24
“You could have stayed longer if you wanted,” Sam said to Harry as she stepped out of her black velvet pants.
He grinned. “And miss this floor show? Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you were having a good time. Especially when you got into the Randy Newman.” Harry played a mean piano.
“Yeah. Looks like the delegations have a lot more fun than the girls, but then they don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn.”
“Whereas we old broads can stay up forever.”
“There she goes again,” Harry said to Harpo. Then he whistled a few bars of “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” “Shall I call room service and ask for a wheelchair?”
“Nope. But some hot chocolate would be nice.”
Harry picked up the phone, then belly-flopped onto the big pink bed where Sam was now giving Harpo a doggie massage. “So who’s going to win?”
“The pageant? Well, let’s see. What do we know? So far Rae Ann and Magic have taken talent—which counts a lot. Texas and New Jersey have swimsuit—not as big a percentage, but we know swimsuit winners win. We know zip about evening gown.”
“I think those four. California looks good. She’s smart and she’s Asian-American. That’s got to count for something.”
“Maybe. How about Florida?”
“Florida’s strong.”
“So that’s six. We need ten finalists.”
“And your pick for Miss A?”
“Now? Without seeing tomorrow night?”
“You must have an inkling. Sometimes they know from the minute the girls hit town.”
“Who’s this they?”
“Everybody. The girls—like Debbye Turner, 1990, they say she had it from the get-go.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Guys in the Louisiana delegation.”
“Gamblers, more likely. Your friends down in the casino.”
“Right, Sammy.”
“So some people probably racked up some bucks with Debbye Turner, huh? Depending on the odds.”
“You’re not giving up on Michelangelo making book on the pageant, are you? It wouldn’t make sense, Sammy. Nothing to base the odds on.” But he did think Lana was going to win. “I like Texas. I love Magic, but she won’t take it, though she’ll make the top five. But it’s definitely Jersey’s show. What do you think?”
“No way. Rae Ann. Definitely Rae Ann.”
“Oh, Sammy. You’re just saying that ’cause Lana’s a twit and you’re covering Rae Ann.”
“Give it up. Lana is not taking it. Look, Rae Ann’s blond, she’s Southern, she took talent and Fruit of the Loom. The gimp factor that won her Fruit probably gave her mega-points in interview, which carry over, forty percent. A bundle.”
“What do you want to bet?”
Sam threw up her hands. She appealed to Harpo. “I ask you—has the man lost his mind?” Then to Harry, “You want to bet on how long it’s going to take room service to get here with our hot chocolate?”
“Sucker bet. We know forty-five minutes is the fastest they could deliver a newspaper—and they don’t even have to heat that. You want to bet the same grand on Miss A? Then if you lose the Roberts thing and win this, it’ll be a wash.”
“I’m not losing the Roberts thing, Harry. I’m closing in.” She was bluffing, of course.
“No way. I’m closing in.” Or he might be, if he could get to Big Gloria, who he knew was holding out on him.
*
Big Gloria, on the other hand, didn’t give a hoot about the pageant. What she cared about was her son.
She’d tucked him in, kissed him good night, just like she did when he was a little tyke. And now she stood in the doorway of his room. It was way after midnight, and his bed was empty again. “Junior,” she cried and wrung her hands. “Junior, Junior, Junior, what are you up to? What can I do? I tried sucking up to that crazy Wayne, and that got me nowhere.”
Then she fell to her knees. “Oh, Lord, just bring back that Kurt Roberts and I’ll give him his $5,000—with interest. I promise, dear Lord. Seven-and-a-half percent. No, make it 10. Okay, 12, that’s prime, and my last offer.