Marcy was dressed in a shimmering gold slip dress. She looked so beautiful that Edie wanted to cry.
But Marcy also looked terribly subdued.
Edie’s conscience was biting at her. She loved this girl so much, maybe more than any of her children (was that possible?), and feared she was about to ruin her life. “Marcy?” Her granddaughter looked at her, and Edie was reminded of the little girl running down the garden path in sunlight. She had followed Edie around with her plastic scissors, pretending to deadhead plants with her. Edie shook herself from the memory. “You don’t have to do this. You can walk away right now.”
Marcy gave her a quick roll of her eyes and turned her attention back to the mirror. “You never let us quit anything, and you want me to start now?”
Edie didn’t know what she wanted, quite honestly. They needed Marcy … but Marcy certainly did not need them. “What I don’t want is for anything to happen to you. Emotional, physical, or legal harm. Nothing.”
“I’m fine, Nana. Like I told you in the beginning, this is my fight.”
“But you don’t have to fight like we do, darling. You don’t have to fight at all. You’ve been wonderful, but I’m not sure you really—”
“I’mfine. Can you help me with this?” She held up her earpiece.
Edie helped her seat it behind her earring. “I’ll be on the floor below,” she said. “There’s a small bar there.”
“The Emperor’s Lounge,” Marcy said. “I know.”
“What if you get in trouble?” Edie asked. “What are you going to do?”
Marcy shrugged. “Get myself out of it, I guess.”
That sounded like something Edie herself would have said fifty years ago. But she didn’t have any faith that Marcy could get herself out of it. The problem, she too slowly had begun to realize, was that Marcy hadn’t been properly trained.
Marcy picked up her evening bag.
Was it too late? “You have everything?” Edie asked nervously.
Marcy opened her bag and showed her the capsule of Joan’s concoction. Part sedative, part mushroom or something. Marcy closed the bag. “I guess I’ll see you later.” She quit the room without looking back.
Edie’s heart left her chest and followed Marcy out the door. She felt sick. Almost dizzy with regret. But the wheels, as they say, had been set in motion.
A half hour later, dressed in a red wig, a ball cap, and a tracksuit, she followed her granddaughter. She looked like she was on the way to the betting track, because Irene had told her they had closed-caption racing in the Emperor’s Lounge.
Once there, Edie ordered a club soda and lime and took it out onto the bar’s small patio with its view of the Strip below. She looked up, craning her neck to see the windows of the penthouse. She saw windows, but she wasn’t entirely sure they were the right ones. She took a sip of her drink, then tapped the tiny button on her sleeve to activate the mic and earpiece.
She heard Rocco first, his voice cutting in and out as if he was moving in and out of range. And then quite suddenly, she heard him clearly. He was talking about some expensive thing he’d bought for a song. “Got it cheap,” he said.
“That’s so cool,” Marcy said.
“Is there a man on the planet who doesn’t brag?” Edie muttered. More to let Marcy know she was here, but also, was there?
“No,” Marcy said, her voice calm and clear. “But thank you. I’m fine with the champagne. Gosh, the view is amazing, Rocco.” Marcy’s mic picked up the sound of her dress rustling as she moved.
“I’ve been waiting to show you this,” he said. “You can’t get views like this at the Bellagio. The Pelican is old style, you know? Like the days when the Rat Pack was king. All our views are sick.”
“The what?” Marcy asked.
Edie closed her eyes on a silent groan.
“The Rat Pack. You know, Frank Sinatra? Sammy Davis Jr.?”
Marcy didn’t respond.
“No way you don’t know them? Dean Martin, Joey Bishop, Peter Lawford. They were dope, man. Guy’s guys. The original party animals.”
“I’ve heard of Frank Sinatra,” Marcy said sweetly.
