Virtual Virgin

organize the troops and arrange for a car to pick you up at seven thirty.”

“Dolly’s all bathed and polished, you said—”

“A lady does not drive herself.”

He was gone before I could set him straight on that. My head was whirling. Food. That’s right. I sleepwalked through the front parlor, past the high-tech office/home theater to the kitchen.

Where Quicksilver was wolfing down the last of the sliders and fries.

“Quick!”

The microwave tinged. A heavenly scent of beef bourguignon filled the air. I got it. The fast food had gone cold. I took out a savory, steaming dish and headed, salivating, for the kitchen table.

A martini in a chilled glass sat beside my empty place with the sterling silver tableware.

Apparently the kitchen witch had undergone a change of menu.

My cell phone rang. I couldn’t remember where I’d left it, but Quick dashed out of the room and returned with it in his mouth, smiling around the case.

“Uh, thanks.” I eyed the screen. Ric? Ric!

“I just got this crazy-assed invitation,” he began.

“Me too. Who brought yours?”

“I’m going to sound like I’m hallucinating. A little green man.”

“Did he wear silver sandals and have hairy hammertoes?”

“I don’t check out feet and shoes first, Del. He was some kind of benign troll with rubbery green skin, in matching lederhosen.”

“That’s Mercury Express, Homegrown Delivery Service. A lot of the Strip joints use them around town.” And one in particular from my previous experience.

“You mean enterprises on the Strip.”

“That’s what I said. I’m still tired as hell, but I’m also as curious as hell.”

“You game? I haven’t gotten my tux out in year.”

“You own a tux?”

“Yeah. Business reasons.”

“I love men in tuxes.”

“Down, chica. I am not the Godfrey type. No little bow ties playing peekaboo under my five-o-clock shadow. It’s more actors at the Oscars style. Regular tie, a little black satin here and there.”

“Like your sheets. Yum. Oh, and don’t shave off all that bandito beard-growth you cultivated in Mexico.”

“So you’re into black satin and beard burns, huh?”

“No comment. It’s just . . . we deserve to put on the Ritz. Celebrate being alive. Find out what Snow’s up to. This sounds like a mega-event.”

“Like the Oscars. We haven’t had a real night out for a while. You deserve to dazzle the Strip, amor.

“Anyway, my Godfrey is sending a car for us.”

“So the night’s on Nightwine and Christophe. Sweet. Bring on the spice.”

I put down the phone and dug into dinner. It was delicious. I could hear the spa bubbling upstairs and took my martini glass with me. When I walked into the bedroom, my ruby red slippers from Emerald City Hotel and Casino in Wichita were sitting under the wall-mounted clothes rack, from which hung the scarlet silk velvet Nora Charles gown that was a prize of the city’s estate sales, like Dolly.

I dropped off Betty Boop on my bedroom floor on my way to the bathroom.

IF YOU’VE EVER seen the Disney Cinderella—and what girl child hasn’t, even me in a group home—that’s how everything went. I bubbled, I showered and washed my hair, I blow-dried it, I put on party makeup . . . for me just eye shadow and lip gloss and . . . dazzle dust here and there, but I didn’t do it.

Maybe invisible little birds did it with their tiny beaks and tiny wings, maybe bluebirds that fly over the rainbow, but the blow-dryer magically put every hair in its fluffiest, shiniest place. The lip gloss wand rolled into my hand in a prechosen color. Ravaging Red, I saw when I looked. The clear mascara skated onto my naturally black eyelashes and shaped my eyebrows as if they’d been plucked by Kevyn Aucoin to look just like Elizabeth Taylor in her prime. It was a reality TV fantasy.

The red sequined slippers fit perfectly, and I even got a matching Snow White headband with the stubby little bow at the top. Cutesy, but so classic. And on my dresser top, another estate-sale prize, the familiar going red carpet as a small rhinestone-covered nineteen-thirties bag just the right size for my cell phone, credit card, driver’s license, lip gloss, and forty bucks to see me through any transportation emergency if my date acted up. As I hoped he would.

I checked my gown out in the mirror, red, yes, with full sweeping sleeves and long, rhinestoned cuffs at the wrist. No watch. A high-collared neck and long, trumpet skirt. Discreet slits from shoulder to cuff and nape to waist, but otherwise as modest as a nun’s habit.

What was this? Maybe Group Home Girl finally free of her past and slaloming Olympic-style headfirst into her future. Heigh-ho the evil demon is dead. Ric is free and I am home free.

I tripped down the stairs (you can do that only in Disney movies) and ran to the front door, where a man in a chauffeur’s cap waited like Godfrey.

The Lincoln Town Car also awaited, the discreet celebrity choice. Godfrey would never endorse the ostentation of a limo.

Ric was waiting inside.

“Hombre,” I said, “you rock me,” as I sank into the backseat and his arms.

And we were off to see the wizard and his mysterious unveiling. Maybe he’d even reveal just what kind of supernatural he was.

Chapter Thirty-six

“I’M IMPRESSED,” RIC said.

“By what?”

“You know just where the penthouse elevator is at the Inferno. I had to hunt it up.”

“But you’d used the Nine Circles of Hell elevators when I caught up with you.”

“Before that, I mean,” he explained, “when I checked out Christophe’s personal setup before I investigated his entertainment section.”

“It’s good you’ve at last had a chat with him, man to man. Or whatever he is.”

“He does play the mystery card, doesn’t he?”

“So you went from the penthouse to the Lust level? Anything he said?”

“I visited the Inferno Bar too, to check with Godfrey’s alter ego, Nick Charles, and company. That Asta is cute, not to mention Nora, but Quicksilver, of course, is Serious Dog.”

“You are the thorough investigator. We’d better plan for a second act tonight,” I told him as the elevator arrived and swallowed us up. “This announcement and celebration is scheduled for the break Snow has between evening stage shows. It’s just a stop before we move on elsewhere to party hard.”

“Okay. Time to flaunt our fine feathers and for some bubbly and a toast to the latest Christophe triumph, and we’re off to where . . . ? The Venetian?”

I nodded happily.

“I’m not moving in with Christophe,” Ric whispered in my ear. “Trust me.”

“One thing about that facedown in the desert. What does El Finado mean?”

“What?” Ric mocked. “You’re not keeping up with your Spanish dictionary?”

“El Demonio’s real men, the actual human vermin, were chanting that as they perished.”

“Did they? I was in my own Zen place then. They must have gotten the gender wrong. You know Spanish has masculine and feminine words.”