Of course, it was perfect for hiding things, which was only one of Wayne’s many talents.
He was very clever about hiding things. Tiny state-of-the-art cameras tucked into the china cabinet at one end, a lamp at the other, constantly surveyed the living room. They worked even in the dark. He’d tucked more cameras in the bedroom (in the chandelier, bed canopy) and the bathroom (behind a two-way mirrored panel). The cameras fed videotape recorders and also projected live onto monitors in Wayne’s studio. A couple of them needed a little fine-tuning, which was one of the things he had come to do.
The phone taps were easy. The reception on the recording devices was perfect.
But not until today had he finished with his pet project. He
loved
implanting subliminal messages. It was really cool, and it was a miracle the things you could get people to do!
Wayne knew the subliminal business up one side and down the other, which came in
awfully
handy if you’re in the casino business. You plugged in “Play, play, play. Stay, stay, stay.” Those suckers
never
went to bed, stayed up gambling 48 hours straight.
Where he’d refined subliminals was with Mr. F’s FrankFairs. What you did was mix the words right into the stores’ music track: “I am an honest person. I do not steal.” You could cut down shrinkage, which is to say stealing, by one hell of a lot. Using subliminals along with the closed-circuit TV monitors and the TellTags, you could bump down your shrinkage twenty percent. You could bump
up
your sales, too. All you had to do was feed ’em things like, “Great sale in housewares. Stock up now.” It worked like a dream.
’Course, it worked too when you fooled around. “I gotta go to the bathroom bad. Now.” Wayne was up there in the control room of a store in Philly laughing like crazy until they figured it out. Mr. F had seen the humor of it, too. He had a good laugh, but he then took off those little round glasses he wore along with his Stetson, wiped them, looked real serious, and said, Wayne, it’s funny, but it’s not cost effective.
Wayne saw his point. All those customers running stiff-legged, knocking each other down to get to the rest rooms, they used toilet paper, soap, water, paper towels, cleaning services.
But then, that was the kind of thing that made Mr. Franken who he was: Not just your run-of-the-mill casino-hotel owner, but king of the discount stores in the whole United States too. The world, actually. The Japanese couldn’t get enough of him, and first day they’d knocked a hole in that Berlin Wall, he’d hit those Commies so fast with FrankFairs it’d made their heads spin. The Wall of China was next.
Wayne truly loved Mr. F, who, though only ten years Wayne’s senior, was his daddy and his mama and his teacher and the Baby Jesus all rolled into one. No one else had ever been as kind to him. Certainly not his daddy, who’d split months before he and his twin brother John popped out of the chute. John, beating him by forty-five minutes, would always be Mom’s favorite. Wayne never would catch up.
Fraternal
twins, Mom was always careful to say, like Wayne didn’t have any feelings.
Mr. F never said things like that. He always called Wayne his right-hand man—which meant a lot, considering that Mr. F
really
didn’t have one, right hand or right arm, that is. He’d picked Wayne up when he was down, recognized his skills and his innate human worth. Mr. F was very big on that, people’s innate human worth.
Though Wayne had been a little worried lately about what Mr. Franken thought Dougie was worth. Mr. F’s nephew Dougie was one of those suit-wearing jerks. He drove a BMW and thought a brand-spanking-new MBA meant he owned the world. He was sucking up to Mr. F the minute he hit the scene, fresh from Wharton. Wharton School of
Business,
he said. It made Wayne nervous. Mr. F couldn’t have
two
right-hand men. One would have to be left. And
left-hand
meant left behind. Hind tit. Wayne had had enough of that with brother John.
That was why he was so set on making
this
a good job. He’d show Mr. F. You wanted a big job done right, you sent Wayne Ward. No smarty-pants MBA didn’t know his butt from East Jesus. Period. End of discussion.
*
Out in the hall, Harry had just finished telling Gloria how he’d won the $560 in no time flat at blackjack—starting with drawing a pair of aces and splitting them to bet two red chips on each—when Wayne came sidling out of 1803. Gloria watched him absentminded like reach back and jiggle the knob of 1801, Harry and Miz Adams’s room.
Then Gloria watched the smile on Harry’s face fade. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Gloria kept waiting for Harpo, who must be inside the room, to bark. Wayne wouldn’t know he weighed only twelve pounds. Maybe he’d think he was a German shepherd.
“Don’t think nothing,
buddy
.”
Wayne put a little English on the word just to show Harry. Then Wayne gave him a shoulder and pushed on by.
Exactly what Gloria thought: Wayne was stupid
and
rude.
“Now, wait a minute.” That was Harry. Wayne had pissed him off, Gloria could tell. The color in Harry’s cheeks was glowing now. He followed Wayne down the hall.
“
Excuse
me, excuse me.”
Those words came from behind Gloria. She turned and saw this short white woman with a real pretty face like a Kewpie doll, big turquoise eyes, pale lips outlined dark. She was wearing a leopard print jumpsuit that was holding on real tight to her healthy chest with its paws. Her all whicha-colored hair was pulled up in a little curly thing on top, swished over in a big wave at the front.
The woman said in a little-girl voice, “I wonder if you could help me?”
Gloria had heard rich white ladies—most of them who stayed in this hotel were, rich, that is—talk like that before. Like they were helpless. The truth was, most of them were about as helpless as Godzilla once they got their minds on something they wanted.
Now, what was this one studying?
On down the hall, Harry said, “Man, I’m warning you. I’m going to call security right this minute.”
Gloria thought Harry had made the right decision. He didn’t want to lay his hands on Wayne. Wayne didn’t have it in him to fight fair. Gloria figured him to have a switchblade tucked somewhere. That seemed about his speed.
“I
am
security, bub,” Wayne announced.
“And
I’m
the Jolly Green Giant.”
Miss Kewpie Doll pointed at the door of 1805.
“
I’m
supposed to be meeting Miss New Jersey here.”
See? thought Gloria. Rich white woman knew exactly what she wanted, no matter that the two men were about to tear into each other like a pair of pit bulls.
Turning her head this way and that, Gloria had about all she could handle following the three of them like they were playing Ping-Pong. It was a good thing that the old man who’d been there earlier looking for Mr. Roberts was gone. She’d
really
have her hands full.
“But there’s no answer,” Kewpie went on. “I’m a pageant hostess. You know, we help the girls with whatever they need, run errands for the pageant officials, some of us work as chaperones. I need to leave her something. Do you think you could let me in?”
The woman must think she was a fool. She must be some new reporter who’d dolled herself up, trying to get the inside scoop. Those pageant hostesses, couple of hundred white lady volunteers from the AC area, Absecon, some from down to Avalon, Stone Harbor, ran a tighter ship than even hotel security. They’d have all the room numbers memorized and besides, they’d know that no hotel staff, nobody else for that matter, was letting anybody
near
those girls.
“Which room did you say?” Gloria asked it real polite, putting her on, knowing the TV cameras right up there in what looked like the sprinklers were recording her on tape. Audio and video both.
“Room 1805.” Now Miss Kewpie was looking kind of flustered—like
that
was going to cut some ice. She scrabbled through her purse. “I think I have the right number. Maybe it was 1803? Or 1802? I think it was 1802.”
“What exactly do you want with Miss New Jersey, ma’am?” Gloria asked, thinking this was her day. Here Harry was earning her a grubstake, for no good reason except the Lord must have sent him, all her praying at the Community Baptist Church down at the Inlet. Now this silly white lady and that stupid Wayne were taking her mind off her troubles. Junior. Aunt Baby in the hospital. Car payment overdue.
At that, Miss Kewpie bolted. She got up a pretty good speed on her, too, considering those high-heeled sandals. She disappeared through the stair door marked Exit like the devil was on her tail.
Back in the other direction, Harry was yelling at Wayne. “I think you’re a hotel burglar, that’s what I think.”
Nawh, Gloria was about to tell him. Wayne’s lots of things, but I don’t think he’s that, when Wayne hauled off and punched Harry right in the mouth.
Awwwwh, thought Big Gloria. Such a pretty mouth too.
Harry reeled back and put up his dukes, but before he could do any good, Wayne turned tail and ran right down to the other fire door and disappeared.
“You dirty rotten bastard!” Harry shouted.
He looked just like Junior when he was little, having a temper tantrum, thought Gloria.
Harry was cute as heck when he was mad.
That was a thought Sam had had more than once, though Gloria didn’t know that. Gloria also didn’t know that Harry was
really
mad with himself because it hurt his pride to get sandbagged like that. If there was one thing his friends like Lavert Washington had taught him when Harry was the Only White Boy at Grambling, a historically black university, was how to handle himself in a tight spot.
Losing it, man, was what Harry thought. You turned 30, fell in love, your reflexes turned to mush.
Oh, yeah, Harry thought. Miss Samantha had herself a couple of warriors, all right. A silly little dog who wouldn’t bark if Attila the Hun were at the door. And a slow boyfriend with a busted lip.
It was a good thing there was nothing on their agenda heavier than hanging out and making love, lying on the beach, watching a bunch of young things twitch their fannies up and down a runway while Sam took a few notes.
Or so Harry thought.
3
Sam was lounging poolside on the roof of the Monopoly, waiting for Harry. Halfway through the afternoon of the first day of this nonsense, and already she needed a break. Following the press conference, she’d interviewed Rae Ann Bridges—Miss Georgia, Hoke’s flame, and the raison d’être for her being there in Wackoland. The intensity of these people was unbelievable. They were serious as death about this beauty business. It was pretty terrifying.
Take the press conference. She was still feeling like a fool, playing contestant before the entire press corps.
“Now you understand,” Eloise Lemon, the former Miss America, had said after they’d whisked Sam out of the pressroom, brought her back, and watched her plunk herself down (she lost points right there) in a straight-backed chair facing the judges, “this would be a smaller space with thousands of TV lights and a passel of other people watching. Hello, Samantha.”
“Hello.” Sam had giggled.
Giggled!
She winced now at the memory. And then the barrage had begun.
If you had to balance the national budget today, how would you approach it?
Why do so few women run for high political office?
You’re from a border state with thousands of illegal aliens crossing. What to do?
The press’s responsibility to watchdog the president and Congress?
Participating in the Miss America Pageant, so frivolous in the face of the Middle East crisis?
The most interesting book you have read recently, and why?
Public education in shambles?
The single most important event in the history of man?
And so on. Even for a reporter who kept up, this wasn’t easy. As Sam had leapfrogged from one question to the next, she’d asked herself, How do those airheads
do
this? Then, “Time!” and it was over. Her peers had cheered and stomped their feet. Maybe she hadn’t been a complete washout.
Just outside the door, Mimi Bregman, the judge in the red tent dress, had patted her on the shoulder. “At least an eight.”
“Eight? A nine!” Sam had protested. But that was bravado.
“Let me buy you a drink,
I’ll
give you a ten.” That had been Kurt Roberts, right in her face.
Mimi had looked down her nose at him. No love lost there. And there’d been that question Miss A had powered right at him. What gave?
“Mr. Roberts has his
own
agenda,” Mimi answered.
Oh, really? Handsy with the girls? Pressing them for favors? Was there scandal in the wind?