Big Demi - Part 1

The last time I was at the Barstow Card Casino, the place was even more run-down than usual, unbelievable as that sounds. I asked Big Denny about it.



"Aw, we been losin' business, Maxey, an' I can't figger out why."



Just then, I noticed a dealer punching out a player who had neglected to tip after winning a big pot. As the player was dragged off by his heels, the dealer spat a farewell mouthful of tobacco juice at him.



"I can't imagine why, either, Denny. What do you plan to do about it?"



"Well, I got a lotta bills comin' due, an' I need ta make a big score some way. Ya know, I was readin' where dey got a big ladies tournament next week at a casino near L.A. Guarantee is a quarter-million bucks. Sure wish I could play in it. I'd run over da game."



"Oh, yeah, ladies can't play a lick," I agreed, crossing my fingers tightly. Suddenly a diabolical thought entered my mind – a way to give Denny a little payback for all the grief he'd caused me over the years. "Well, I've known some guys who dressed up as women and finagled their way into ladies tournaments. It isn't hard to do. Maybe you can do the same."



"You tryin' ta get smart wit' me again, Maxey?" Big Denny snarled, drawing back his frightening fist.



"No, no," I said hurriedly. "I'm serious. It's easy. Just put on a wig and a dress. Call yourself … let's see…'Demi.' Nobody will know it's you, and you'll pick up a lot of easy money. You might even have some fun doing it."



This was the hardest sell of my life, but Denny gradually began to weaken as I kept emphasizing how much money he could make. Slowly, he began to come around, and then we discussed what he might wear.



"I heard dat a poker clothes company named Slow Payin', or somet'in like dat, is gonna make a line of stuff under yer sweetie's name. Maybe I could wear one of dem t'ings," he suggested.



"The name," I corrected him, "is Slowplaying Apparel, and if you ever tried to wear a Barbara Enright signature outfit in public, the company would sue you, and Barbara would kill you. Better stick to a dress."



Denny finally agreed to let me make the outfitting decisions. He would drive down the morning of the event and put himself in my hands – a big mistake on his part.



After making contact that day, I pretended to study the big guy carefully. "Before we even start with the garments, Denny, I think we should get you a wax job."



"Wax my car? Why? I ain't plannin' on takin' none of dem girls out."



"No, Denny, you need a waxing to trim your eyebrows and all that excess hair on your face and body."



Before he fully understood what was happening, I had hustled him to a salon. He was taken to an inside room, and a few minutes later, the building shook with his yells. I peeked in to see two burly attendants pinning him down while a beautician yanked huge patches of hair from his face, arms, legs, and chest. "May as well give him a bikini wax, too," I told them.



An hour later, Denny staggered out, several shades paler than usual. "You look better already," I told him. "Now let's make you even prettier."



He was still dazed from the wax job when I steered him to Bruce's Beauty Bistro in West Hollywood. The owner seemed to take a special interest in Denny and insisted on tending to him personally. "Ooh, what a delicious hunk," he murmured as he lovingly applied lipstick, eyeliner, face powder, mascara, and blush. When the makeover was done to his satisfaction, Bruce leaned over, kissed Denny on the cheek, and whispered something in his ear. Under ordinary circumstances, Bruce would have long been dead, but Denny was getting more confused and disoriented by the minute.



From there, we went to a nail salon. He could have had just some red polish painted on, but I instructed the manicurist to give him a full acrylic job, and to paint his toenails, too. It took three bottles of nail polish just to cover the toes on his giant, apelike feet.



The next step was getting him into a wig shop. Trying to ignore the giggles from shoppers in the store, Denny tried on several different styles before I selected a shoulder-length, curly blonde wig for him. "My, you're really looking like a lady," I told him. "A lady gorilla," I added under my breath. "Just a nice dress, girdle, pantyhose, and shoes, and we're all set."



Too weak now to complain, Denny allowed me to drag him around to various stores and get layered with items of clothes. At a dress shop, I tried to talk him into a flowery blouse and a miniskirt, but he wouldn't go for it, and picked off the rack the cheapest housedress he could find. I managed to impose one final indignity on him at a shoe store. I made him buy the pointiest-toed, highest-heeled pair in stock, assuring him that it was the latest style, and he'd look funny with anything else. The speechless salesman couldn't find anything even close to his size 14, so while Denny yelled out every obscenity ever invented, we managed, with the aid of several shoehorns and some oil, to squeeze him into a pair three sizes smaller.



I wanted to take him to a jewelry store, as well, but we were running out of time. By now, Denny was close to tears. I almost felt pity for him – almost. "Well, I guess we're all set," I said cheerily. Lying through my teeth, I assured him that he could fool anyone into thinking he was a woman. Sure. Stevie Wonder, maybe.



Before he could change his mind, I shoved him into the car and drove to the casino where the ladies tournament was being held. "Well," I said, grinning from ear to ear as a startled valet attendant opened the car door, "we're ready for our big scene, Mr. DeMille."



To be continued.