Getting Off On Frank Sinatra. Megan Edwards
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