Madam Zira & the Henderson Affair

"Sorry I couldn't set up shop there," Rolf said; "Sounds like I might have actually sold a tape or two."

"I think you would have done quite well there," I responded after a long drag of my Marlboro, wanting time to think before speaking.

Rolf smiled. "Audiomysteries are a dime a dozen at the big cons, even the small ones."

"Then why do you bother?" I sincerely questioned, snuffing out the cigarette and facing him.

He smiled slightly, those dark eyes twinkling.

"Ah, gives me something to do in my spare time. Just a hobby. Tons of stories to tell, but no one seems to want to hear them."

"Well what is it you do when you are not on the road selling stories you say no one wants to hear?"

Rolf Henderson's smile was dazzling, and I knew then I was in trouble.

"Seducing lovely women," he half-whispered as he bent toward me, "and giving them a taste of magic."

I was not amused. Then again, I was. But he'd not answered the question as truthfully as I knew he could and should.

Bubbles moved up in front of us from her side of the counter and interrupted with a rather loud exclamation –

"Where's your sweet little convertible, honey?" she asked Rolf with a wink. "Give it to one of your other girlfriends?"

I watched Rolf wink at her with that shit-eating yet nonetheless effectively charming grin and reply –

"It's in the shop. But I'll take you for a ride next time I come by."

Bubbles giggled…which for a woman of her age and proportion was almost uncomfortable to witness. Especially when elicited from a man of Rolf Henderson's low caliber.

"Anytime, honey," she smiled and moved off to wait on a small booth in the south corner of the diner – yet not before refreshing Rolf's coffee cup and ignoring mine. Bubbles the Waitress had just lost her tip.

It was nearing 10:00 PM. I had been ready to get back on the road for 15 minutes before Rolf had shown up; but his sudden appearance had obviously delayed that.

His next words were not totally unexpected. The set-up for them seemed brilliantly executed.

"So, you heading for Vegas?" he asked.

I think he could see my shoulders sink in defeat. I had no choice. I knew that. I had to see this to its conclusion. I did not want to, but knew I had to. It had been transpiring all summer. Whatever it's wonderful or purposeless conclusion, I wanted it concluded.

"Yes, just on my way out," I told him as I reached for the small handbag I'd set on the counter next to me to keep an eye on. It only contained about $100, but it was $100 I needed very much.

"Got a proposition for you then," Rolf said with a chuckle in his voice, attempting to be disarming I'm sure but it came across as almost imperious and knowing. I hated it.

I stared at him, unsmiling.

"How about I pay for filling up the Winnie, and you give me a lift into town?"

"Why should I?" I asked, no doubt the subtle irritation and anger in my voice tangible. Edie Rosenberg did not like to play games, and this one had gone on long enough. Even if she knew it was a game she had not entered willingly but knew she would have to play out. And hopefully, come out the winner.

Rolf didn't answer. He was putting the pack of cigarettes back into his tan trenchcoat and tossing a $20 bill on the counter between our plates. Not only was this the first time I'd wondered why he was wearing a coat in the middle of the hot Nevada desert, but I also wondered if he were paying for my meal as further enticement for the ride. I was not fooled, however. Simply, how had he gotten to this diner if he'd had no 'sweet little convertible' to drive?

Actually, I didn't really care.

"Bubbles, honey," Rolf was now calling, waving her over. He pointed down to the single bill on the counter.

"This is for me and the lady," he told her.

"And you keep the rest, sweetheart."

Bubbles smiled and this time kept her cool, as I'd no doubt was not too difficult for a woman such as her. A desert diner waitress probably knew a dozen Rolf Hendersons. She was probably my age – or just a little younger – and knew when he'd paid for my dinner that she had been excluded from any type of after-hours rendezvous. What impressed me was that she had the dignity to visibly shrug it off. Suddenly I felt if Rolf had not been paying my tab I would have revised my previous decision and left her a generous tip. I liked her moxie. In essence, I saw myself standing there in that garish pink uniform, stained apron and silly paper hat. Trying to survive in this harsh, remote wilderness without anyone to share the burden.

Bubbles merely nodded with a professional yet subtle, understanding smile.

"Thanks honey," she chomped her chewing gum and winked. "Have a good one."

"And, take it easy in Vegas," she added, addressing me; "Don't play the craps tables…and don't take any crap off this guy," she pointed her dulled pencil at Rolf.

Rolf laughed and reached out to grab Bubble's hand and kiss it.

"Don't you be taking any crap of the crap that comes in here wanting your body!"

Bubbles shuffled a bit with a somewhat Mae West attitude, I think once again finding her self-confidence.

"Now would I do that, sweetheart? You know me," she told him with a mix of sexual purr and no-nonsense dominance.

Rolf was standing up; he let go of her hand and smiled.

"Naw, not you honey. I'm just at the back of the line for you, trying to move up a space or two."

Rolf took my arm as we moved from the counter. I merely listened to this exchange in curious fascination.

"Take me for another ride in that convertible of yours, honey, "she called as we moved toward the door; "You'd move right to the front of the line!"

Bubbles was pouring coffee for a new patron as Rolf called back, his hand on the bar of the door –

"See you, Bubbles. Keep the cherry pie warm for me."

Bubbles the Waitress glanced up and blew a bubble with her gum –

"Cherry pie always served up hot and juicy here for you, honey."

She went back to pouring coffee. Her sledgehammer innuendo certainly far from unreadable, it also was helplessly humorous. Even living in New York most of my life and having dealt with waitresses such as Bubbles, I'd never quite experienced her sort of demeanor. I had to admit I admired her. And ultimately, I was glad Rolf had left her a hefty tip. She deserved it. Merely if just for surviving in this remote outpost. And the meatloaf – though she did not cook it – was excellent.

***********************

Rolf Henderson sat beside me as I drove into the blackness of the Nevada desert. There seemed a fuzzy haze of light in the distance, but with my aging eyesight I was not sure if it was Las Vegas or just a smudge on my driving glasses.

He was silent. I was silent. I was now too tired to care.

I saw him reaching for the radio tape player in the huge dash of the Winnie; I had tuned in an all-talk station. They'd been discussing how to play the tables at Vegas, which I thought important if I decided to. I had never been a conventional gambler, but I had to smile at the thought of myself driving in the desert with a stranger with whom I'd only had illicit sex and little else;

headed to a town full of vice and sin. So much for me not being a gambler…

Rolf pushed in the tape already in the player and in moments out of the deadly silence Elvis and "Viva Las Vegas" began to blare through the Winnebago.

I had to smile. Rolf's timing was too perfect. Just as the music started I had driven past a rather dense bunker of dunes, and as I moved the Winnie out of it the brilliant lights of Las Vegas were suddenly overwhelming in the near distance.

It told me he knew this road quite well. But again, I didn't care. I was resolved to all of this. Frankly I was grateful for the company, whether or not we did end up going to bed together that night. The meal at the diner had been good and the arrival of Rolf somehow comforting. The drive had been very long and I was dead-tired. I knew that shouldn't have caused me to let my guard down, but it did. I just wanted to make it to town and sleep. Either in the Winnie or a cheap motel room. With or without Rolf. Didn't matter.

The loud, garish song did wake me up a bit though. I was actually becoming fond of it. I'd always loved music, but never much of an Elvis fan. But this song now held a bit of significance, as I felt every song should. And I now appreciated it. I would always hear it with great fondness, no matter what happened once I'd left Las Vegas.

I had seen photos of 'the Strip', but driving down it after sunset in a huge Winnebago with Elvis blaring on the tape deck gave me great delight I could not hide. I began to sing with the tape.

And I felt Rolf's hand on my arm – "You go, Edie. Sing it baby!" he cheerfully exclaimed.

I laughed, and felt a second wind of renewed energy come over me. It were as if being in the middle of this town took away all of my tiredness, my hesitation about Rolf. Then again, maybe it was the 200% caffeinated coffee Bubbles had given me finally kicking in. Whatever the case, I felt rejuvenated. I had finally made it to Vegas. Harry must have been laughing at me from above.

"So, where to?" I finally asked Rolf as the song ended.

"Hmmm…up to you," he responded after a long moment of silence.

"You are now in the city that never sleeps. Anything you could want is here," he turned and looked at me with a strange smile; "Anything…"

I knew what he meant. Or so I thought. I gave him a wary glance that expressed my thought loud and clear. Rolf laughed.

Well, there's always gambling, stage shows, bars, strip joints – name your pleasure."

I noticed he'd mentioned gambling first. I still had a nagging suspicion his whole con was to gamble my money away. And I knew it was simply not going to happen.

My previous lighthearted mood faded quickly.

"I'm here for the convention," I told him in a matter-of-fact tone; "I think I'll skip the frivolities and stick to business. Anywhere I can drop you off?" I added without looking at him, keeping my eyes on the congested boulevard. Pedestrians took no thought of walking right out into the street in front of the oncoming traffic. Braking a Winnebago was not an easy thing, so it was slow going and somewhat hazardous. I did not want to remember Vegas as the place I'd been convicted of vehicular homicide; nor did I want to see Vegas from the barred windows of a woman's prison. While I was curious to see Rolf's expression, I had to keep my eyes on the road.

There was silence from the passenger's side. I'd hoped it was a sign I'd caught him off his guard. I'd kept my end of the deal. I'd given him a lift into Vegas. We were in Vegas. I knew this was not the end of it, but if I could I was going to attempt to wrangle the lead from him.

But the silence from Rolf was short-lived.

"I have a room booked at Caesar's," came his casual reply; "It's up on the next corner here."

I glanced to where he quickly pointed and saw the famed Caesar's Palace hotel marquis in the near distance. In bright red letters I could see written upon it:

"Proud to Present…LIZA!"

And underneath in somewhat smaller blue lettering:

"Accompanied by the great BURT BACHARACH and a full 30 piece orchestra".

I almost laughed but bit my lip. This must be the 'slow season' for Vegas if Liza Minnelli and Burt Bacharach were heralded so grandly by the Strip. No doubt my contemporaries would be in full force within the grand ballroom of Ceasar's…white haired wealthy Jewish women wearing mink stoles and formal gowns in the middle of a 110-degree desert oassis, accompanied by their short bald husbands in powder blue tuxedos. The thought actually made me glad I was an aging but still-vibrant gypsy exploring the backroads of America. Of course, if Harry were still alive I would have no doubt loved being in Vegas with him. And here I was, sitting next to a virtual stranger with strange motives I had yet to fully understand.

Rolf was still speaking –

"Would you care to join me for a nightcap before you find a place to park your 'caravan' for the night?"

I glanced over at him as the Winnie entered Ceasar's huge parking lot and I slowly maneuvered it into the large parking spot reserved for RVs. No valet parking for the trailer trash crowd.

I tried to sound light as I answered –

"No thanks. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow to set up for the convention."

Rolf was smiling, and even in the dim light I could see his dark eyes twinkling at me.

"Aw, come on, Edie," he encouraged; "One drink won't hurt. And I promise, just one drink. That's all," he added as if he knew I assumed he desired more. Which is exactly what I instantly assumed by his invitation for a drink.

I heard myself audibly sigh in my mental conflict and indecision. And Rolf Henderson was quick to pick up on it and begin working on bending my will. As I looked at him beside me – glittering brown eyes, thick dark hair and that sensual nose – I instantly knew he wouldn't have to do much work to convince me. Something about him was irresistible to me. And the harder I tried to fight it the weaker I became to his charm and unaffected charisma.

His voice was softer now as he bent toward me, like a patient yet determined parent trying to coax a trepid child into the Doctor's office.

"Have you ever been to Vegas before, Edie?" he asked me in a very seductive voice.

"No, I haven't," I heard myself quietly reply, almost hypnotized by his gaze and the deep tone of his voice.

"Then you must see the inside of Ceasar's Palace before you leave Vegas. I promise you, it is nothing like you've ever seen in your life."

Rolf reached over and took my hand from the steering wheel, and held it carefully between his two hands. We both knew exactly what he was doing; and again I realized there was no reason to resist. I had to admit it was the real reason I had come to Las Vegas. I saw now it was where I was truly destined for all summer.

"Please, say you will have a drink with me."

I nodded silently and smiled back at him, allowing myself to completely become lost in his gaze, his smile, and his tremendously powerful aura.

*************

I was old and experienced enough to know better than to be charmed by Rolf Henderson and the high gloss splendor of Vegas' world-renown hotel Ceasar's Palace. But I was exhausted from the drive and exhausted by Rolf's enigmatic pursuit of me across the country this summer.

And when he'd suggested we have that 'nightcap' in his hotel room, I also should have known better than to accompany him. However, that was the wary woman from New York inside me. Always on guard. Suspicious of strangers. A one night stand in Cincinnati with Rolf was one thing; to now months later find myself with him again in a Vegas hotel room sipping complimentary champagne – and not the cheap stuff – was entirely another matter.

Nevertheless, I was glad to be away from the constant motion of the road and sitting still and comfortable in a large overstuffed chair in this heavily air-cooled room on the 31st floor of Ceasar's. I kicked off my worn white leather loafers and wiggled my toes in the plush ruby red carpet. It felt soft and cool to my tired feet, and the champagne was starting to hit me.

Rolf had been right. Ceasar's Palace was unlike anything I had ever seen. And I'd seen a great deal in my 60 years. Even past midnight this huge complex was teeming with people – tourists, guests, employees and entertainers. Slot machines were around every corner amid the potted palms, huge Roman statues and ornate marble craftsmanship exhibited in every available space. It was a busy but somehow unrushed environment, and I had to admit I was a bit awed by the grandeur. Gaudy yet somehow still retaining an air of class, Ceasar's Palace indeed lived up to its legend. I had to admit it would be quite a sad contrast to go back to the Winnie for the night.

It seemed Rolf was reading my thoughts now.

"You know, Edie," he said as he tipped the champagne bottle over my glass to top it off, "there are two huge beds here. Why don't you just stay here instead of sleeping in the parking lot? You'd be a lot more comfortable."

"Uh huh," I couldn't help but smile up at him knowingly; "I know your definition of 'comfortable', Rolf."

He smiled back as he sat down on the end of one of the beds.

"No, Edie. Nothing like that," he shook his head gently and seemingly with sincerity; "Not that it wouldn't be wonderful, but…I just don't like thinking of you sleeping out there alone when you could be comfortable and safe in here. And, well," he hesitated for just a moment, "I guess I feel I kind of owe you."

"You owe me nothing, Rolf, except an explanation." I said it calmly and tiredly, but the edge of seriousness was prevalent.

"Yes, I do."

Startled, I gazed up at Rolf sitting across the room. He was staring down into his champagne glass looking uncharacteristically grim. Sad even. I suddenly didn't know whether to be concerned for Rolf or worried for myself.

I got up and moved over to sit beside Rolf.

"Tell me."

I could see Rolf attempt to dispel whatever thought was so obviously troubling him and attempt a half-hearted smile.

"This will all be over tomorrow, Edie, and this summer will be just a memory."

I'd never heard Rolf wax so poetically. But then, he was a writer of sorts. But never one who I could imagine would so openly express such wistful sentiments.

Thoughtlessly I put my arm around his shoulder in a gesture of affection and comfort. I suddenly felt almost maternal toward him. More, I realized I really had somehow come to love him. I wasn't sure why or how; I just knew I did.

"Rolf, you know I have no idea what you are talking about," I told him sweetly with a helpless smile I suppose I hoped might soften his apparent uneasiness. "Are you ready to tell me now that we are here in Las Vegas?"

Rolf Henderson looked up and gazed steadily into my hopeful eyes, which met his with equal attention. His expression was unreadable, as it always was to some degree. But in his dark eyes I could see it. It was unmistakable. Love. I actually felt my heart begin to beat a little harder.

"Edie" he sighed as he reached up to gently and slowly caress my cheek. He smiled – "Did I ever tell you I like you better without the wig?"

I laughed lightly in some embarrassment, suddenly realizing Rolf had never seen me without the long black Madam Zira wig and that I'd not been wearing it since we met in the diner hours ago. And only now did he make mention of it. I also realized his comment was a very smooth attempt to change the subject. The stubborn, curious part of my nature wanted to steer the moment back to the topic, but my sentimental heart – and the soft touch of Rolf's hand upon my face – did not want to dispel this lovely moment. There was palpable heat between our bodies; our eyes were searching one another's and all I could think was that I wanted to kiss him.

"I'm thinking of retiring it permanently," I murmured with a small smile, reaching up to lightly caress his dark hair and trace the line of his moustache with my fingertips.

Rolf kissed the tips of my fingers brushing across his lips as he responded, his arm moving around my waist –

"Going to give up the gypsy caravan and fortune-telling, huh?"

"I'd like to," I whispered, not even really aware I was talking. If I moved forward a mere six inches I could actually taste those lips that felt so soft and warm to my light touch. "If Vegas is good to me, Madam Zira and her hair are history."

Rolf smiled intimately and sensually and just before he kissed me said, "I think Vegas is going to be very good to you, Edie…"

*****************

I awoke to the sound of the shower water running. There was the din of faint singing – a deep masculine voice off-key but not unpleasant. It took me a moment to assimilate my surroundings. The heavy navy drapes were closed but a stunning beam of pure sunlight pierced through the slit where the drapes met and burned upon the wall across the room. I could see dust particles floating in the slice of light.