Glitz

10

WELL, SHE WAS A DIFFERENT GIRL NOW. Brought back to life in a gold-orange turban, big loop earrings, low-cut bra and layers of ruffles on her orange tango skirt open all the way up the front to show bare legs moving, doing spastic little knee-jerk trip steps to a rattling, rackety sound of bongos, congas, steel drums, now a synthesized marimba sound kicking in-Now Featured in the Winner’s Circle Lounge, LA TUNA!-Linda Moon moving with the guys, everybody moving, caught up in the rhythm of the Caribbean funk, or was it barrio punk? There were dreadlocks gleaming up there in the stage lights, but it wasn’t reggae. Vincent sipped his beer and wondered, because what was the number? “Beat It,” that’s what it was. “Beat It” gone to the Gulf of Mexico and converted, brought back latinized. Linda was singing it in Spanish, belting it-”Pégale!… Pégale!”-shoulders back, whacking maracas off hips cocking to one side and then the other, back and forth to the beat.

Everybody in the packed lounge loved it, clapped and whistled and stayed through the set, sitting up, moving to “La Bamba” and “Hump to the Bump” and then grinning at the quick slick lyrics of “Oh, Frank Sinatra… Oh, Frank Sinatra… Frankie my boy you don’t know, you have the perfect voice to sing calypso.” Followed by “Mama, Look a Boo Boo.”

Linda said, “Cute, uh? Jesus.”

“You look different. I’ll say that.”

“I have to wear this goddamn Chiquita Banana outfit four straight sets. No costume change.” She glanced around. “I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

“I ordered you one,” Vincent said. “It’s coming.”

“All that noise, that jungle rock-six guys, they’re beating on everything but a washboard and a gutbucket. I can duplicate all that with one poly-synthesizer and a rhythm box. They’re not bad guys, but they ought to go back to Nassau, play for the cruise ships… How do you know what I drink?”

“You kidding?” Vincent said. “With that act? I got you a Rum Sunrise.”

She frowned, “What is it?”

“We’ll find out.”

The waitress’s legs appeared, long ones in net stockings. “In a frosted glass with an umbrella,” Vincent said, as the girl did the bunny dip to place the drink on the table without losing her breasts.

“Just what I wanted,” Linda said. She sipped it. “I could kill Donovan… You have a cigarette?”

“I quit while I was in the hospital.”

She said, “Yeah, why get cancer when you can get shot.” She said, “Donovan, the big shit, he tells me I can have my own band. I get here, I’ve got one number I do, ‘Automatic,’ the Pointer Sisters? These guys, they get on their roll I don’t even know what they’re playing. They’re spazzed out on ganja anyway, they don’t give a shit, they’re gone. ‘No Parking on the Dance Floor,’ the Midnight Star number. I’m on the synthesizer? I’m trying to keep it precise, these guys ride right over you.”

“You’re not happy,” Vincent said.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“When’re you through?”

“What’s today? Started at eight, we’re off at twelve. Weekends we’re on ten to two.”

“We could get something to eat after.”

“I don’t know-I could meet you for a drink. But not if you’re gonna ask questions.”

“I think Iris went up to that apartment the night before she died,” Vincent said.

Linda put her drink down, started to rise.

“That wasn’t a question. I didn’t ask if she went up there the night before. But I think she did.”

“I have to go back to work.”

The bartender came down from the lounge interior to the far end of the horseshoe bar nearer the casino floor, the dark edge before the circus of lights and mechanical sounds. The bartender was smiling. He said, “Mrs. Donovan, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Nancy Donovan was watching Vincent and beyond Vincent the girl in the orange tango dress walking through the tables to the bandstand. She said to the bartender, “What’s her name? The singer?”

“Oh, that’s Linda. Linda… I don’t recall her last name. What can I get you, Mrs. Donovan?”

She watched Vincent get up from the table. Bearded man in a raincoat, out of his natural element. Talking to the waitress now, paying his check. Then coming this way, along the dark lounge side of the bar.

Nancy could take three steps and be standing in front of him. She thought about it. She thought of an opening line but didn’t like it. She turned to the bar and said, “A glass of water, Eddie. Please.”

“Nothing in it, Mrs. Donovan?”

“Ice.”

The bartender said yes ma’am and moved off as Vincent passed behind her. She wasn’t ready for him quite yet. But she would keep him in sight and turned to watch him as she had watched him in the lounge talking to Linda, Vincent close to Linda’s bare shoulders, dark hair showing beneath the headdress, Linda not bad looking, the same Linda who was in San Juan. They seemed to be friends. She watched Vincent walk through the empty outer lounge to a railing and stand looking over the casino, at the activity, the flashing lights, the serious faces in that funhouse the size of a dozen ballrooms. She watched him turn and walk toward the stairway, the five red-carpeted steps to the casino floor.

Nancy rode a gold elevator to the fourth level. She followed the executive hallway, pale gray and silent, past suites of offices with nameplates on double doors. Casino Hosts. Administration. Payroll. Division of Gaming Enforcement. Casino Control Commission… turned the corner, walked past executive offices and her husband’s suite of rooms to the end of the hall where she knocked on a door marked Surveillance.

“Mrs. Donovan-”

The woman stepped back, surprised, opening the door wide for Nancy.

“What can we do for you?” She wore a plastic-covered I.D. card pinned to her blouse that said she was Frances Mullen, Supervisor, Casino Surveillance.

“I think I saw somebody I know,” Nancy said, “but I lost him.” She led the way through a narrow hall.

Behind her, Frances Mullen said, “What’s he look like?”

“Beard and a raincoat, dark hair, about forty.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard.”

They entered a small, windowless office where a young man and woman sat before a bank of twenty monitors, rows of video screens that framed areas of the casino floor, bits of action in black and white, angles on gaming tables, aisles of people playing slot machines. Frances leaned in close to the console, between the young guy and the girl. She pressed buttons and pictures on several of the video screens changed while looking much the same as before. “Man with a beard, wearing a raincoat. What color, tan?”

“Yeah, natural,” Nancy said.

The young guy looked over his shoulder and smiled at her. “Mrs. Donovan, how’s it going?”

“Just fine, Roger. Thank you. Terry, you holding up?”

Now the girl glanced around, a healthy, happy face in this high-tech room. “No problem, Mrs. Donovan.”

Nancy stepped in behind Roger to watch a man in a leather jacket standing at the corner of a crowded craps table, next to the player with the dice. She noticed, now, the same man on three of the monitors, presented at different angles.

“Anyone we know?”

“Guy’s acting a little shifty,” Roger said. “Could be a railbird, waiting to grab a few chips.”

Frances looked over. “He still there? Let’s check him out, see if he’s in the file.”

Roger turned a knob, bringing the image of the man in the leather jacket into a close shot. From the floor next to him he picked up a Polaroid camera with a scoop attachment on the front of it that was like a long square megaphone. He placed it against the screen, covering the screen, and snapped a picture.

Nancy’s gaze moved to another screen. “Is that Jackie?”

Standing at a blackjack table where a single player sat facing the dealer, the player’s back to the camera.

“The one and only,” Frances said. “And here comes Miss Congeniality.”

On the monitor a young woman with swirls of blond hair approached Jackie Garbo from behind. When she spoke to him Jackie turned his head, said something over his shoulder without looking at her.

“Poor LaDonna,” Nancy said.

“Poor LaDonna my ass,” Frances said. “She begs for it. Jackie, you have to talk back to him or he’ll walk all over you. She wears that pushup bra with the peasant blouse? Jackie calls her boobs her Kathryn Graysons.”

“He’s a lovely man,” Nancy said. “Turns now… gives her a pat on the behind…”

“Means he still loves her.”

Nancy could see Jackie talking now, the diamond flash on his little finger as he raised his hand to his nose, turning again to the blackjack table.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s scratching,” Frances said.

“It looks like a signal.”

“I don’t know about it if it is,” Frances said, “and I worked for him in Vegas twelve years, dealer to pit boss. Jackie’s always scratching, he’s a nervous type a person, lives on Gelusils… There’s Tommy. I didn’t think he was around this evening.”

“We had dinner in the Versailles Room,” Nancy said. “I think the food’s getting better.”

“They saw you coming. But I hear it is better,” Frances said. “That cute little Mr. Hayakawa, he’s finally straightening things out. All the restaurants served from the one kitchen, that’s gonna save you some money.”

Nancy was watching her husband talking to Jackie Garbo: Tommy’s silver crown towering over Jackie’s ball of curls, Jackie talking now. Jackie almost always talking, Jackie nodding toward the blackjack player, Tommy waiting, getting a smile ready as Jackie reached over to touch the player’s arm. She watched her husband in action now as he took the player’s hand in both of his and poured on the macho charm, big shooter to big shooter, the player’s head nodding mechanically up and down, expression deadpan.

“Do they know each other?”

“They ought to,” Frances said.

“Who is he?”

“Well, he’s from Colombia…”

“Not the one in South Carolina.”

“The other one,” Frances said. “Jackie has the company plane pick him up in Miami.”

“Is he on file?”

“My file? You kidding? This guy’s comped to the eyeballs, the whole shot.”

The player was middle-aged, a small man, gaunt, with dark Indian-Latin features. His hair glistened. His starched shirt with the dark suit showed bright white on the monitor, with a sheen.

“I think I’d like a picture of him,” Nancy said.

Frances pushed a button and a close-up of the player appeared on the monitor in front of Roger. She said to Nancy, “You could work here.”

“I was at Bally’s a few years.”

“I know you were. You got the eye, there’s no doubt in my mind.” Frances motioned to bring Nancy away from the monitors, hand on her arm. “I not only see things up here, Mrs. Donovan, people tell me things ’cause they trust me and they don’t know how to handle certain situations.”

“What people?”

“Well, like the cashiers. Guys I’ve worked with for years, we’re like family. They see certain irregularities taking place and they tell me about it ’cause they want it on record. You understand? I’m talking about top management allowing certain things, not the help. The help I’m watching twenty hours a day.”

“What’s Jackie up to?” Nancy said.

“See? You know what I’m talking about.”

“I have an idea.”

“I work for you and Tommy, Mrs. Donovan. But I did work for Jackie at one time. I learned everything I know from him, I mean the finer points, and that’s the only reason I’m saying this. I don’t want to see him get hurt, lose his license. It could happen-some of the people he’s hanging around with, the hotshots. I don’t mean the celebs and the legit high rollers, he’s got to take care of them and he loves it.”

“So does Tommy,” Nancy said. “The two of them, they’re an act… Wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, Tommy’s in a different position, he’s having a good time. Why not?” Frances smiled faintly. “We kid around. You know, about the old neighborhood, growing up on the West Side there.”

“Who would’ve ever thought,” Nancy said, “a Mick from Columbus Avenue-”

“Yeah, like that. He says to me, ‘Don’t go back, Fran, it’s all artsy-craftsy over there now. Hurley Brothers Funeral Home, they changed the name to Death ‘n’ Things. The bars, you can’t walk in you hit your head on the ferns in the hanging baskets. Where would our dads go for a drink?’ They were subway motormen, you know. Both of ’em.”

“I know,” Nancy said.

“He calls me Wrong-Way Mullen ’cause I went out to Vegas, worked there fifteen years to end up in Atlantic City. Tommy says, ‘You could a taken a Fugazy tour bus, been here in three hours.’ “

“He’s quite a guy,” Nancy said.

“He’s having a good time-what the heck. This place with Tommy it’s like a toy, you don’t mind my saying.”

“Please,” Nancy said.

“I’m not taking anything away from him, he’s a brilliant guy, very charming. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“But what?” Nancy said.

“Well, Jackie-you know what he’s like, all the celebrity photos in his office, the poor kid from the Bronx showing off. That’s what he is, he’s a show-off.”

“Among other things,” Nancy said.

“But he’s getting mixed up with some people he shouldn’t go anywhere near, and Tommy doesn’t realize it. Jackie thinks, you know, he’s discreet; but some of the people, you can’t miss ’em.”

“Like the guy from Colombia,” Nancy said. “What’s his name?”

“Excuse me.” Terry looked over from the bank of monitors. “Here’s a guy with a beard. On this one.” She pointed to a screen.

Frances said, “Is that him?”

Nancy nodded, walking over, seeing Vincent Mora in profile playing a quarter slot machine, carefully inserting the coin, ritualizing it, pulling the handle and watching the drum spin… to come up with nothing. She heard Roger say, “I don’t recognize him, do you?” And Terry say, “No, but he’s kind of cute.”

When Vincent walked away from the machine Nancy said, “Follow him.” She moved to a telephone on the wall, touched buttons, then turned to watch Vincent appear on several monitors.

“Hi, is this Milly?… Mrs. Donovan. See if we have a Vincent Mora staying with us.”

As she waited she saw Vincent stop to watch coins clattering into the tray of a slot machine. He said something to the woman scooping quarters into a paper cup. The woman, very serious, turned and smiled, nodding.

Nancy smiled a little, watching him. She said, “Thanks, Milly,” and hung up the phone. Roger was saying, “We know this guy?”

“He looks lost,” Terry said. “Came in out of the rain-wow, never saw anything like this before.”

It was a long raincoat, below his knees. He stopped at a blackjack table and watched several hands among three players before taking a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. He bought four red chips from the dealer.

Nancy watched Vincent draw a pair of aces on the deal and split them to bet two red chips on each. Then was hit with a king and queen and paid three-to-two for the naturals, sixty dollars. Roger said, “Look at the guy.”

“I’d like a picture of him,” Nancy said.

She watched Vincent bet the $60 and win when the dealer went over. She watched him bet $120 on eighteen and beat the dealer who had to stand on seventeen. She watched him bet $240 and win on nineteen when the dealer drew up to eigh-teen and stayed. She watched him bet $10 and lose, watched him gather his chips and walk away from the table.

“Let’s follow him,” Nancy said.

Vincent appeared on several screens, different angles. “He’s gonna cash in,” Frances said. After a moment she said, “Look, who’s at the window ahead of him.”

It was the player from Colombia, his back to the camera. Jackie Garbo stood next to him, in profile.

“I wouldn’t mind a picture of this,” Nancy said.

Roger said, “Guy in the raincoat? I already got him.”

“The one cashing in.”

“I got him too.”

“Maybe we can see what he won.”

“They’ll give him a nice clean check,” Frances said and looked at Nancy. “What I mentioned, you might say something to Tommy.”

“I probably will,” Nancy said, watching the monitor.

The cashier was away from the window. Jackie Garbo chatted with the man from Colombia, using his hands, smiling a lot, while the man from Colombia stood without moving.

“There was a stockholder, one of the other casinos,” Frances said, “his license came up for renewal the Control Commission turned him down. He didn’t do a thing. His daughter married some guy with a shady background.”

When the cashier returned he pushed a form through the opening in the window for the man from Colombia to sign. The cashier then separated the copies of the form, attached a check to one of the copies and presented it with a smile. The man from Colombia turned…

Roger looked up from the Polaroid, the scoop attachment covering the monitor in front of him. “The guy in the raincoat’s in the way.”

Nancy didn’t say anything. She watched Vincent, wondering, Is he?