Читать книгу Getting Off On Frank Sinatra - Megan Edwards - Страница 9

As I walked from the parking garage into the El Sereno the next evening, I realized Michael hadn’t told me exactly where to find the party. In any other city, I would have asked at the desk, but in Vegas, baby, you just look for the showgirl. Sure enough, there she was, filling an archway with a peacock headdress and displaying a few miles of fishnet-encased leg. She handed me a glow-in-the-dark necklace as she told me to head up the escalator. When I got to the top, another sequined babe pointed the way to the Special Moments Room. A crowd had formed in front of a check-in table. I spotted Michael in the huddle, ensconced in a conversation with a woman I recognized. Jenna Bartolo, whose juice flows from her May-December marriage to a local casino mogul, serves with Michael on the board of the Alliance for the Homeless. She was decked out in a floor-length strapless scarlet dress studded with rhinestones. Bracing myself for a wordless but scathing appraisal of my cotton slacks and knit top, I took a step toward them. Fortunately, my brother saw me before I got any farther. He excused himself and crossed the floor to meet me.

“Hey! I thought you said this wasn’t black tie!” I said. My brother was wearing a tux.

“It isn’t. The suit I wanted to wear is at the cleaners.”

“Jenna Bartolo—”

“Jenna always dresses to kill. You know that.”

I glanced around the rest of the crowd. Only a few guys were wearing monkey suits, and there were plenty of people in outfits more like mine. Jenna really did stand out.

After Michael had procured our name badges, we headed into the Special Moments Room, which looked like it also served as a wedding chapel. One wall was covered in a mural featuring chubby cupids flitting past puffy clouds and floating rosebuds. I was still checking out the gazebo covered in plastic ivy when Michael handed me an orange card.

“Your Boneyard bus pass,” he said. “I’ve got some schmoozing to do up here, but they’re running shuttles every few minutes. Why don’t you go on over there while it’s still light?”

Sounded good to me. Old signs are photogenic any time of the day, but a desert sunset makes them positively enchanting. I immediately made my way back past the two feathered females and out to the curb. Joining a line of partygoers, I boarded a shiny black shuttle bus. When I stepped inside, there was exactly one seat left, on a four-person banquette facing the door. I plopped down next to a sixtyish blonde woman in a black silk shell and matching capris. She was balancing a Prada purse on her knees. My little backpack—even though it was made of leather—looked impossibly plebeian sitting next to it on my own knees, so I leaned forward and stuffed it behind my feet. As I straightened back up, I caught sight of my seatmate’s nametag.

Marilyn Weaver.

I knew that name. Taking another look at her face, I recognized the strong jawline and high forehead I’d seen in newspaper pictures. Marilyn Weaver was the founder of the Anna Roberts Parks Academy. A private prep school, it generated news stories whenever one of its students won an award, a celebrity gave it a big donation, or someone picked on it for being snobby. I always thought the allegations of elitism were slightly unfair because the school was known for giving full scholarships to students who couldn’t afford the tuition. On the other hand, the children of several Strip performers and high-end casino magnates, including Jenna Bartolo’s stepdaughter, went to school there. The campus—at least what you could see of it from the street—looked like a resort.

“I like your backpack,” Marilyn said.

“I like your purse,” I said.

“Birthday present,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve got a closet full of them. My husband doesn’t have much imagination in that department, and I seem to have birthdays every couple of months these days.”

The bus pulled out.

“Ever been to the Boneyard before?” Marilyn asked.

“My first time,” I said. “How about you?”

Marilyn laughed. “The signs are old, old friends. My husband’s on the board of the Neon Museum.”

“Oops,” I said as I connected a couple of mental dots. “I think I should have known that.”

“I don’t see why,” Marilyn said. “It’s not like he’s the mayor.”

“He’s Curtis Weaver, though, isn’t he?” I asked. “The architect who’s working on the new service center for the Alliance for the Homeless?” I knew about Curtis Weaver because my claim to volunteer fame is that I write the Alliance’s newsletter. I just never thought about who Mr. Weaver might be married to.

“Yes, that’s right,” Marilyn said. “Curt’s best intern has been working on their new building nonstop for the last six months. That site of theirs next to the wastewater treatment plant has been a real baptism by fire for the poor boy.” She turned to the young woman sitting next to her.

“This is my niece,” she said. “Charlene’s visiting from Montana.”

From her hat to her boots, Charlene looked like an ad for a dude ranch. She responded to my “Nice to meet you” with a husky “Howdy.” If I’d had only her voice to go by, I might well have assumed she was a guy. Charlene was definitely female, however. Her long dark hair flowed over her shoulders, and she was wearing bright red lipstick.

“Charlene’s in town for the cutting horse trials at the Silverado,” Marilyn said.

What the hell is a cutting horse? I wondered, but there was no way I’d ask. That’s what Google is for.

“Charlene’s the defending national champion.”

Charlene shot her aunt a disapproving look over the top of her glasses. “Don’t boast about me,” she said.

Marilyn chuckled and patted her knee. “Be proud of your accomplishments, honey,” she said. “I certainly am.”

Charlene looked away, and Marilyn turned toward me. “What do you do?”

“I work for the newspaper.”

Whether that registered with Charlene, I couldn’t tell, but it really got Marilyn’s attention. By the time we reached the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and McWilliams Avenue, she knew all about my gig at The Light. At first, I’d given her the “assistant editor” line, but she didn’t stop grilling me until she knew the truth about my lowly role.

“I’m serious about journalism, though,” I said as we climbed off the bus. “Right now I’m looking for a good topic for a freelance piece I can sell to a national magazine. It’s one of the reasons I came tonight.”

“The Boneyard’s definitely popular for that sort of thing,” Marilyn said as we crunched through the gravel along the chain link fence to the entrance, “but that’s why you might have trouble selling an article about it. Half a dozen photographers show up here every week, and all of them are writers or working with writers. You need a topic with less competition.”

As we walked past the first cluster of old signs, a tall string bean of a guy wearing a Neon Museum name badge rushed up.

“Marilyn! Is Curtis here?”

“No. He had a late meeting. He’s going directly to the El Sereno. If he doesn’t make it, I’m set to give his after-dinner remarks. He gave me his notes.”

“Okay,” the guy said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

Marilyn, Charlene, and I were standing in front of a twelve-foot yellow sign with the words “Gambling Hall” spelled out in red Western-style letters studded with empty lightbulb sockets. Rusty only around the edges, it looked more serviceable than some of the other signs standing and leaning nearby. “Mobil Park” read a faded blue one, and another touted a bygone all-you-can-eat buffet.

“I gotta go.” Charlene’s abrupt announcement broke the silence.

“Oh, honey, are you sure?” Marilyn said. “I thought you said you could stay for dinner.”

“Sorry. I’ve gotta get back for tonight’s exhibition round.”

Marilyn put her arm around Charlene’s shoulders. “See you tomorrow, then. I’ll be there at nine—for the semifinals.”

Charlene sauntered off toward the shuttle bus, her long dark hair concealing most of the artwork on the back of her black leather jacket. All I could make out was the bottom half of a big eagle with outstretched wings.

“Charlene’s the head wrangler at the Lazy B Ranch, which has been in our family for three generations. She’s a fabulous horsewoman, but she’s—well, she had a tough childhood.” She paused. I pulled out my camera.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea for you,” Marilyn said.

I snapped a picture.

“For a story,” she continued. “Do you know about the Anna Roberts Parks Academy?”

“Your school,” I said. “Yes. It sounds wonderful.”

“Yes, my school,” she said, “but I avoid calling it that because too many people think I own it. I don’t own it. It’s a nonprofit corporation. It owns itself.”

I took another picture, this time of a high-heeled shoe covered in peeling silver paint and burnt-out lightbulbs.

“That’s from the old Silver Slipper,” Marilyn said. “The story is that the slipper kept Howard Hughes awake at night in his rooms across the street at the Desert Inn, so he bought the place and took it down.”

“Nice to have the funds to solve all your problems,” I said.

“It would be even nicer if money really did fix everything.”

I snapped another frame and looked at Marilyn. I’d known her for less than half an hour, but it was easy to see that something was troubling her. Whatever it was, she shook it off.

“So, anyway, I was thinking you might like to do a story about the Parks Academy. This is our seventh year, and we’ll be graduating our first senior class. Twenty-six students. Three painters, one sculptor, six singers, four dancers, five musicians, four actors, one novelist, one filmmaker, and one poet-songwriter.”

She rattled it off so smoothly I had the feeling she could easily have gone on to provide me with complete résumés for each one.

“Several have a good shot at Juilliard,” she continued, “and some already have agents. One is doing ads for the Monaco—”

“Dressed as Marie Antoinette?” I’d just seen the Monaco’s new billboard near the airport.

“Yes, that’s Michaela Parrish. It’s a good contract for her. It’s already opened a few more doors.”

Marilyn pointed at a large rusty sculpture of a man holding a pool cue. “When he was at the Granada he had a sword and a Zorro mask,” she said. “Then he got moved to Lotsa Slots on Boulder Highway and turned into a pool hustler.”

I laughed, happy that I had a knowledgeable tour guide on my first visit to the Boneyard. Every sign had to have a story, and Marilyn probably knew them all. But even though the forest of aging neon was enthralling, I couldn’t help pausing to consider her suggestion. I’d driven by the Parks Academy several times. Surrounded by an ornate but impenetrable wrought iron fence, it wasn’t the sort of institution you could stroll through uninvited.

“Could I interview a few of your students?” I asked. “Maybe at several points during their senior year?” I could think of at least three local publications that might jump at a story about hometown kids shooting for the stars, and if I could latch onto a bigger angle, maybe I could get a major magazine interested.

“I’d be happy to arrange it,” Marilyn said. “With your background, you’ll understand what they’ll be going through.”

Along with my job description, Marilyn had elicited my academic credentials during the bus ride. I wasn’t sure that applying to Princeton was the same as trying to make it in Hollywood or Nashville, but if my Ivy League experience was getting me inside her citadel, I wasn’t going to argue.

“Why don’t you come to campus tomorrow afternoon? I’ll be there until four thirty or so. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“I could probably make it by three thirty,” I said, hoping my boss wouldn’t mind if I left early. “Would that be too late?”

“Not at all,” Marilyn said. “I can give you a quick tour. And even though it’s still summer vacation, you might meet a student or two.”

Back at the El Sereno, Michael spotted Marilyn and me as soon as we stepped inside the Special Moments Room.

“Marilyn!” he said, rushing to join us. “I’m so glad you’ve met Copper.”

“Not half as glad as I am,” Marilyn said. “She’s going to catapult the Parks Academy into national headlines.”

Michael arched an eyebrow at me, and I felt my ears warm.

“Marilyn’s invited me to interview members of the first graduating class at the Parks Academy,” I said. “It should make a wonderful story.”

“Have you seen Curtis?” Marilyn said, as a tall slender man in a linen jacket slipped out of the crowd and moved behind her. He smiled and winked at Michael, then put a finger to his lips. Then he snaked his hands around the sides of Marilyn’s head and covered her eyes. Marilyn yipped and jumped.

“Curt! You know how I hate that!” she said. But she was smiling as she turned to him, and he pecked her on the cheek.

“I’m glad you’re here, darling,” Marilyn said, smoothing her hair. “I wasn’t looking forward to being your understudy.”

“My meeting finished early, and I dropped by Kayla’s on my way over here.”

“Oh, God. You mean the old Nash house?” Marilyn said with a visible shudder. “Is it habitable?”

“Yup, Kayla moved in just before she left for Singapore last week,” Curtis said. “Michael, nice to see you.” They shook hands, and Curtis turned to me.

“Curt, this is Copper Black,” Marilyn said, preempting my brother. “Michael’s sister. She’s a journalist.”

“A privilege to meet a member of the press,” Curtis said as he bowed and brushed his lips across the back of my hand. I blushed. God, I love being called “the press.”

“It’s great to meet you,” I said. “And thanks for all your work on the Neon Museum.”

“It’s been a long haul,” Curtis said, “and there’ve been times I thought we’d never make it. But here we still are, and fortunately, so are the signs. Are you sticking around for the rubber chicken?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “I’m looking forward to your talk.”

Curtis beamed. He had a happy round face and a full head of sandy hair. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him the air of a jolly college professor.

Michael and I had scored seats at the head table because he was giving the invocation, and I silently thanked Charlene for cutting out early. Her empty chair meant that I could sit next to Curtis and continue our conversation.

As we waded through our overdressed salads and toyed with our coq au Michelin, he told me all about how he had grown up in western Massachusetts, gone to school in Los Angeles, worked in San Diego, and come to Las Vegas for a six-week project twelve years ago.

“I fell in love,” he said. “With a woman and a city.” It sounded like a well-rehearsed line, but Curtis seemed sincere.

“Enough about me,” he said. “Tell me all about you.”

And that began the conversation that made an already pleasant evening a truly smashing success. Not only did I visit the Boneyard and get an invitation to tour the Parks Academy, but by the time I had finished my last bite of polyethylene cheesecake, Curtis Weaver had set me up with a new place to live.