37

“I hear you’re looking for a friend of mine.”

“Angelo’s your friend?”

“Crippled guy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Old crippled guy.”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Runs a pizza parlor.”

“Right again.”

“Never heard of him.” And then Michelangelo laughed like a man who knows the world and his place in it and sleeps like a baby. “Samantha, why don’t you just tell me what you want, and I’ll pass it along. Angelo doesn’t like to talk with strangers.”

“He likes to talk with hotel maids.”

“Explain.”

So Sam told him about Angelo visiting Big Gloria, not just once, but twice, looking for Kurt Roberts.

“And what’s your interest?”

“I’m looking for Roberts too.”

“Because—?”

“Because he disappeared.”

“Sounds like a job for the ACPD.”

“It would be, if anybody reported him missing.”

“So he’s not missing?”

“Nobody seems to think so except me.”

“Who’s nobody?”

“The pageant staff, his office, his mother, his girlfriend in New York. His girlfriend here thought it strange he was here one minute, gone the next, but then—she hears voices, too. After enough vodka.”

“Not a reliable witness?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did the voices tell her?”

“You really want to know?”

“I’m waiting.”

“She said there were voices in her room that told her she’d be hurt if she—she’s a preliminary judge for the pageant—if she didn’t vote for Miss X to make the final ten. She thinks something happened to Roberts because he didn’t like Miss X. Or at least that’s what she thought a couple of days ago. Yesterday she seemed to be considering suing me for slander.”

“You’re kidding.” Ma was impressed. “So, who’s Miss X?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

“That’s pretty funny. Sounds like a great gimmick for a bookie, he could get voices to speak to quarterbacks, jockeys, pitchers.”

“Uh-huh.” Then she paused, trying to frame the next question.

“I’m not making book on the pageant, if that’s what you want to know. There’s no percentage in it. Wouldn’t be good business.”

“It had occurred to me.”

“Now why’d I tell you that? You going to ask me that next?”

“Right.”

“I hate to see a nice woman like you wasting her time. You think there’s betting on Miss America, I’m telling you there’s not. Sports, that’s another story. But you don’t want to go around asking questions about that.”

“Got it. But let’s just say, speaking hypothetically, if someone were making book on Miss A, would the odds come from Vegas?”

“Sure. Hypothetically. That’s where all they all come from. On anything. Who’ll be in the Super Bowl. Which unions’ll go on strike this year. Which Latin dictators are going to fall down boom boom and hurt themselves.”

“How would they be made—on the girls? Hypothetically?”

“Well, the closest thing would be race horses. You’d look at the stats. Which states have won a lot?”

“California, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Texas, Oklahoma.”

Then Michelangelo started to noodle around with the idea. “Being a fan of the pageant, I’d say your minorities stand a good chance. After that, blondes over brunettes.”

“Redheads aren’t big winners. Freckles don’t photograph well.”

“I’d spot tall over short.”

“What do you think about talent?”

“Piano or singing over some oddball thing. Then, once the prelims begin, you’ve got your swimsuit and talent scores. You know swimsuit’s the biggie. Of course, if you were doing it, any money that went down before midnight Thursday is sucker money. After that, things get serious.”

“After the preliminaries are over?”

“Sure. They’re like the playoffs. After those, you’ve got your ten.”

“But we don’t know who the ten are until Saturday night.”

“You don’t know.”

“You do?”

“Sammy, Sammy. It’s a small town.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re still telling me nobody’s making book?”

Michelangelo laughed. “Right. You sound like somebody dying to put down some money.”

“I don’t think so. I’m already overextended.”

“Look. My advice to you would be this: Take what I just gave you if you want to play around with what-ifs in a story. I’ll be your ‘informed source.’”

“I appreciate that.”

“And forget nosing around. I’m serious.”

“I understand. But can you tell me one more thing?”

Michelangelo sighed. “I can try.”

“Has anybody ever fixed the pageant?”

“Not that I know of. Naaah. It’d be too hard. What’re you gonna do? Buy off both sets of judges? It might’ve been easier when there was one. Now with two—too many variables, too many pockets, too many mouths. Naaah. I’d say it can’t be done.”

And that was indeed the truth—as Michelangelo saw it. He’d done a little asking around since his conversation with Willie, and the pageant did seem to be bribeproof.

“So that wouldn’t be why your friend Angelo was looking for Kurt Roberts?”

“Usually, I’d say, if Ange was looking for somebody, it’s because the somebody owed him money.”

“Ange is in the habit of lending people money?”

“Ange can be a very generous man.”

“I see. And how do you think he might feel about someone who took advantage of his generosity?”

“I think he’d take a dim view of it.”

“Uh-huh. So, you think it might be possible for you to ask Ange if he found Mr. Roberts?”

“I think it would be. But I want to get back to your interest in this Roberts. I fancy myself a student of human psychology, and what I’m hearing you say is that you’re going to a lot of trouble to track down a guy simply because you think he’s missing—even though nobody else does? And nobody else cares?”

“Well, I have these intuitions. Feelings.”

“Hunches. Yeah, I know a lot about hunches. Lot of people in AC have hunches. They can be very expensive—you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, mine could, too. If I’m wrong, I stand to lose a bundle.”

“This is a bet? The Kurt Roberts thing is a bet?” Michelangelo’s laughter this time was richer than Angelina’s chocolate gelato.