43

It hadn’t taken Lavert long to sweet-talk the security guard named Tiffany at the door of Atlantic City High School down at the traffic circle where Atlantic met Albany. He told her she looked a lot like the statue of the pretty woman in the monument outside, Liberty in Distress was her name, a memorial to WW I. He told her if she was ever in distress, he’d be happy to help her out. Tiffany giggled and sent a runner to the office to look up Junior Sturdivant’s schedule and deliver him down here, pronto.

Who’s this? Junior had said, walking the cool dude stroll. But there was fear in his heart. He knew it was all going to catch up to him. The shoplifting, the wallet-snatching, the video equipment. He figured he was looking at hard time in Wharton Correctional up in the Pine Barrens. He’d be 18, a Piney for sure, and God knew what else by the time he got out. He knew who this huge brother was. He was the law. He was justice. He was dues.

So he wasn’t surprised when the huge brother took him outside and threw him up against a wall with the flick of one hand like he was nothing and said, “Junior, I know you think you’re bad.”

He was surprised to see the white guy who’d saved his butt from the swimming pool, though. Guy looked like he hadn’t shaved in three or four days. He came ambling up with a little smile and stuck out his hand. “Harry Zack. I think we’ve met.”

Uh-oh. Junior knew this routine. The big black dude was playing the bad cop. The white one, the good. Junior hadn’t grown up watching “Hill Street Blues” for nothing.

“So, Junior,” Harry said. “We think you’ve got a few things you’d like to tell us.”

“Unh-uh.” Junior drew a circle on the sidewalk with one of his high tops.

The big brother slapped him up against the head. “That’s no way to talk, son. Stand up straight and speak English.”

“No, sir, there’s nothing I have to tell you, sir.” Junior slid an eye over toward Lavert. The pretty talk seemed to satisfy him for the moment. Which was good, because his brain felt like scrambled eggs inside his skull.

“What did your mama tell you last night when you got in?” the brother snapped.

What? Mama had sicced the cops on him?

“Speak up, son,” Harry said.

“She—uh, she said that I had better watch my butt, stay home. That I was in big trouble and that people knew it.”

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” That was Harry.

“No, sir.”

“Sheee-it.” That was the brother. “We gonna have to jack you up, son?”

“No, sir.”

“What’d you do to that white dude that tossed you in the pool? You track him back to his room, let yourself in with your mama’s key, beat him up pretty good, didn’t you, Junior?”

Holy shit. That’s what they thought?

“No, sir. Absolutely not, sir. I never did.”

“So what did you do to him?”

“Nothing! I’ve never seen the dude again.”

“You’re sure?” The big brother had his face down right in Junior’s. It was a fearsome sight. Junior was afraid for a minute the brother was going to lean right over and bite off his nose.

“I’m sure. Sure as shooting. Scout’s honor. Sir.” Junior held up two fingers. Then three. Then four. He never could remember how that one went.

“We understand you’re in the filmmaking business,” said Harry quick like, like he was trying to confuse him.

Oh, God. They knew that too, the video equipment.

“I help a friend out when I can. He’s the one who knows the business.” Oh, shit! He’d just pointed the finger at Rashad. Now he was a rat, on top of everything else.

“It seems to me that that’s the kind of thing a young dude like you ought to be pursuing, instead of shoplifting, hitting little old ladies upside the head,” said the brother.

Lavert knew about the shoplifting from Gloria, but the other part, he got lucky, making it up as he went along. But Magic said money, it made sense.

Junior thought, would he say that, about the filmmaking, if he knew they’d lifted the equipment? Who knew? But he feinted in the other direction. “No, sir. I never. I never hit any little old lady—”

“Shut up! Stop your lying!” Then the brother was back in his face again. His breath was hot and smelled like coffee. “You ever been in jail, little dude?”

“No, sir.”

“Cute little thing like you, you know how long you’d last before a bunch of dudes big as me’d have you in the shower playing pick-up-the-soap? “

“No, sir. Yes, sir.” It wasn’t something Junior wanted to think about.

“You know what you’d have to do every night to make sure somebody didn’t kill you in your sleep?”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.”

“Well, whatever you think it might be, smart little dude, double it and then triple it, and then kiss your ass good-bye.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, we want you to watch your step, Junior. Do you understand what we’re saving?” That was Harry.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?” The brother bellowed in his ear like a drill sergeant.

“Yes, sir!”

“Then get your ass back in school and straighten up and fly right and watch your p’s and q’s!” The brother whacked him one more upside the head just to make sure.

After Junior had marched smartly back up the steps as if he’d made straight As in Basic at West Point, Lavert said, “How’d we do?”

“I think maybe that last set of orders you gave him was a little confusing.”

“In about a New York second I’m gonna confuse you,” Lavert growled, then leaned his head back and laughed. They were slapping hands before they were through.

“He didn’t know nothing about Roberts,” said Lavert.

Harry agreed, then asked, “You think we did it? You think Junior’s gonna mind his mama and watch his butt? You think I can stop worrying about him? I really hated it when Sammy told me I was responsible for him since I dragged him out of that pool.”

*

Darleen looked around the lobby at the crowd waiting for the elevators. Everyone else was wearing pageant badges, big hairdos, and polyester blouses. Darleen hadn’t figured out exactly how she was going to get into this trade show, but she knew that if she didn’t do some serious shopping soon she was going to go into withdrawal—or kill her husband. She thought maybe if she spent several thousand dollars of his money on a little beaded number, Billy Carroll might live a few more hours. Waiting for the elevator, she rooted around in her bag, wondering if her California resale license would get her in.

“Oh, I wish we didn’t have to go home,” said Rachel Rose, whom she’d dragged along.

Darleen stared at her daughter, who was dressed head to toe in tattered black. She looked like a refugee from some Eastern European country. “A week ago you were kicking and screaming you wanted to stay home and hang out with your friends, the last week before school starts.”

“I know. That seems like a lifetime ago.”

Oh, Jesus. To be 15 again and in love. To be 36 and in love, for that matter.

“Now, you’re being—prudent—with this boy, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Mom.” Rachel Rose rolled her eyes. “Not so loud. And please, not in public.”

Her daughter was right. She apologized.

“It’s okay.”

God, how nice her kid was. And they were still able to talk. It was amazing, Rachel Rose hadn’t gone completely mute when she hit puberty.

Darleen gazed fondly over the top of her daughter’s head—and there he was again. The old man with the white shirt, the dark pants, the windbreaker, and the limp.

This wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him. It was like every time she turned around today, he was in the corner of the picture. At breakfast, on the Boardwalk, and now—

“Do you know that man?” Darleen pointed.

“Who?”

“Him.”

“I don’t see who you’re talking about.”

He was gone. It was nothing, she said. No need to frighten Rachel Rose. That would make her feel more guilty.

And God knows she felt guilty enough. Darleen had lain awake all night thinking about the terrible things she’d done to Lana DeLucca—wondering why she’d put the blame on her.

Billy was the one she ought to be trashing. Little sucker didn’t even wear his wedding band, said it was too tight. Yes, indeed, the real culprit had been lying there right next to her while she was staring at the ceiling. She could have reached over and picked up that big lamp and crushed his skull. That would have been doing things right. Except, given his hair helmet, the damned lamp would’ve probably bounced back in her face and broken her nose.

Darleen smiled at the thought. At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. Anyway, she knew what she was going to do today, right after she bought herself and Rachel Rose some very expensive little numbers.

She was going to find Lana and fess up. She was going to apologize to her and return her gown and see what they could do about her hair. Darleen knew this Hollywood hairdresser who had the most fabulous wigs—he could air-express one.

It was times like these Darleen wished she were Catholic. She could go to church, confess, light a few candles, it’d be over and done with. Jews, no way, they had to stare their transgressions in the face, apologize, make restitution, and still feel guilty the rest of their lives.

“Hi!”

Darleen jumped.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Aren’t you Billy Carroll’s wife?”

Darleen looked up at the tall brunette. She was vaguely familiar.

“I’m Sam Adams, Atlanta Constitution. I saw you out at the pool with Billy a few days ago.”

Not exactly an afternoon she wanted to remember. Billy being a horse’s ass with the waiter. Embarrassing her like she’d just embarrassed her daughter.

“You two going up to the trade show?”

“Yes,” Darleen smiled brightly, then introduced herself and Rachel Rose. “I don’t know if we can get in.”

Sam said come along with her. She was sure she could help them.

*

So they’d be a while. Angelo, hidden behind a tall redheaded woman who was Dr. Mary Frances DeLaughter, would stay on the elevator, then go back down to the lobby and loiter behind a palm. Angelo had a lot of patience, as long as this thing didn’t run over into his date with Angelina.

But seeing as how he was so close to the prize, it wouldn’t hurt to take out a little insurance. Dealing with a flake like Billy Carroll, you could never be too careful. Marks like him never did what they said they were gonna do—unless you had ’em by the short ones. The way Ange figured it, Billy’s short ones had just stepped off the elevator.

*

Patience was not, however, one of the virtues belonging to Dr. Mary Frances DeLaughter. She nabbed Sam the minute she’d pointed Darleen and Rachel Rose in the direction of Jeannie Carpenter and her beaded gowns.

“I’m finding it very difficult,” she said, all atremble with seriousness, “to identify a contestant who epitomizes the transcending qualities of American womanhood. Someone who could serve as an icon for feminism, who understands the game that is being played here and is using it to her own advantage.”

“Someone very clever?” Sam smiled.

“Yes.”

“A young woman who really has her priorities in order?”

“That’s the ticket.”

“Someone who can verbalize all the dreams for power that American women have tucked away in their bras?”

Mary Frances looked at her a bit oddly. Okay, so she’d pushed too far. But she had the girl to twist Mary Frances’s brain all right. And vice versa.

“Miss New Jersey, M. F., is going to be your star. Now, if you have trouble reaching her,” Sam leaned forward, “don’t tell anyone I told you, but she’s staying at my hotel, the Monopoly. Room 1505.”

That done, a smiling Sam sailed toward the jewelry counter, where she would buy Miss America key chains for Malachy and Uncle George. It was a great day to be alive and in full possession of your faculties as well as a couple of major credit cards.