19

Va Bene was a throwback—a social club in a yellow-brick and brownstone mansion that had once belonged to a mayor of Atlantic City. That was back in the days before a goodly number of the city’s elected officials routinely ended up in the slammer.

Harry and Lavert were waiting for Sam on the marble steps when her car arrived, looking, in their evening clothes, like an ad for some $100-a-whiff perfume. Well, they were a dashing pair, she’d give them that.

“Miz Adams,” said Lavert with a deep bow.

“Wow!” Harry beamed. “Double wow!”

“I’m pissed at you both.”

“See what I told you,” Harry said to Lavert. “You can always count on my Sammy. I know”—and he gave her a big kiss before she could say another word—“you’re going to tell me to hush up. But before I do, I want to tell you we’re closing in on Mr. Roberts—and your dough.”

They probably were—while she’d been wasting her time with that crazy Cindy Lou. Well, she didn’t have to be nice about it. She gave Harry a cool profile as they ankled through a lobby deep in whorled black and red carpet. On the second-floor landing a maître d’ in a tuxedo said, “So pleased to see you this evening,” and led them into a high-ceilinged room of blinding white linen and dark-suited gents bent over pasta, roasted peppers, mushrooms, and large stogies.

“This way, please. Mr. Amato is expecting you.” He slid open a door hidden in the cherry wood paneling.

Sam gave Lavert and Harry the Groucho eyebrows. This wasn’t the mob, huh? Secret doorways? Inner sanctum? Was there a story here?

Michelangelo Amato stood up from the sole table in the handsome, green-papered octagonal room. He was almost as tall as Lavert.

Sam had pictured a short, dark gangster with a potbelly, heavy gold chains, shiny gray silk suit. Not this suave movie star type with serious tailoring and a headful of silver curls.

“How very kind of you to come, Miss Adams.” He bowed over Sam’s hand, then kissed it.

Puhleeze. But you had to admit it was a charming gesture. Maybe she was going to enjoy this evening, after all. Maybe she’d chat up this ever-so-handsome mobster and see how that sat with her smarty-pants boyfriend and his sidekick.

“I told our friend Mr. Washington here that I always love meeting members of the press. Especially such lovely members.” Then he nodded at Harry, paying him the compliment. “Shall we be seated?”

The mob welcoming the press, uh-huh. But Sam fluttered her eyelashes.

The small round table was set with creamy china and Baccarat crystal for five. The heavy silver was Italianate. Camellias floated in a Lalique bowl the color of pomegranates. On each plate sat a tiny edible sculpture Cellini would have been proud to claim. Sam took mental notes.

Michelangelo Amato seated Sam on his right. The spot on his left was empty. Sam snuggled close.

Ma smiled. “My other guest will join us shortly.”

“We do indeed appreciate your kind invitation,” said Lavert.

“Any friends of Joseph Cangiano’s—and besides, we can’t have you going away from Atlantic City hungry, can we?” Smiles all around. “Now. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of asking our chef to prepare a special menu for us. The fame of your own considerable culinary gifts has preceded you, of course, Mr. Washington, so what Gianni has proposed to do is invite you to indulge him in a little amusement. If you will be so kind as to taste each dish in its turn and identify its ingredients.”

“Oh, no!” Lavert laughed.

“Yes, indeed. Since your extrasensory palate discerned, by taste alone, the components of our friend Joseph’s mother’s prized pasta sauce—even after she’d slipped you a bogus recipe—well, it hit the wire.”

I bet, thought Sam. The wire that hooks up all you fancy hoods.

The same wire that bullets your bets to Vegas. Yet, who was she to sneer at a good meal—or a charming dinner companion who spoke such pretty copy. She smiled at Ma, then at Harry, who narrowed his eyes. He was onto her.

“Ummm,” she moaned over the morsels of the nuova cucina pizza. “Ethereal, earthy, yet light on the tongue.”

“You sound like Gael Greene,” Harry said dryly.

“Do you read her?” Sam turned to Michelangelo. “Her food writing is practically pornographic.”

Harry shot her a warning look.

“Potato and truffle with fontina cheese.” Lavert stepped into the breach.

“Bingo,” smiled Ma. “Now let’s get serious.” He pressed a buzzer on the floor. A door opened, and a captain and a waiter marched in with a massive green and white tureen. When the captain raised the lid, a heady aroma filled the room.

And a tomato filled the doorway. “I’m so sorry,” gushed the luscious young blonde in her little-girl voice. “It took me forever to sneak away.”

She was as close to a dead ringer for Marilyn as Sam had ever seen. Except her eyes were brown, which also meant the platinum curls weren’t for real. But with those curves and that voice, who cared? Now, where had she seen this lovely young thing before?

“Lana DeLucca,” Ma said.

The gentlemen stood. Sam nodded and extended a hand. Michelangelo tucked Lana in close at his left side, and Harry smiled at Sam, who held his gaze. Okay, so there went her plan to spend the evening flirting with Michelangelo.

This Lana was a real piece of work, a plum, a peach with a valentine for a face. A tad short in the leg beneath a tight black sequined sheath, but she made up in the chest for any slight deficiency in the gam department. “Miss Adams,” Lana nodded back, her smile big and red and bright.

“Please, call me Sam.” No need to stand on seniority here, honey chile.

“Lana is the daughter of a cousin of a very good friend of mine.”

I bet, thought Sam.

“Michelangelo’s been like an uncle to me since I’ve been in Atlantic City,” the young girl gushed. “Oooh, soup. I’m starving. It smells so good. What kind is it?”

“Mr. Washington?” Ma deferred.

Lavert lifted his spoon, breathed in the heady fumes, rolled a sip around his mouth like a fine wine, closed his eyes. “Fennel and celery root. Delicious.” He bit into the accompaniment of four kinds of bruschetta, whole wheat toast topped with—he identified garlic, green olive pesto, plum tomatoes, and Maryland crab spread.

“Damn!” said Ma. “Gianni’s going to slit his wrists.”

“Why?” Lana was all big brown eyes.

Ma explained the culinary game. “Oooh,” she said. “How cute.” Then her forehead wrinkled, for just a moment. “But is there a prize? I don’t think I can stand another competition. I’m just about worn out with competition.”

Sam got it. She knew she’d seen Lana somewhere before. “Are you, by any chance, Miss New Jersey?” The very girl Magic and Connors had wanted her to talk to.

“Why, yes!” Lana dimpled, then the tiny frown reappeared. Ma had said in his introductions that Sam was covering the pageant. “You don’t remember me?” Heartbreak of heartbreaks.

“You know, I do, but—wait, were you in evening gown last night?”

“Yes!” Lana clapped her little hands. “How’d I do? I was so nervous. I mean, when Phyllis George asks you that question, well, I really do care about the environment, those creeps dumping stuff in the ocean you can’t even go to the beach, and I’ve read everything there is to know about waste disposal, but, God, I mean, gee, you’re up there in front of all those people, and—”

“You did great,” said Harry, smiling into Lana’s wide eyes.

Oh, yes, Sam knew that smile. “I had to leave at the beginning of evening gown to file my story,” she said evenly, “so I missed you. But I do remember you from the Parade of States.”

“The Sierra Club couldn’t have given a better answer,” Harry said to Lana.

“The what club?”

Ma patted Lana’s creamy arm. “I thought it would be nice for you and Samantha to meet one another. It’s uncommon for a journalist of Ms. Adams’s stature to grace the pageant with her presence—and on the other hand, it’s rare for a journalist to have such personal access to an about-to-be Miss America.” Ma was all smiles. Lana lowered her eyelashes.

He was smooth, he was suave. But what was his game?

Was this little evening about extending hospitality to a friend of a friend? Engaging in a good-natured culinary rivalry? Putting together two women who could possibly help one another?

Sam doubted all of the above. But why was she so sure this evening had something to do with business—and she didn’t mean pizza. Had she watched The Godfather too many times?

“I can’t imagine how you sneaked out,” she said to Lana. “I thought the pageant’s security was tighter than that of the White House.” Saying that, she saw a picture of Marilyn, the real Marilyn, in her spangled dress singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to JFK. Poor, poor Marilyn.

But Lana was too young to have heard the many rumors about how Jack and Bobby both used and abused Norma Jean and then cut her off—her private Justice Department number for Bobby supposedly changed so she had to use the main number like any peon.

“Aren’t I awful, sneaking away? I hope you won’t tell anybody. I’ll get in huge trouble.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Sam.

“Well, I made real loud noises about going up to Sleepy Hollow to take a nap, and then I rolled up a couple of blankets under the covers on the bed and put a blond wig on the pillow—” She dissolved in giggles. “I just get so tired of being locked up with that chaperone. Do you know they even sleep in our rooms? Isn’t that silly?”

“It is silly. Now tell us something about yourself, Lana. Where are you from?” Harry was all ears.

“Well, I grew up in Newark. But my folks moved us down to Sea Girt a few years ago. I really like it on the ocean. It’s not so nice up in Newark anymore—what with one thing and another. There are too many bl—”

And then, just before she finished that word, Ma laid a hand on her wrist and directed his gaze from her brown eyes toward Lavert’s—which were very big and very black. Lana gulped.

“Very bad people,” she recovered. “There are lots of bad people in Newark these days.”

“I bet,” smiled Lavert. “I bet there are lots of bad people there who can’t tell a citrus vinaigrette from a balsamic vinegar.” He flashed Ma a dazzler of a smile. “I’d be right about the citrus, wouldn’t I, Mr. Amato, on this insalata di mare? It’s especially good with the red and yellow peppers and the waxy potatoes. And where does Gianni get his seafood? The clams, shrimp, the squid, the sea scallops—incredibly fresh. Not from the Fulton Fish Market?”

Michelangelo didn’t miss a beat as they danced together past Lana’s faux pas. “That cesspool—? No way. Their fish’ve been two weeks out of the sea by the time they get to your table. Gianni has sources in Maine. Day boats, we get it in hours. The shrimp are from Louisiana—flown in every morning.”

“And you’re all from Louisiana, too, aren’t you?” Lana burbled.

Sam couldn’t wait to see what she stepped in next. “No, Harry and Lavert are. I live in Atlanta.”

“Oh. I see. But you grew up there, didn’t you, Sam?”

“No.” What was she getting at?

“Oh, I guess I’m confused. You and Harry look so much alike….”

They did? Short dark curly hair, but beyond that—?

“I misunderstood. I thought you were Harry’s big sister.”

Everyone froze, except Sam, who, without missing a beat, turned from Lana to Ma and purred, “So, I understand you’re a longtime Miss America buff, Mr. Amato?” She’d even the score later. Had no one never told the little bimbo of the power of the press?

“Call me Ma, please. A buff? I don’t know I’d say that. I do think Miss America’s good for Atlantic City, so I do what I can for the pageant in whatever small way. Also, I know that it’s an unpopular stance these days, but I think we’ve probably come to the end of civilization as we know it when it’s wrong to admire beautiful women.”

Lana batted her big brown eyes and purred.

“I’ll drink to that.” Harry raised his glass. “To beautiful women.” He winked at Sam, and it was a heartfelt wink, full of love. Sam smiled back. That was more like it.

Then Sam’s gaze landed on another pretty woman. “Lovely painting over the fireplace. You paint, don’t you, Michelangelo?” She loved saying the line. She’d like writing it, too. Michelangelo Paints Pageant Cuties.

“I dabble.” But his smile said the odalisque was his, the nude concubine reclining on a golden chaise draped with blue.

“Lovely,” said Lavert.

Harry asked about the model. “A former Miss America hopeful?”

Lana protested. “We do not pose like that!”

“Oh, there have been those who did,” laughed Sam. Then she told the story. It was in 1935 that the San Diego Fair called its beauty contest winner Miss America. The young lady, a curvaceous blue-eyed blonde named Florence Cubbitt, was crowned by two promoters who also ran the fair’s nudist and midget concessions. They awarded her the privilege of posing in the nude for two years.

When Atlantic City finally got around to choosing its Miss America, she was Henrietta Leaver, a high school dropout who was working in a five-and-dime. Henrietta, however, was barely crowned when a Philadelphia sculptor unveiled a nude statue he’d done of her. Henrietta protested that she’d worn her swimsuit the whole time, and had been chaperoned by her grandmother, but the press was having none of it. Henrietta’s goose was cooked.

Sam considered adding the one about Janice Hansen, Miss New Jersey 1944, another busty blonde who was found one day in 1958 shot full of holes along with her close personal friend Anthony “Little Augie” Pisano—but she didn’t.

Ma laughed at the Henrietta story. Then he turned to Lavert. “Now what do you think about this, Mr. Washington, Gianni’s pièce de résistance?”

The main course was duck cakes with sun-dried-tomato butter and arugula and artichoke hearts. Hazelnuts and porcini mushrooms were grace notes in the symphony of flavors. Lavert got it all on the nose. He insisted he be allowed to return the compliment by cooking a Sunday lunch for all assembled, Gianni the chef, and perhaps Michelangelo would like to include his mother, and other friends?

“Artichokes!” Lana exclaimed. “That’s how I got involved in pageants!”

“Do tell.” Lavert seemed to be amused by Miss New Jersey, a species of dumb blonde you hardly ever saw anymore.

“Should I?” She turned to Ma, her benefactor, sponsor, Big Daddy, who knew?

Ma spread his hands.

“Well, I was in San Francisco visiting my Uncle Tony, who’s in the wine business, and he does something with shipping and owns a few clubs—anyway, that was five years ago, I was still in high school, and while I was there, there was this Marilyn Monroe look-alike contest, see? The thing was, Marilyn had modeled for the California Artichoke Advisory Board thirty-nine years ago, and the artichoke people had a contest in honor of that. There were thirty-nine contestants, and, well, my Uncle Tony had always called me Little Marilyn as a joke—so I entered the contest without telling him as a joke back on him. I asked him to meet me the day of the contest down at the Embarcadero Plaza, and there all of us girls were handing out free artichokes. He almost swallowed his cigar when he saw me. You remember that dress Marilyn wore in that famous photograph, the white one, with a pleated full skirt and a halter top with no back?”

“The one in the picture where her dress blew up?” said Lavert.

“That’s right! The Seven Year Itch. That’s the one! Well, that’s what we were all wearing, and we paraded across this stage they’d put up, and the crowd that day, it was at lunchtime, voted by applause. And I won!”

Sam could see the crowd: financial district suits, their ties loosened for their 30-minute lunch break, cheek by jowl with construction workers. Had that contest taken Lana to Miss California?

“No. I couldn’t have qualified, because I didn’t live there, but the artichoke thing gave me a taste of it, you know. What it would be like to compete.”

Lana liked the competition?

“Oh, yes. It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever done. The girls are really wonderful. You know”—she dropped her voice—“people say that women can be, well, bitchy, when they go after the same thing, but I think most of them are sweet. There are exceptions, who I won’t name, but most of them help you out. Give you tips. Lend you things.”

“Like lipstick?” Lavert was a master of the poker face.

“Lipstick, nail polish, anything you need.” Lana paused. “You know, though, even though it’s wonderful, I think some of the girls, well, they try too hard. Some of them almost have nervous breakdowns, they’re so serious about it all. It’s just not that hard, you know. All you have to remember is: Don’t cry on stage. Never let the judges see you lick your lips. Be prepared. Believe in yourself. And smile a lot—naturally.”

“You sound serious,” said Lavert.

“Oh, I am. Don’t get me wrong. But”—Lana chewed on her bottom lip—“if I don’t win, I’m not going to die. You know what I mean? Actually, I don’t even want to win. Can you imagine, traveling around for a whole year with first one chaperone and then another? Yuk! But, like, for some of these girls, this is the first chance they ever had to dress up in pretty things—and I, well, you know, my Uncle Marty runs one of the clubs here in AC, and my Uncle Ennio manages a casino in Vegas—so I’ve spent lots of time dressing up.”

Wasn’t it interesting that Lana had so many uncles in so many influential positions in so many different cities?

“You haven’t seen my talent yet, but—” She drew a deep breath that threw her chest dangerously close to the top of her sequined dress. “I’m a torch singer. That’s what this is all about, for me.” She waggled a hand. “This Miss America thing. Oooooooh!” Lana interrupted herself as the dessert tray arrived.

It included chocolate gelato; hazelnut biscotti with black pepper and lemon and orange zest; and, as a little closing joke, a cornmeal “pizza” with figs and raisins, served with Marsala custard. A salute to the pizza king of Atlantic City.

“Sweets for the sweet,” said Ma.

“So you’re competing, not to win, but for the—exposure.” Sam licked custard off her fingers.

“Oh, yes. I want to be discovered. Lots of girls who didn’t win pageants have gone on to be stars, you know.” She ticked them off. “Delta Burke, Cloris Leachman, Vanna White. Betty Buckley in Cats—she placed fourth in Miss Texas. Debbie Reynolds—she’s Carrie Fisher’s mom—was in Miss California. And Donna Dixon—a Miss Something, I forget—she’s married to Dan Aykroyd. She does Revlon commercials.”

“You’ve certainly done your homework,” said Sam.

Lana beamed. “Well, I don’t read much, but I go to the movies a lot and listen to people. I’ve watched tons of educational TV getting ready for the interviews. And, you know, I watch a tape of Some Like It Hot every single day. Because I do one of Marilyn’s songs in it for my talent.”

“I’d think you’d already have a foot in that door—show biz—through your family connections,” Sam said smiling.

“I do,” Lana nodded seriously. “But I want to be famous on my own, don’t you know? I don’t want to be beholden to nobody.”

Even Ma had to look away at that one. Espresso appeared at the table along with a cigar humidor and Gianni the chef to take his bows.

“And it’s working already, you know,” Lana bubbled right along. “Already, people are starting to take notice. You know Bill Carroll, the famous game show host? Well, I met him this week, and you know what he said to me? He said, I would give my right arm to have you come on my show.”