happier than this one.”

“You need a hankie?” The
Inquirer
gave it her mid-Atlantic drawl, her eyes still closed.

“Hey, I cry at AT&T commercials. The one where Mama picks up the phone and it’s her kid telling her he loves her. Doesn’t mean a damned thing,” Sam insisted.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” The
Inquirer
leaned her head back on the top of her chair. “Tell me another one. That Franklin’s dying to jump over into my pocket. Why don’t you just go ahead and pay up?”

“Why don’t you go take an Alka-Seltzer? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go file this little tidbit.” This kind of thing kept up, Hoke was going to give her a raise when she got home, if she didn’t quit first.

*

Harry found Lavert at poolside, where the big man had commandeered a table, two lounge chairs, a waiter, and a telephone with two lines.

“What’s the matter? They didn’t have a fax?”

“Man’s working on it. He’s cool.”

“You tell them you’re James Bond?”

“Naw. It’s easy, you know folks in the business.”

“I thought you were getting out of the business. You better, if we ever hope to get a liquor license for Lavert’s.”

“Not the Joey business. The restaurant business. Nicest people in the world.”

“Great, Lavert. Now, could we get down to it here?”

“Stealing your pretty girlfriend’s money? That’s what you mean?”

“Winning our wager, yes.” He pointed at the phone. “What’ve you got?”

“Not much. A little something. How about you?”

“Zero. I started with Roberts’s office. They told me he was here in Atlantic City, judging the pageant.”

“And his house?”

“Answering machine with a message saying the same thing—like the man was real proud of himself.”

“Well, I put myself in touch with a couple of friends who have access to credit records—”

“Lavert—”

“And they said there’s been no activity on any of his charge cards or his bank accounts since yestiddy afternoon when he bought himself some suntan lotion, a new razor, and some rubbers at the Walgreen’s on Pacific.”

“But that couldn’t be right. What about his hotel bill when he checked out?”

Lavert grinned his run-around-the-tight-end grin. “That’s the little-something part. The man didn’t check out.”

“What?”

“Nope. He’s still registered. Which means he’s probably just shacked up with some lady somewhere, living off her.”

“But wait, man. I’d have to agree with Sammy on this one. Why toss over the pageant for some—”

“We don’t have to worry our pretty little heads about that. All we’ve got to do is find the dude alive and well. Isn’t that the bet?”

“Yeah, but there’s got to be some logic to this thing.”

“Man, you think there’s logic when a lady’s involved? Since when did a man be talking logic to his Johnson?”

Lavert did have a point there. After all,
he
was the man who’d ended up in the Angola State Penitentiary because he had fallen for a little girl named Sharleen, a maid at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street who had access to lots of pretty things in people’s rooms her ownself but asked Lavert would he be so kind as to carry them for her. It had been Sharleen who was screaming at the top of her lungs when the hotel security came busting into that last hotel room, Sharleen already had clean sheets on the California king:
He’s the one, the one made me do it, said he’d beat me up, big old boy like him, little thing like me scared to death.

Lavert reminded Harry of that scenario in an attempt to convince him to
cherchez la femme,
and Harry’s face lit up like it was his birthday. “Shazam, Batman. You’ve led us to the source of all knowledge, inadvertently.”

“Lavert don’t inadvert, man. Tell me what brilliance I’ve zeroed in on.”

“Big Gloria. Queen of Monopoly Housekeeping, Big Gloria’s got her finger on the pulse.
And
she owes me.”

13

Lavert was right about the Girlfriends. They were something all right—both absolutely beautiful and stunningly tall. Texas was the voluptuous one. Louisiana, whippet-thin.

All conversation stopped when Sam and the two contestants and their chaperones strolled into the White House Sub Shop.

The girls were wearing white shirts, neatly pressed jeans, and cowboy boots with high heels—Texas’s were red, Louisiana’s silver.

“Never walk into a room under six feet is my motto,” said Texas, who would have been impressive at half a foot less with her dark-auburn hair, golden-brown eyes, and magnolia complexion. Louisiana, also a knockout with a ruby-red smile and skin of mahogany velvet, nodded. “Anything less, they don’t notice you.” Then both girls laughed. They reminded Sam of two old ladies she knew in New Orleans, another salt-and-pepper couple of friends, both still beautiful in their eighties. When they stepped arm in arm into the dining room at Galatoire’s, the admiration hummed.

Lucinda “Magic” Washington, Miss Louisiana, and Connors McCoy, Miss Texas, were giving their pageant hostesses fits as they settled into an orange plastic booth.

“This is not according to the rules,” said Miss Louisiana’s chaperone, a middle-aged blonde with frosted hair who looked like she’d be more comfortable at a Junior League tea. Miss Texas’s companion was her twin.

“Look, ladies,” said Magic, “why don’t you just sit yourselves in this booth right behind us here, order yourselves something sinful on us, like the cheese-steak sub, and kick back for half an hour? Enjoy yourselves. You can hear every word and slap the cuffs on us if we get too far out of line.”

“You
said
you were going to satellite interviews,” said the Miss Texas chaperone, tight-lipped. “This is not a satellite.”

“Nope,” laughed Connors, “it sure didn’t. But let’s pretend it is for the time it takes me to get myself on the outside of a White House Special with extra salami, provolone, ham, and cappacolla.”