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“They think your sister is very, very talented. They love her Diana. But they want something bigger. Flashier. They’re envisioning a cabaret about the royals—all of ’em, Diana and Meghan and Harry—with lots of impersonators of English pop stars from a different era. That whole British Invasion thing. Like when the Beatles and the Rolling Stones came to America in the 1960s. I mean, maybe we’ll even go as far as the 1980s. You know, not just the 1960s. Imagine a Sex Pistols cover band doing ‘God Save the Queen,’ while our pretend Elizabeth gets all jiggy,” he went on, strumming an air guitar frenetically. “It would be the royals and British cover bands. It’s still confidential. And it’s far from definite and the show is in the earliest stages. Not even written yet. Obviously. But they do have a couple of writers in mind. And there are other options.”
“Such as?”
“Maybe we bring in the Diana musical. A touring production.”
“A lot of super tight chorus girls singing that ‘Fuckity, Fuckity, Fuckity, Fuck You Dress’ number?”
He looked confused.
“That’s a song in the musical,” she explained. She was feeling unexpectedly protective of her sister.
“You’re kidding!”
“I’m not.”
“Wow. Crazy.”
“I assume you’ll keep the casino’s name and theme, if that’s the plan,” she went on. “I mean, the Buckingham Palace is the perfect place for Crissy’s show—or that bigger show.”
“We’ll see. Entertainment doesn’t drive a casino. It’s always just the icing. Maybe it will be called the Futurium Buckingham Palace.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“I’m not a writer,” he said. “But Futurium will be in the name—it is, after all, the brand—and your sister’s casino fits the bill. It has four hundred rooms, and it’s a little down-at-the-heels—but not too shabby. It’s a place that’s definitely seen better days, but it’s not like the sheets on the beds are a biohazard. And, of course, it’s going cheap since the owners offed themselves.”
She nodded. She’d heard in the newspaper that when Richie Morley had put a bullet into his head inside his Jag, the vehicle had fifty-four monthly payments left. “People say they killed themselves because the casino was in financial trouble. That true?”
“It is. So, we’re doing your sister a favor.”
“A favor,” she repeated.
“Anyway,” he went on, “we’re going to renovate the place and turn it into something pretty interesting: a full-on, no-holds-barred, bricks-and-mortar crypto casino. It will be the mecca for on-site crypto gambling. It may not be the Maenads, which I can’t wait to show you. But it’s not supposed to be. Still, it will be glorious, baby, glorious,” he said, and she couldn’t recall if he had ever before called her baby. Were his vocabulary and language mutating, too—like Crissy’s—but instead of becoming British, they were becoming…mobster? Did Vegas cast its spell differently on different people? “We’ll have good restaurants, not the usual Vegas mediocrity, and, of course, a lot of talent in the showroom. We’re hoping to announce it all in a few days.”
“What if my sister doesn’t want to be a role player in this bigger production? She’s currently the star of her own show.”
“I thought there were no small parts? Only small actors?” he asked.
“She’s a diva, Frankie. You know that.”
“If she balks, you step in. You’d be fine. You look like Diana. Wouldn’t have to do much. No reason Diana even has to sing.”
“You’re making this wild assumption that’s something I’d want to do.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
She shook her head, and she could see that she’d taken a little helium from his balloon. He was disappointed, but something more, too, an eddy in the air she could feel in her small corner of the warehouse. Was he frustrated that she was ungrateful or frightened that her reluctance would get him in trouble? He looked around her cubicle and murmured, his tone incredulous, “But you can’t want this. I know you see more to your life than being a…a secretary.”
“Why are you dismissive of secretaries? There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary.”
“I bet there could be a crypto bonus in the offing if you did this. Guys like Tony Lombardo and Oliver Davies would be jazzed.”
“Oliver? The one who met the real Princess Diana in Russia?”
He nodded. “Practically lives at the Maenads.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him. She was growing more and more uncomfortable with his desire to have her, rather than her sister, impersonate Diana. “I have zero interest.”
He brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. It was clear there was more to this than some innocent but misguided aspiration to Citizen Kane her onto the stage. So, she was at once surprised and relieved when he said, finally, “Okay, I hear you.”
