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But he seemed fine, at least on the surface.
On the other hand, I watched Frankie’s countenance transform from one of backstage bonhomie and good cheer to the face of that passenger in the exit row of a jet who’s just been told by the flight attendant that they’re going to ditch in the Atlantic and be ready to assist in the evacuation.
“But you’ll think about it, right—for Tony and his friend? For Oliver Davies?” Frankie said to me.
“I doubt it,” I told him, hoping my tone exuded an equanimity I wasn’t feeling.
“That’s cool,” Tony said. “Let it go, Frankie.” Then he looked at a text on his phone and added, “Why don’t you take the girls home and meet me at the Bellagio? If I’m going to lose some money tonight, I’d like to lose it at a place where I won’t be sitting next to a bunch of fist-pumping, GTL locals.”
Locals was dismissive enough. But GTL was new to me. So, I asked.
“Gym-tan-laundry,” he said. “It seems to me, you have two crowds here at the BP, Crissy. The old folk tourists who come and see you, and the younger locals who come here to gamble, but don’t bother to shower after the gym.”
Well, so much for his aplomb in the face of my rejection. His condescension didn’t merely infuriate or embarrass me: it broke my heart. The Buckingham Palace wasn’t the Bellagio, but there were lesser casinos, and I felt a loyalty to the people who came to the BP. I looked at my niece, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking or whether she had read the room and understood what had just happened. Betsy’s face, however, was sympathetic, and I could see in her eyes that she felt bad for me. Despite all the dark, sad history between us, she didn’t want to see me humiliated.
“So, Frankie: text me when you’re there. I’ll be playing poker,” Tony added. “I feel I got a heater coming tonight.”
“You bet, Tony,” Frankie said. “On it.”
Then Tony gave me a small bow, thanked me for a “solid” show, and left me alone with my niece, my sister, and her bounder of a boyfriend. The silence was awkward but brief, because Frankie needed to get Betsy and Marisa back to their apartment and then reconnect with the man who, it was evident, was a boss who expected absolute fealty. My sister’s boyfriend was so obsequious that his reaction gave me a chill that Tony’s words hadn’t, and the gloaming of my soul only grew worse.
I always knew grown-ups could be dangerous. I told you, I had foster parents go bitchcakes over nothing, and a lot of them had guns. And the Futurium people? Those were some scary freaks.
But they sure spent money. And the first time I was hanging out at a place like the Versailles? I got it. I understood why they made fun of the Buckingham Palace—which, until I saw the Versailles, I thought was pretty nice.
But a casino like the Versailles is way more elegant than the BP. I went online to get the costs of rooms at the BP and the Versailles and compared the restaurants and showrooms, and you could spend a week at the BP for the same price as two nights at the Versailles.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Betsy
Betsy knew that Tony Lombardo had offended her sister when they had gone backstage to her dressing room. What she couldn’t decide was whether her sister understood that she was playing with fire when she said she wouldn’t perform for Futurium. Crissy had never been especially circumspect: the woman wore some of her emotions on her sleeve (which might have been why she was such a good actor), but she also entombed others in cerebral catacombs so extensive that no shrink would ever exhume them (which also might have explained her prowess channeling the wounded and scarred). When Frankie was driving Marisa and her home after the show, despite the fact her daughter was in the back seat, Betsy asked him, her tone as casual as she could make it, “What was that about? Tony’s whole would-you-do-a-show-for-Futurium thing?”
“Just an idea. I guess his pal Oliver Davies met the real Diana. It was spontaneous. He’s like that.”
“Is he pissed off?”
“At least a little, yeah. I’ll find out in a few minutes when I catch up with him at the Bellagio.”
“Is Crissy in trouble?”
“Doubt it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not really. You don’t fuck with Tony Lombardo. People in Vegas are already figuring that out.”
“He’s not a pussycat like Rory O’Hara?”
“Remember, I said Rory was a pussycat with a vicious streak. Like Tony, he’s Mastaba. Even pussycats have claws. You ever see a cat with a mouse?”
“What did Tony have in mind?”
“I don’t think he had anything in mind. He liked your sister’s show and thought it might be something fun for Oliver. He’s very generous. He was offering to bring her to Grand Cayman, for God’s sake.”
“For Futurium. For some crypto robber baron.”
He shrugged. “He was thinking of his friend.”
