The other preliminary judges included two old hands from state pageants, both named Bob, both from the Midwest. Each was soft, round, fortyish, and pale and looked as if he should have been left in the oven a little longer.
Julian Temple, a flamboyant peacock of an older man, complete with cape and silver-headed cane, had directed the Miss Mississippi pageant for 32 years, by God.
Eloise Lemon, on Julian’s right, a Miss America from South Carolina, the tallest winner ever at six foot one, was still quite beautiful, and funny. “We have been working
so
hard,” she drawled. “And I, frankly, am sick of these other judges’ faces. We’ve been locked up together for days. It’s so nice to
s
ee
yours
,”
she said to the press. “With those wickedly cynical grins. I know you just can’t wait to ask us some horribly rude questions.”
“Don’t let Eloise make you think we’ve been at one another’s throats.” That was the last judge heard from, Cindy Lou Jacklin. About thirty, also quite tall, blond, green-eyed, and pretty in a glitzy, frosted sort of way, she was a former Miss Ohio.
“Cindy Lou made ten,” said the
Inquirer.
That meant, Sam was already beginning to pick up the lingo, Cindy Lou had been one of the ten finalists the year she’d tried for Miss A. Now, according to the release, she did the weather in Orlando. Probably still had her eye on the Big Time, newswise. Definitely had her eye on Kurt Roberts, unless Sam was misreading her body language. Cindy Lou couldn’t seem to turn away from him.
“Now, at the risk of being called Miss Bossy, I want to remind you again how terribly important these interviews are,” said Barb. “Once again, the interview scores count thirty percent of the total and are
carried over
into the scores Saturday night, so that they’re
crucial
in determining the final winner.” Finally she opened the floor to questions.
“Eloise, how do you think the pageant’s changed since you became Miss America?” someone called from the back.
“The girls are better educated, more articulate, better read, just better informed, more well-rounded perhaps than we were.”
“But still they’re judged in swimsuits.”
“The girls make an appearance in swimsuits, yes. But they’re not photographed on the beach in them. And they no longer do that loooooong fanny shot on TV.”
“Would you like to see them done away with completely?”
“Do away with their swimsuits? Then, honey, what would you
have
them wear? Their birthday suits?”
Everyone laughed. But the questioner persisted. “Seriously, Eloise, doesn’t the swimsuit competition make you uncomfortable? Didn’t it then?”
“Then? You mean back in the ‘dark ages’?” Eloise paused for the laugh, which didn’t come. “Seriously? No. But then, you’re talking to someone who’d do anything, who had plastic surgery, to become Miss America.”
The crowd murmured in surprise.
“Oh, yes. I was only five foot seven before. I had six inches grafted into my calves.”
It took them a moment to realize Eloise was pulling
their
legs.
“Speaking of cosmetic surgery, do you ask them in the interview,” another reporter asked, “about any reconstructive work they might have had?”
“Hardly,” sniffed Julian Temple, who looked like he might have had a tuck or two himself. “There are much more interesting things we’d rather hear them talk about.”
Like what?
Sam wondered, then shouted the question over the general buzz.
Like what?
Eloise Lemon answered. “‘Do you think Miss America should embrace any social causes? And if you were Miss America, what would your cause be?’”
Oh, Lord, Sam thought. Give me a break. “And how have the young women answered that?”
“How would
you
answer that?” Eloise shot back.
“
I’d
champion a woman’s right to control her destiny by controlling her body. But being pro-choice probably wouldn’t win me Miss America.”
“Don’t be so sure. Besides, one answer doesn’t make the difference. It’s the whole interview process, how they handle themselves. In fact, why don’t you come up here and we’ll show you how it’s done,” Eloise challenged.
The press corps laughed, then urged Sam on.
Do it. Do it.
“Me?” Was Eloise for real?
“Yes, you,” said Eloise. “Come on up here and we’ll show you how it feels to be in the hot seat. Right now! Hurry up! Don’t keep the judges waiting, young lady.”
2
Big Gloria, the Monopoly Hotel’s head of housekeeping, was keeping an eye on Wayne Ward. The sucker thought he was something cute. She’d asked him what he was doing, going in and out of rooms after they’d already been cleaned. He knew that was against the rules. Assistant to Mr. Franken, he said.
Special
assistant to the Man What Am, owns this casino hotel, not to mention half of the United States. Shoooot.
Gloria strolled down the hall of the 18
th
floor to get a better look.
“Wayne, what are you doing? I thought you finished all that last week. Big deal security doo-flatchies, whirly-diddlies you installed in the pageant judges’ rooms.” As if they didn’t already have enough security in this hotel to put the FBI to shame.
Everybody snooping. In the casinos, dealers watching the players. Floormen watching the dealers. Pit bosses watching the floormen. Shift managers staring at the pit bosses. Assistant casino manager, casino manager, vice president; it went on and on, made you afraid to pick your nose—somebody would be taking pictures, accusing you of snorting, cheating, or dealing.
Wayne Ward let his icy blue eyes drift over toward her like he hadn’t seen her before. Like he was being cool.
The truth was, he wasn’t bad-looking—for a white man. He was around six feet. She could look him square in his cool blues. Though she’d like to squirt some Windex on those aviator specs covered with fingerprints set on his pointy nose. He wore his wavy brown hair long, like a girl’s. Parted in the middle, it hung down in his bony face. He was too skinny for her taste, jeans just barely holding on. Gloria liked a man who weighed in about 250, she didn’t have to be afraid she was gonna break him in two.
“Whirly-diddlies.” Wayne laughed, snorting at what Gloria had said. Hee-haw. “I like that. Like to whirly-diddle you, Gloria.”
Gloria didn’t like that kind of talk. Down and dirty was all behind her now. She was a churchgoing lady. “Get out of here,” she said. “Get on with you.”
“Can’t do it. Gotta finish my special assignment.”
Wayne always talked like that. Special assignment. Special assistant. She’d noticed that about him before—and the way he wore that little black hat that said
Monopoly Special Staff
on it cocked to one side like he was marching off to war.
If you asked her, the man was too old to be playing soldier. He must be thirty, thirty-five, old as her. Certainly too old to be pretending he was one of Mr. Franken’s top assistants, that was for sure.
The men who were numero uno staff, Gloria had seen them; her girls cleaned their rooms when they flew in from Dallas. They all wore nice dark suits.
Not blue work shirts, jeans, tennis shoes. That was Wayne.
Wayne, who she bet was crazy. The way he snorted when he laughed, cold blue eyes wild like a spooked horse. He had to be crazy, or on drugs, which in Gloria’s book was more or less the same thing. He talked a lot about magic mushrooms he ate in Mexico. He should have left them to the Mexicans, like jalapeños. They knew how to handle that stuff.
“Yep, Mr. F’s gonna like this a lot. Gonna be real proud.” Wayne grinned, patting the big tool case he’d been carrying with him everywhere the past week. Like he had something
humongous
in there, was gonna slip to Misses Louisiana, Georgia, New Jersey, Texas, and West Virginia stacked right under one another in 1705, 1605, 1505, 1405, 1205—all in suites done in pale blue.
Then Wayne stopped in front of 1801.
Gloria didn’t have to look at her room chart. That was that nice newspaperwoman from Atlanta, Miz Adams, Harpo, her cute little dog, and her cute young man. That Adams woman had herself some good taste. The fact was, Gloria had already walked Harpo once. Miz Adams said she’d ’preciate it if she did, paid her $5 for each time, 25 in advance, just like she’d passed Go, right on the spot when they’d checked in yesterday, and Gloria was working an extra shift. She’d said she and the young man might be too busy to do it some time, and she didn’t want to have to worry about him. The dog, she’d laughed, not the young man. He’s the one I’d be worried about, Gloria had allowed. Well, don’t you go walking him, Miz Adams had popped back with her pretty grin. Gloria told those porters downstairs, Keep away from that animal. Those boys, always bucking for extra tips, didn’t know diddle.
Just like her Junior. Boys got to be sixteen, in trouble all the time, smart-mouthy, thought they were men. They made you wanta shoot ’em. Junior was real bright, but he didn’t know squat. Twice this month he’d got nabbed shoplifting at Ocean One Mall down the Boardwalk. It was a good thing both times security was somebody she knew. Last time they called her up and said, Gloria, come on down here and get this boy. Send us a check for the $88.95 he owes us for a T-shirt says nasty rap things on it, pair of them Reeboks, cushion your feet, you blow them up.
Gloria was gonna blow something up, all right. Gonna blow up Junior’s head.
She was mumbling that very thing to herself earlier this morning when that cute young man of Miz Adams’s, call him Harry he said after he’d said good morning, came ambling along the hall with the little dog. Said he’d walk him, he needed a breath of fresh air. Gloria was still muttering to herself about Junior. The next thing she knew, she and Harry are having a sit down, talking about Louisiana.
She grew up there, in the north part of the state in a little town called Bastrop. It stank like the paper mill. Her father was a carpenter, plumber, electrician, you name it, he could build it or fix it. Mama stayed home, raised the kids, all seven of them. Gloria was the only girl and the youngest. Sometimes Gloria wished she was back, that she’d never run off to Atlantic City when she was a young thing. She’d thought it’d be so cool to live with her Aunt Baby and all those Yankees by the ocean.
Harry said he’d been up there, North Louisiana. But he said it the way folks from South Louisiana did, like they were talking about a foreign country. And it was, to them. North Louisiana was full of Baptists, white bread, no fun.
That sure wuddn’t New Orleans. New Orleans was where people really
had
themselves a good time, like people in Atlantic City only
imagined
they were. Big Gloria said New Orleans was where she should have moved to, gone to stay with her Aunt Beautiful.
Harry said why didn’t she. He said he didn’t know how she could stand all this ugly, even if it was right on the water.
She said it really did get on her nerves. ’Specially since you get one block behind the casinos, you got nothing but real bad slums. But there she was. She had a job. She had a little house out toward the Inlet she’d papered and painted and fixed up. You get situated in a place, even one terrible as this, you know folks, work in your church, it’s hard to leave. And then there was Junior, her boy, the one’s driving her crazy.
Harry’d said, Give me a dollar, Gloria. I’m going to earn you a stake to get you outta here, back home.
Get on with you, she’d said.
You’ll be sorry if you don’t. I’m a mean motor scooter when it comes to blackjack.
Now, thinking about Harry, it was like she conjured him up. Here he came again, just seconds after crazy Wayne swiveled a hip, feinted, let himself with his master key into 1803, that Mr. Kurt Roberts’s room, who was a pageant judge.
“Did we win?” Gloria hollered down the hall.
Harry raised a little white baseball cap he was wearing, said Miss America Pageant on it. He waved it in the air like a cowboy, leaned his head back, and laughed, showing lots of pretty white teeth. That cap looked a lot better on him than Wayne’s Special Staff hat did on that goon. But anything’d look good on Harry, above that handsome face, those pink cheeks. She even liked the way his left eyelid drooped, just a little. It was kind of sexy, what with those steel-gray eyes.
“Won us a little bundle at the blackjack table. Sure did,” said Harry. “And I tell you what, Gloria. I’m going to give you half of it to hold on to for us. So there’s no way I’ll lose everything, if Lady Luck deserts us and I go berserk.” He handed her $280. “That’s half of what I won, and half of that’s yours to keep for good.”
“Are you nuts? Why do you want to do this?”
“’Cause you’re homefolks,” said Harry. “And I think what homefolks got to do is stick together when they’re out in the cold and cruel like this. We keep going this way, we’ll get you and your Junior back to God’s country by the end of the week. And that’s a promise.”
*
Inside 1803, Wayne Ward was hard at work. He was sweating like a pig even with the air-conditioning. Rooms like this made him nervous. Fancy drapes, pillows, cushions, knickknacks, carved woodwork, patterns—it was too much. There were too many things you couldn’t control.