1

However, less than twelve hours into it, Sam turned to Harry in their huge round bed and said, “I can’t tell if it’s the pageant or Atlantic City, but I feel like I’m on Mars. Tell me I haven’t fallen off the wagon again, Harry.”

“No way, sugarplum. Probably the pink satin. It’s making me bilious.”

And certainly there was a gracious plenty of that in their high-roller suite. On the walls, swagged up to the center of the ceiling, where it was pinned by an awful crystal chandelier that was probably left over from the Taj—Donald Trump let the Monopoly decorator have it cheap. There was even a pink satin dust ruffle–like affair around each of three toilet seats and the two matching bidets.

“Why couldn’t they just give us a nice little Holiday Inn-ish room, Harry? A room for normal people?”

“Hell, they thought they were doing us a favor. I personally think it’s kind of fun.” Harry reached over and punched the remote control that opened the heavy rose drapes. “Ta-dah. The Atlantic Ocean. Doesn’t that make you happy? Look at Harpo, he loves it.” Sam’s little blond and white Shih Tzu wagged his tail at the mention of his name, then gave Harry a hard look. The man was in his bed.

*

Maybe this was what Atlantic City and the casinos did to you. It was in the water.

“Sucker bet,” said the Inquirer.

“Ho ho ho. Define your terms.”

“By the end of this week you’ll be a bona fide Miss America enthusiast. You’ll see that the pageant is not what you think, nor the girls.”

“We’re talking major redeeming values?”

The blonde nodded.

Sam shook her hand. “You’re on, cookie. I hope you’ve got a sugar daddy tucked away who can afford your flights of fancy.”

“Marks like you, I don’t need him.” The blonde grinned. Then, “Uh-oh. Get ready. Here she comes.”

“Who?” The room had filled. Sam craned her neck.

Why, Miss America, that’s who. And there she was, live and in color, the outgoing Miss A, Lynn Anderson, a very pretty young woman in a scarlet suit. She really was stunning. Sam hadn’t expected that. Her complexion was gold-brown velvet. Her dark hair curled in a boyish bob. Her eyes were Hershey’s chocolate with almonds. Well, maybe she was no brain surgeon, but she certainly was beautiful.

Miss A was introduced by Barbara Stein, a bubbly little redhead in a bright yellow dress who was the pageant’s executive director. Barb explained that Lynn was going to talk for a few minutes about the judging procedures, and then they could ask questions of the preliminary judges themselves. On cue, the door opened, and the seven judges made their entrance. The tallest of the women, and she was very tall, waved at several members of the press, who called her name.

“Eloise Lemon, a Miss America from the sixties,” the Inquirer whispered. Oh, yes. She was one of the last ones Sam remembered before she’d grown up and stopped watching the pageant.

Now Miss America stepped up front and in a beautifully modulated voice said: “The Miss America Pageant is not a beauty contest.”

Oh, yeah? Sam stifled a snort. Beside her the Inquirer nodded along—a self-evident truth.

Then Miss A did it again: “I want to emphasize this point because it’s really important. The Miss America Pageant is not a beauty contest.”

The sentiment would have been a lot easier to swallow if it weren’t coming from the lips of one who was not only gorgeous but built like a brick shithouse.

“There are so many other qualities the judges are looking for.” Miss A lowered her volume and raised the wattage of her smile. They’d probably taught her how to do that in one of those pageant schools Sam had read about. “There’s so much more than a pretty face she’s going to need to get her through this very exciting but very tough year.”

Miss A paused, her own gorgeous dusky kisser a perfect deadpan. She really wasn’t kidding.

“Now”—she turned to the judges—“I’m not saying you ought to choose a dog, no matter how bright she is.”

They laughed. There was an awful lot of bonhomie in this room. If it was going to be like this all week, Sam was going to need some insulin.

“But it’s grueling as well as wonderful. Miss America’s reign begins with a press conference fifteen minutes after she’s crowned, another one Sunday morning, and she’s in the NBC studio in Manhattan at five-thirty A.M. Monday for her appearance on the Today Show.”

So give Miss A three points for preparedness. Sam made a note. “She’ll do the networks, radio, magazine interviews, the fittings for her traveling wardrobe; then she hits the road. And she better hit it with her running shoes on. Sure, she’ll have that sparkly crown and some beautiful gowns along with her, as well as her traveling companion, but none of that’s going to save her when the first gentleman”—she leaned into the word, turning and smiling at the judge nearest her, who was handsome, Sam thought, if you liked the smarmy type—“asks her the Big Question in front of an auditorium jammed with people.”

Sam scanned her press release. This gentleman was Kurt Roberts, New York fashion and celebrity photographer. Most of the other judges seemed to be old hands on the pageant circuit, but there was no mention of his prior duties in that area.

“What’s the big question, Lynn?” Mimi Bregman, a large, jolly white-haired judge who looked like Mrs. Santa Claus in a red tent dress, beat the press to the punch.

Miss America winked at Mimi, then aimed her million-dollar smile back at Kurt Roberts. “Do you believe in premarital sex?”

“And how do you answer?” the photographer drawled, exhaling smoke through his perfect nose. Make that perfect nose job. Tall, lanky, he was good-looking in a self-satisfied sort of way. With his slick dark-blond ponytail, pastel Armani tailoring over a black T-shirt, turquoise bracelet, he looked like he’d watched too many episodes of “Miami Vice.”

“No, I asked you that question, Mr. Roberts,” Miss America purred.

Everybody laughed, including Sam. Everybody except Roberts, who narrowed his pale eyes. Mean eyes, thought Sam. What was going on between him and Miss A? She made a note. You could never tell what might turn into a story, and God knows with this twaddle, she was going to need anything she could scrounge.

“What they ask me is how does it feel to be the first Black-Vietnamese Miss America, and I say, ‘Just great, thank you,’ and then try to steer them on to something more important—like my platform.”

Give the girl two points for spunk.

But the moment passed, and Miss A was spieling off the short version of her “platform” speech. The pageant now required each contestant to champion a “socially relevant” cause.

“I’ve tried to tell young people that they have to assume responsibility for their lives. That they need to put down the drugs, get off their duffs, figure out what their business is, and get on with it. No excuses. None whatsoever that’ll wash with me, the daughter of a black American soldier whose real name my mother didn’t know when he left her, alone and pregnant in Saigon. We were boat people, my mother and I, and if I can make it, I can graduate magna cum laude from Berkeley, you can make it.” Miss A pointed a pretty finger at the judges, and they all, including Kurt Roberts, sat up straighter.

Not bad. Okay, a tad too much flag-waving, but Sam was at least interested. She’d always been a sucker for a good immigrant story.

“Now, here’s how the system works.” Barbara Stein picked up when Lynn left off. “Our blue ribbon panel of preliminary judges started the preliminary interviews Sunday, finishing up just about an hour ago. The scores they give the girls for interview will carry over to the final Saturday night judging—”

“By the A team,” judge Mimi Bregman interjected.

“The celebrity panel.” Barbara Stein, who was tougher to derail than an Amtrak express, corrected her. “The preliminary judges’ scores on interview carry over for thirty percent of the total scoring Saturday night. And, of course, it’s they who determine the ten finalists from whom the celebrity panel will select the four runners-up and Miss America.”

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 see 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.”