LITMIR.BIZ

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one Ed had needled me with: “Full Service Blondes,” “Barely Legal Asians,” “College Hardbodies in Short Skirts.”

      I called David Nussbaum, thanking God as I dialed that at least one of the reporters at The Light didn’t treat me like an inflatable doll.

      “David, this is Copper. I’ve got some questions about prostitution in Las Vegas. It’s illegal, right?”

      “Yeah, it’s illegal in Clark County. Why?”

      “Is it really, though? I mean, there are those trucks that drive up and down the Strip advertising ‘Girls direct to your room.’ And those guys who snap little cards at you on the sidewalk. And … well, I’m just flipping through the Yellow Pages, and the section under ‘Entertainers’ looks a lot like—”

      “Call girls.”

      “Yeah. ‘Discreet and Confidential.’ ‘Full Service.’”

      “The ads aren’t illegal, even though what they’re promoting is. What’s ironic is that the legal brothels over in Nye County can’t advertise like that, even though they pay taxes and follow all the rules. But why are you so interested in prostitution all of a sudden? Thinking of a career change? Tired of being Calendar Girl?”

      “Don’t start, David.” I told him about Ed Bramlett’s latest gambit.

      “Copper, there is nothing more threatening to an old reporter than young talent. He’s just jealous.”

      “Of the coffee chick whose assignments mostly involve chasing down lounge singers?”

      “Of youth. Of beauty. Of a degree from Princeton.”

      I was so glad David and I had Princeton in common, even though he graduated before I got there. I never fully appreciated the value of old school ties until I got this job. I was still an outsider, but at least there was somebody of the same species in a nearby cubicle.

      “Got any good plans for the weekend?” David asked.

      “I was thinking about driving up to Zion tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve never been.”

      “It’s really beautiful with snow on the ground. Have fun.”

      “How about you?” I asked.

      “Working.”

      I really had nothing to complain about. Coffee-bearing Calendar Girls don’t have to work on weekends.

      I finished my lunch in my cubicle. David said Ed Bramlett would count it as a victory, but I figured screw the old goat. He didn’t seem to have the vaguest inkling that I could nail him with a sexual harassment suit, and he was lucky I didn’t come to Vegas gunning for sexist pigs. I knew I had to be tough to make it in journalism. I stayed in my cubicle so I could get some work done. I didn’t have time to waste sparring with a leathery old misogynist.

      Chapter 2

      Monday, December 12

      David was right about Zion. It was fantastic, fully deserving of its National Park status. I hiked the Riverside Walk and made it back to my car just in time to see the sun set on a huge red-rock formation called the Temple of Sinawava. The only thing that could have made my day better was if the man who held the keys to my heart had been there with me.

      Daniel Garside was the one person who could have kept me on the East Coast. When he got an internship at the National Arboretum after college, I tried to find a job in Washington, D.C. New York was the closest I could get, which at least allowed us to spend a lot of weekends together. I figured we’d find a way to live together once he decided on a graduate school, but then he got a Wilberforce Fellowship and flew off to Costa Rica to study tropical mistletoe. We talked almost every day, but I hadn’t seen him in the flesh since February. The countdown to Christmas seemed interminable, but somehow I had to make it through another twelve days.

      I had breakfast in the house with my sister-in-law before we both went to work. We watched The Morning Show while we ate. Kathie Pitchford was interviewing a woman named Victoria McKimber. Even though Victoria looked like she was on the wrong side of forty, she had masses of curly platinum blonde hair. It had to be a wig, although her fair skin and blue eyes made me wonder if it might be real. Then again, maybe the fair skin and blue eyes were fake, too. Anyway, she was wearing a tight, low-cut knit top that showed off a pair of casabas that were either very expensive or a sure sign God loved her.

      “When you entered American Beauty’s Queen of Sales contest, did you tell American Beauty the true nature of your profession?” Kathie asked.

      “No,” Victoria replied, “and they didn’t ask. The contest was open to active distributors of American Beauty products, which I have been for the last ten years.”

      “So you didn’t tell them you work for—”

      “That I’m a prostitute? No. There was no reason. Prostitution is legal where I work in Nevada.”

      “She’s a hooker,” Sierra said, her mouth full of cinnamon toast. “I knew it. Although she’s farther over the hill than most.”

      “How do you know?” I asked, though I wasn’t surprised she did. My sister-in-law had been my main source of information about Nevada culture ever since she and my brother invited me to move into the apartment over their garage.

      Sierra’s a native. She even worked as an “exotic dancer” after she graduated from Bonanza High School. That’s a secret, though, at least as far as my parents are concerned. Sierra’s convinced they’d die of blue-blooded shock if they knew their son was married to a woman who used to give lap dances. She’s probably right. They have a hard enough time telling their Fairfield County friends that both of their children live in Las Vegas—by choice!

      “Oh, come on, Copper, look at her. She’s closing in on fifty. Most of them are your age—mine at the outside.” Sierra turned thirty-two on Halloween.

      We kept watching as Kathie elicited all the details of Victoria McKimber’s rise to Sales Queen fame. She’d won local and regional contests before heading for Kansas City, where a few days ago she beat out a dozen other American Beauty distributors to win a tiara, a pink Impala, and a year-long contract to star in American Beauty’s television commercials.

      And now, American Beauty was going to take it all away. Accusing Victoria of concealing information that she knew would damage the company’s reputation, American Beauty’s top brass had rescinded her crown, cancelled the Chevy, and torn up the contract.

      “When I revealed my profession at the first pageant, they were horrified, but they hoped I’d lose the regional competition and just disappear,” Victoria told Kathie. “They were total jerks about it. And then I won, so they threatened to take away my distributorship.”

      “And that’s when you hired an attorney?” Kathie asked.

      “Yeah, I got a lawyer interested,” Victoria said, “and she told them to go pound sand. But now that I’ve won the crown, they’re freaked about one little ol’ working girl—” She paused, looked straight at the camera, and shook her mass of blonde curls. With a smile, she went on. “They think I’m out to destroy their brand, so they’re pulling out the big guns. But I’m not going down without a fight. This is the United States of America, and I’ve done nothing illegal.”

      “Oh, my God,” I said, looking at my watch. “I’m late for work.”

      The one very bad thing about having to bring morning coffee for your boss is that he always knows if you’re late. Fortunately, Chris Farr was even later than I was, and his latte was cooling on his desk by the time he arrived.

      I was on the phone with a publicist from the Golden Sands when David Nussbaum appeared at my desk.

      “Yes,” I was saying, “I got the press release on Friday, and it’ll be in this week’s Dazzle section.” I hung up. “The Golden Sands is having open tryouts for a new Golden Girl.”

      “You

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