Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes (15 page)

On that last hand, when I'd placed my palm over my cards to indicate I was standing on what I had, Billy leaned over and anxiously asked, “Are you sure?” He himself was showing a Fourteen and I knew what he was thinking: if we both passed and then the dealer drew anything from a Three to an Eight, he'd beat us both.

But I stood firm.

“I'm sure,” I said, after which, tentatively, Billy placed his own palm over his cards. He was standing with me.

And then the dealer busted.

Billy threw his arms around me. “That's it!” he said into my hair. “I'm never going to another casino without you!”

That last—the hand and Billy's reaction—made me feel so exhilarated, I wanted to stay right where I was forever. Who cared if there was a beautiful day going on outside? Who cared if the sun was still shining and you could taste the salt from the sea on your tongue, it was that close? Who cared if day was turning into night?

I was playing, I was winning, I was having the time of my life.

The dealers changed shift again and Billy asked me if I wanted to change tables. I knew what he was thinking: we'd been very lucky so far, winning fairly consistently even though the dealers at the same table had changed shifts once already. How lucky could one table remain for us?

I studied the new dealer. He was older than any of the other dealers, with a paunch straining his cummerbund and a horseshoe of hair rimming his otherwise bald pate, making him look more avuncular than gangster.

“Nah,” I said, feeling a little gangster myself. “I can take him.”

“Don't you mean ‘we'?”

“That, too.”

As if to test my resolve, right away Mr. Horseshoe Hair dealt me the hand my dad had prepped me on: before me lay two Eights.

“Split,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Billy asked again.

“Hey,” said Mr. Horseshoe Hair. “Let the lady make her own decisions.”

Mr. Horseshoe Hair was showing a Seven and I had no doubt he had some kind of Ten in his hole. There was just one problem. Feeling totally giddy with the way things had been going, I'd pushed two hundred dollars worth of chips forward just before the dealers had changed hands and had neglected to change my bet. If I split the Eights, I'd need to push another two hundred dollars in chips forward. If I won both splits, I'd have a total of eight hundred dollars, nearly enough for my Choos; if I went one for two, I'd be right where I was; if I lost both hands, I'd be knocked back to the two hundred dollars I'd walked in with all those hours before.

And what if Mr. Horseshoe Hair wasn't hiding a Ten? What if it was a low card and he kept pulling until he busted? What if—?

It was too much to think about.

“I'm sure,” I said, pushing the other two hundred forward and no sooner had I done so than Mr. Horseshoe Hair was turning over my prophetic third Eight.

“Split!” I said again, excitedly.

“Where are you people from, Connecticut?” Mr. Horseshoe Hair asked. “You can't split a split in Atlantic City.”

“Oh.” I was deflated. “My dad never said anything about that.” I felt embarrassed by my lack of knowledge and in my embarrassment, blurted, “Double down then.”

“Double down?” Mr. Horseshoe Hair's eyebrows shot up to his absence of hairline.

“Double down,” I insisted, pushing my last two hundred dollars forward. I was betting everything that Mr. Horseshoe Hair had a Seventeen he'd have to stand at. Since I had a Sixteen, the only way to beat him was to get anywhere from a Two to a Five. Not much of a window of opportunity, I'll grant you, but it was all I had.

He turned up a Five and the table erupted. Blackjack.

He turned his attention to my other Eight and turned over yet another Eight.

“Don't forget, Connecticut,” he cautioned, “you can't split it here.”

“I know that,” I said surlily. Hey, my sudden riches—unless the dealer also got blackjack, mine would pay out three-to-two—had gone to my head.

“Hit me,” I said defiantly.

“I don't know what you stepped in on the way here,” Mr. Horseshoe Hair said as he turned over another Five for me and the table erupted again. Blackjack again.

Whatever Billy did passed in a blur as I waited to see what Mr. Horseshoe Hair was hiding in his hole, but after my own excitement it was anticlimactic when he turned over the Ten I was expecting all along.

“You don't look too excited,” Mr. Horseshoe Hair said, as he stacked chips on the table in front of me to pay off my winnings. At a rate of three-to-two for both blackjacks, with six hundred dollars originally at stake—all I had in my pockets—I was now looking at fifteen hundred dollars. It was enough for my Jimmy Choos and then some. I had reached my goal.

“Oh, shit,” I said, everything hitting me all at once, “I think I'm going to throw up.”

“Are you sure you don't want to play a few more hands?” Billy asked. “You're on such a roll.”

“No, Billy,” I said. “I need to get out of here. Besides, my bus is leaving soon.”

We spilled out of the casino, like a pair of dice tumbling out of an expensive leather shaker, richer than when we'd gone in.

Under the light of a perfect moon, right there on the boardwalk named by Boardman, in the excitement of the moment, Billy Charisma kissed me for the very first time. It was a knockout kiss that spoke of new beginnings, endless excitement, bright futures.

Hillary Clinton wasn't the only one who'd hit the jackpot in Atlantic City.

“Come to Vegas with me?” he invited, breaking the kiss. “I've never met anyone like you before. Come to Vegas with me, Baby.”

“Yes,” I said.

Then he walked me to the bus and kissed me right in front of everybody as we waited to board. I swear, it was like being back in high school, only in high school I'd never had anything happen to me like this.

I didn't even mind that Hillary sat with Biff instead of me all the way home, their blond heads huddled together, didn't mind—too much—when I completely messed up the Sudoku puzzle I'd hastily shoved in my pocket before leaving home that morning.

For once in my life, I had my very own squeeze.

O
f course, saying I'd go to Vegas and actually going to Vegas were two different things.

I mean, of course I wanted to go to Vegas with Billy Charisma. What girl wouldn't want to go to Vegas with Billy Charisma?

But first I had other responsibilities.

When we got back to Danbury from Atlantic City, it was already past midnight.

“I'm going back to Biff's place,” Hillary said after we'd debarked.

That was sudden, I thought. But then I realized they'd been talking for over fourteen hours and had put in more time together than I'd normally put in over the course of four dates with a new guy. Really, when you looked at it that way, it was surprising they hadn't ducked into a hotel together around dinnertime.

“But how will I…?” Not to be totally self-absorbed, but I was wondering how I was supposed to get myself home, since Hillary had driven us to the bus pickup.

“Here.” She tossed me the keys to her Jeep. “Biff'll bring me home in the morning.”

I was torn. A part of me had been dying to get behind the wheel of Hillary's shiny red Jeep ever since she'd gotten it. A part of me was terrified that with my lousy driving, I'd wrap it around a telephone pole and she'd hate me forever. Plus, I was too short to see over her dash.

“Just sit on this,” she said, reading my mind and handing me the thick guide to Atlantic City she'd been reading on the way in.

“Thanks,” I said. “Have fun.”

The drive back to South Park was mostly uneventful, only because I kept the speed to twenty miles an hour, the one eventful part coming when a cop blared his horn loudly before zipping by me on the left, clearly peeved that my slowness had kept him from speeding. As I inched along, I thought about the upcoming trip to Vegas—Sin City!—with Billy Charisma. True, we hadn't set an exact date, but only a blind person wouldn't see how eager he was to do this and I was sure the nebulous plan would become a reality. It was only a matter of time.

But what would I
do
in Vegas? I wondered. After all, in Atlantic City, I'd won enough to buy the Jimmy Choo Ghosts I so badly wanted. What need had I to do any more gambling? Of course the answer was obvious: in Las Vegas—Sin City! (I couldn't stop thinking of it that way)—I'd be exactly what Billy said I was: I'd be his talisman. I'd be exactly what he wanted me to be. Plus, I'd be able to win more money so I could buy even more Choos. Maybe I'd wind up with a whole closetful.

Once I'd unlocked the door, before I even turned on the light, in the darkness I could see the red light from the answering machine blinking like crazy. Sure, we'd been gone all day, but it was still a lot of calls. I flicked the light switch on, grabbed a pen and pad, and prepared to take down all the messages. No doubt one of Hillary's patients was in crisis mode.

The first several messages were prerecordings from telemarketers—didn't they realize how much people hated those things? They should do a telemarketing survey about it and then they'd know—and the one after those was from my dad. “How did it go? Did you win as much as you wanted to win?” Perhaps he was looking for the vicarious thrill of someone else's gambling. “I forgot to tell you, just in case it comes up: you can't split a split in Atlantic City, so if you did get those twin Eights, well, I hope you didn't embarrass yourself.”

Great, now he told me, and I'd tell him all about it when I saw him on Monday night. “I'm afraid I won't be free for dinner Monday night,” his voice went on. “There's a new group I've been invited to join that meets then. Who knows? I thought maybe I should check it out.” All righty then. Baby was about to get a new pair of Jimmy Choos and Daddy got a new group. I wondered what the group was?

The crisis I'd been half expecting came in the next message, only it wasn't one of Hillary's clients. Rather, it was Elizabeth Hepburn, and it came in the form of a plea from Lottie, the contents becoming increasingly grave with each new message she left, although the tone, somehow lacking in human sympathy, left something to be desired.

“Ms. Hepburn really is not feeling so good. She can't remember which day you are going away, today or Sunday, but if you're there, she'd like for you to call her.”

That didn't sound good.

“Ms. Hepburn is feeling worse. I called her physician and he's on his way over. She forget she asked me to call you earlier and insisted I call you now to tell you not to worry, that she is strong as Kirk Douglas in
Spartacus,
although she can't remember if she dated him or his son.”

Of course I was worried. There's nothing designed to make a person worry more than another person telling them not to worry, but I also did wonder: except for the cleft on the chin, how could she get Kirk and Michael confused? She really must not be doing too well.

“Ms. Hepburn was just taken to St. Vincent's Hospital in the ambulance, with the lights blaring and sirens screaming and everything. She didn't seem to understand what was going on, but she kept saying your name.”

The next message was from another automated telemarketer and I cut it off midpitch as I turned off the machine and punched in the number for Elizabeth Hepburn's home.

It took six rings before a sleepy-sounding Lottie answered, “Ms. Elizabeth Hepburn's residence?”

“What room is she in?” I asked without preamble. “I want to go see her.”

“Delilah?”

“Who else?”

“Don't you realize it's one in the morning? Why are you calling so late?”

Technically, it was early, but this was no time for technicalities.

“Your words were so desperate on the phone,” I said. “Your messages were increasingly desperate.”

“Did I? Were they?” I heard a yawn. “That must have been because Ms. Hepburn was so upset.”

She herself didn't sound all that upset at all.

“Then you mean it's not serious?” I asked. “She's really fine?”

“Oh, it's plenty serious and she's not fine at all. In fact, she's in the ICU. But you're not a relative and I'm sure they wouldn't let you in to see her at this time of night.”

For some reason, I kept wanting to scream at her. I think now I wanted to scream at her so much in order to shake her obvious complacency. Elizabeth was in trouble and she was alone. Couldn't Lottie see how awful those fraternal-twin facts were?

“Just go during regular visiting hours tomorrow,” Lottie said, loudly yawning again. “In all likelihood, she'll still be alive by then. Or not.”
Click.

Bitch.

The ICU at St. Vincent's Hospital, where I'd hightailed it first thing the next morning after choking down a quick bowl of Cocoa Krispies, was about as depressing as those places are everywhere, with its share of accident victims, like the guy whose motorcycle had taken him for a ride instead of the other way around, or those who needed their vital signs closely monitored. And then there were the families. Unkempt and unshaven, distraught and distracted, they sat by their loved ones trying to hold out hope, paced the waiting room and corridor in despair. With Elizabeth Hepburn's wealth and reputation, I would have thought for sure that despite Lottie saying she was in the ICU, she'd be in a private room rather than here with what I was sure she must view as riffraff, and that she'd be surrounded by loved ones, just like everyone else.

“I like the riffraff,” Elizabeth Hepburn said of the first. “Reminds me of my days in vaudeville. Gypsy Rose Lee, Schmypsy Rose Lee. I taught that girl everything she knew about feathers and don't let anyone tell you different.

“I keep telling you,” Elizabeth Hepburn said of the second, “there isn't anyone else left. Why do you think I like being with the riffraff so much? You're my best friend.”

I was sure she didn't mean that to come across in quite the way I heard it, that I was riffraff, and I sure was glad to find her awake.

“Of course I'm awake,” she said. “Did Lottie tell you I'd died already? Lottie is always in such a hurry for me to die already.”

“What do you mean?” I found it hard to believe it was true, but then, Lottie had behaved oddly during our phone conversation.

“Lottie thinks that, with no heirs and with her the only one that takes care of me, everything I have will go to her.” She chuckled weakly. “Little does she know I'm still debating between that and giving it all to Literacy Volunteers of America.”

How sad it must be, to have the only person regularly taking care of you be someone you knew was eagerly awaiting your death.

“Why don't you fire her?” I asked.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who has no life of their own and is willing to live in full-time?”

Actually, I didn't.

I looked around at the absence of cards, flowers. Sure, she'd only been there twenty-four hours, but you'd think there'd be some evidence of someone in the world showing concern for her.

“Oh, in another day or two,” she said, “I'm sure there'll be flowers from my agent. Even though I haven't acted in twenty years, Simon still thinks he can talk me into doing the stage version of
On Golden Pond
when they take the show to Luxembourg. And I know Bacall would be here in a heartbeat if she weren't busy with whatever that new show is that she's doing. Really, Delilah, you're not just my best friend. You're my only friend. Now, tell me, how did your trip to Atlantic City go?”

I pulled up a seat and, acting in my role as her best friend, took her crepe hand in mine.

“Never mind that silliness,” I said. “I don't even know why you're here.” I looked at the machines, the monitors. “What happened?”

“Oh,” she laughed weakly, “that crazy doctor. When he came to the house, he said I was having an ‘episode.' I couldn't help but laugh. ‘Episode?' I said. ‘When it happens to you, we'll call it an episode. I'm pretty sure what I just had was a heart attack!' Big mistake on my part, acting all dramatic, because the next thing I know, he's rushing me here with the cavalry and Jimmy Stewart and everything. Never, Delilah,
never
tell a physician you just had a heart attack.”

“You mean you didn't really have a heart attack?”

“Of course I had a heart attack! In fact, I've been having episodic heart attacks since I've been here. It's just that if I'm going to die of them, I'd just as soon be at home. True, I'd have to face Lottie rubbing her hands together as she awaits my demise, but at least I'd be surrounded by my own things, I could kiss my Oscars one last time. But once you start the medical machinery rolling, it's tough to get them to stop. Forget, ‘First, do no harm.' It's more like, ‘If we have the technology to keep you alive indefinitely, we're going to do it simply because we can.' Crap. But never mind that now. How did Atlantic City go?”

“I won,” I said. “Big-time.”

“Yippee!” She half rose in her bed to embrace me, but that “Yippee!” must have sapped what little strength she had, because she immediately subsided back down into the pillows, unembraced. “Does this mean you're getting the Ghosts now? Will you order them today? You can use my phone…”

It was then that I had the idea.

“I decided I really don't want the Ghost after all,” I said.

“You don't want the Ghost?”

“No, they're too flashy. Who ever heard of a window washer wearing Jimmy Choos? I'd get laughed out of The Golden Squeegee Club.”

“You all have a golden squeegee club?”

“Well, no,” I admitted, “but we should. Of course, if we did, I'd be the only member. Anyway, the point is, I really just don't have the kind of lifestyle that would justify such a purchase.”

“But with shoes like that,” she interjected, “you don't wait for the occasion. You create occasions.”

“Well, I just don't even see the possibility for creating such occasions happening in this lifetime, so I just figured I'd—”

“Oh, no. No, you don't.”

Had she read my mind?

“You can't,” she said. “You simply can't not buy a pair of Jimmy Choos.”

“Oh, I'm going to buy a pair all right,” I said, “just not for me. I'm going to buy a pair of the Parson Flats for you.” True, they were the Choos that Hillary wanted, but Hillary already had the Momo Flats that she'd given to me after I bought them for her, so she'd had her chance. Plus, the Fayres Elizabeth Hepburn originally wanted had a slight heel that was just big enough to be impractical, should she survive her current ordeal, and the Parson Flats were the only ones I could remember the price for, thereby being sure I could afford them. “Don't you remember the Parson Flats?” I asked. “It was a gold leather traditional thong sandal with a big red jewel at the center, surrounded by green stones with more jewels suspended from gold threads.”

Jimmy Choos may have been known for their simplicity and elegance, but it was definitely the snazziest of the Choos that appealed to Elizabeth, Hillary and me.