And Yesterday Is Gone (25 page)

Waking late, I sent down for coffee and read the
L.A. Times
that came with it.

I marveled at the publicity that this pageant was getting—why hadn't J.W. sent a photographer with me? Damned penny-pincher. I could smell another good story here and pictures would have nailed it down.

Had lunch in the ridiculously overpriced restaurant and lingered over dessert. My mind cringed at the thought of the look of J.W.'s face when he checked the expense account and saw the tag on the apple pie à la mode.

My press card saved him the admittance charge at the convention hall—small comfort.

I pushed my way to the front seating. Although still early, the building was nearly full. The hoopla and bullshit that J.W. had predicted were certainly right on the money.

The blaring announcements, the orchestra valiantly competing, the sound of voices that thundered against the walls—all seemed as perpetual as waves breaking against the shore. As latecomers banged the seats, finally the curtains rose and the lights dimmed.

Despite cynical appraisal of various contestants by last night's companion, I was enthralled. They were all beautiful. I didn't envy the judges, who took notes carefully as each contestant performed.

Never had I seen so much of so many.

If any of it was plastic, to my inexperienced eye, it was a damned good job. But who could tell; who could care at this distance?

I scribbled furiously, but my arm was constantly bumped by a man who overflowed his seat. My notes became unreadable and I bumped back. He gave me a frosty stare and muttered, “Damn tourist.” I wondered how he could tell.

The last contestant appeared, climaxing the pageant.

She seemed oblivious of the suddenly quieted audience as the spotlight followed her across the darkened stage, then blazed to show a petite woman in a ten-gallon hat atop a forest of red hair, high-heeled boots, a bikini almost as large as my handkerchief, and a guitar.

She strummed slowly for a moment, paused to adjust something, then pushed her hat back. It was then that the first words of that unforgettable song, “Ave Maria,” sounded.

It was as though every person in that huge auditorium held their breath and exhaled only as the last hauntingly beautiful note faded. Shivers chased themselves across my back. I couldn't control the pen. The walls shook as the crowd roared and stood as one.

“Encore. Encore,” yelled the audience as Miss Texas grinned—the same grin I'd seen on Amy's face. Then she belted out a foot-stomping, yahooing version of “The Eyes of Texas.”

Looking around the near-riotous crowd, I could see the placards with the Texas star waving everywhere high in the air. I could hear Amy leading the chant, “Texas, Texas, Texas.” I was excited for her and her sister, remembering her assured “She'll win this one…”

Jostled by the crowd, I finally found the men's room and locked myself in a stall. Adding to my almost unreadable notes while seated most uncomfortably, I heard a gruff, threatening voice.

“If you don't come out of there right now, I'm coming in to get you. Are you constipated?”

Sliding past a guy who looked like a professional wrestler and avoiding his scowl with an apologetic, “S'cuse me,” I escaped to hear Amy's shrill voice above the thinning celebrants. “Hey, Steve—over here.”

Hoping my good luck would hold, I dodged the noisy groups and, as Amy grabbed my arm, asked, “Do you s'pose you could introduce me?”

“Are you crazy? Just look.” She pointed at the mad scramble surrounding her sister.

“There's a big-time movie producer and that's a guy from CBS and look at the photographers…”

Realizing my luck had run out, I bolted through a side door and made a death-defying trip through the parking lot. Racing for the hotel, the words already forming in my mind, I found the sanctuary of my room.

I typed and retyped, crossed it out and did it again and again. Changed a paragraph, added and deleted. My fingers were numb, but it had to be perfect. And at last my instincts told me it was all I had.

I had typed steadily, skipped dinner and now it was dark—my watch indicated ten p.m.

The elevator was too slow; I took the stairs two at a time.

Shaking the night clerk awake, I disregarded his hostile, “Not again.”

The airwaves were smoking when the last page was en route.

The elevator traveled its usual speed going up and that was fine with me. My mission was accomplished. Kicking off my shoes and socks, I collapsed across the bed, almost instantly asleep.

A loud, persistent banging on the door floundered through my sleep-numbed brain and I croaked, “Who is it?”

“Amy. Who the hell do you think it is? Open up.”

“Not a chance—go to bed.”

The pounding intensified. Cursing, I struggled to the door and opened it an inch, only to have it pushed open. I jumped back to avoid facial reconstruction.

“Hey Handsome—party time. C'mon. I've got munchies and Jack Daniel's in my room. Hurry up.”

I could smell that she had already made Jack's acquaintance. Her voice was insistent and sleep had fled. Realizing there was no escape, suddenly a celebration on my last night here didn't seem like such a bad idea. One could always sleep. Hadn't J.W. said to live a little?

I'd written a fabulous report, Rica was a long ways gone—perhaps the hair of the dog? I assured myself that indeed a celebration was in order.

Having justified myself, my bare feet followed Amy like a shadow.

“So,” she said triumphantly. “I've tracked you down and you are now my captive.”

“How did you find me?”

“When I knocked on the ceiling, that guy was so mad he called the room clerk. I told him I was your wife and that you often got numbers confused, and he said the only Steve he had on the books was in Room five thirteen…”

Still chatting, she slipped the key in the lock and the door opened to an empty room.

“Where is everyone? The party?” I stuttered.

She leaned against me, nibbling my ear and whispered, “We are everybody. Are you ready to party?”

“Not quite yet. Let's have a drink first.”

“Consider this foreplay,” she said as a drink appeared like magic a moment later.

Manfully, I slugged it down. My eyes watered and my curly hair straightened like the tail of a cat at the sight of a strange dog.

She pushed me down on the bed where my recovery began. The kisses lengthened as our tongues had a lively conversation and I cooperated with enthusiasm. Somehow she had shed her clothes without breaking contact.

I could feel my pants growing tight enough to cripple me. Apparently she had noticed. Her hand had just found the zipper when a deafening bang-bang sounded on the door.

“Oh, shit—who can that be?”

“Janella here—open up.”

“I don't hear anything, do you?”

“Hell no. I'm deaf as a post.”

Again her mouth sought mine.

I thought the door would fly off the hinges.

“Damn it to hell. I know you're in there. Open this door before I kick it in.”

Amy fumbled with her clothes and opened the door. Janella stalked in, tossing her purse on the nightstand.

“My, aren't you cozy.”

I held a pillow on my lap.

“Hope I didn't interrupt anything,” she said innocently, kicking off her shoes and seating herself in the only chair. “I won't stay long.”

“Bitch,” Amy said under her breath. “I hope yours grows together.”

“It would serve her right,” I muttered. “She talks too much.”

Amy looked at me in amazement.

“Steve, you can't possibly be that dumb.” She started to laugh.

Janella's laughter joined ours. “I don't know what's so funny, but I've sure livened up this party. Somebody fix me a drink.”

I crawled off the bed to do her bidding, and wondered if she would fly when I pushed her out the window. That would liven up my party.

“Had a bad scene with my boss. I lost that last roll of film that I took at the pageant with all my best shots. I would have gotten the Pulitzer. I'd already given him three so he didn't need to get so nasty.” She started to cry.

“Stop sniveling, Janella. I hate a crying drunk.”

“Shut your big Texas mouth. I'm not drunk yet.”

“Sitting by myself playing solitaire isn't much fun. Thought you might like to play a few hands.” Then, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she added, “Hand me my purse, will ya?”

Digging through her cluttered bag, she pulled out a wad of Kleenex and with it came the roll of film.

She leaped to her feet with an ecstatic whoop.

“Omigawd, it's my lucky day.” Laughing and crying, she cavorted about the room, Jack Daniel's sloshing in one hand, the film held higher in the other.

The film—my heart lusted for that roll, but I knew it would take a king's ransom to part her from it. My story would make the front page, but it would go over the top if I could add those pictures. My mind cleared as I schemed and plotted to no avail.

Holding her over the railing by her feet tempted me, but I discarded that plan when I realized she'd take the film with her.

Amy was sulking, giving Janella a sour look. “C'mon, c'mon. It's getting late. This ain't no ladies aid society. You brought the cards, now let's play.”

Then she brightened. “I know. Let's play strip poker. I'll show you how a Texas girl can strip a guy right down to his spurs and make him look forward to it.”

With a wicked smile, Janella answered, “I'm not so bad at that myself, and if it's a draw, we'll play a hand for his spurs.”

J.W. had said I might get lucky, so why was I so nervous?

“Wait a minute, ladies,” I stalled. “Let's have a drink.”

My brain wrestled with indecision. I could leave, but I wanted that film. I had to figure out a way to get it. Then, too, Amy was no afterthought.

My grandfather had been a hellfire-and-brimstone traveling preacher, traveling by horseback to joust with the devil regarding sins of the flesh. Dancing was intercourse set to music, smoking was a deadly sin, and cards were an invention of the devil. Ma had never learned to play, although she had bent the rules of dancing; consequently, Sis and I had never been allowed. We hid our Monopoly board in the barn.

In college I had picked up a little information, but really had no interest. I couldn't even classify myself as an amateur.

Now I was feeling like a minnow in a small fish bowl with two hungry sharks.

Amy moved her chair back and sat with crossed legs in the lotus position on the carpet, making it more difficult for me to concentrate. Janella positioned herself against the wall. I folded my long legs beneath me and pushed up beside the bed.

Amy was shuffling the cards, running them up her arm, flipping them, and various other maneuvers.

“Show-off.” Janella snorted.

“Here, cut 'em, Handsome, bring you luck,” Amy said. Handing the cards back, I knew I was going to need all the luck I could get.

The cards blurred as they flew past me.

“Wait a minute—hold on,” I said. “What are the rules?”

“ ‘Rules'? That's a dirty word in Texas. You're playing with the big kids now. You're on your own.”

Gingerly, I picked up the five cards in front of me. Amy snatched up hers. With an “Oh shit,” she tossed two back and picked up two more.

Janella considered hers, smiled and said, “Pass.”

Looking at me expectantly, she said, “What you got?”

I laid my hand down hopefully.

“You lose, sucker. You, too, Texas. Take it off.”

I undid my watch.

“Hey, you can't do that. Against the rules.”

“You said there were no rules.”

“Well, any tenderfoot knows the fundamentals.”

“What's the difference between rules and ‘fundamentals'?”

“Damn it, are we playing cards or having a philosophical discussion?”

Amy slipped out of her halter top and the two unconfined breasts bounded to freedom.

Removing my shirt, I felt Janella's fingers smoothing my arm. “Nice,” she said.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Amy snapped.

Frowning, Janella shuffled, cut the deck and handed it to me. “Deal,” she demanded.

Shaking as I reached to take the cards, they slipped through my fingers and scattered. Grabbing for the runaway deck, my elbow knocked over my glass and the liquor splashed.

The women cursed and quickly removed themselves.

“Son of a bitch! Steve, pay attention. Don't be so damned clumsy.”

There were other niceties that I ignored.

Amy was attempting to wipe the cards with a towel and dry the carpet. I made a half-hearted effort to help her, but the look on her face told me to stay out of her way.

“Lucky I brought another bottle. Say good-bye to Jack,” said this woman who had announced earlier that she wouldn't stay long.

She was opening her bag, and while one eye was watched avidly for the sight of that precious film, my other fixated on the rosy-tipped breasts that winked every time Amy dried a card.

Janella nudged Amy to her feet and bent to whisper something that caused both of them to convulse with laughter.

Why was I so nervous? Why wasn't I having fun like any red-blooded man sitting with two good-looking women drinking their liquor—one of whom was half-naked and openly on the make—and having a friendly game of cards?

Of course I was having fun.

The cards recovered and were reasonably dry when the game resumed.

Amy dealt the cards so fast that they flew through the air. “C'mon, let's get this show on the road.”

Their cards hit the carpet like hail.

Fumbling for a card, Janella's hand found my thigh.

“Keep your paws to yourself. I told you, I'm teaching this class,” came Amy's angry voice.