Film Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

  “Hey, Fluff,” Nailor called softly. “Hungry, girl?”

  “Starved,” I answered.

  “Hold it right there, buddy,” a voice called out. Nailor and I froze, for two different reasons. I stopped because I recognized the sound of my crazy neighbor, Raydean, the woman voted most likely to be unpredictable and violent by the members of the Lively Oaks Trailer Park. Nailor froze because he had heard the unmistakable sound of someone chambering a round into a shotgun. Nailor knew Raydean, so he knew what he was up against.

  “To my way of thinking,” Raydean called softly, “it is not at all gentlemanly to get a young woman drunk and then try to have your way with her. We don’t do things like that on this planet.”

  Raydean was late for her Prolixin shot, that much I could tell. Raydean on a good day is insane. On a bad day, when she hasn’t had her anti-psychotic medication, Raydean is your worst nightmare: an alien hunter who sees little green men crawling about everywhere. This was a very bad day.

  “Raydean,” I said, instantly sober, “it’s me and Detective Nailor, honey. He’s not trying to have his way with me.”

  Ba-boom! The gun erupted into the early-morning air, echoing in the narrow alleyway between our trailers. John threw me to the ground and dove on top of me. Fluffy ran back through the doggie door, into the trailer. Raydean laughed.

  “Lookit them suckers run!” she cried, and fired the shotgun again, this time shooting toward a pine tree behind my trailer.

  “Go home to the Mothership!” she yelled.

  “Raydean!” I yelled. “Knock it off! You’ll alert the starship troopers.”

  That stopped her in her tracks.

  “Summonabitch,” she muttered. “That’s all we need.”

  I raised my head just a few inches and looked around. There was no sign of life in the street, but curtains twitched at all the windows of the surrounding trailers. Folks were used to Raydean’s antics.

  Five trailers down a door opened. Raydean lifted her gray-haired head from its resting place on the barrel of the gun and looked. Pat, the charter boat captain and my landlady, was about to face Raydean down.

  “Aw, Sierra,” Raydean whined, “now look what you’ve gone and done!”

  “Me?” Nailor was lying on me like a heavy carpet.

  “Yes, you. Now she’s coming. She’ll be carting me off to the mental health center for a shot, and the next thing you know, I’ll be sitting in group therapy with some young chick social worker named Mavis, talking about what day it is and who’s the damn president. Shee-it!”

  Nailor snorted, stifling a laugh.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered. “It isn’t safe just yet.” Nailor’s body went limp against mine; well, sort of limp. “Raydean,” I said, “put the gun down, honey. You know how Pat is about weapons.”

  Raydean slowly lowered the shotgun. She stood there on her stoop, her stockings sagging down around her ankles, the pockets of her faded pink housedress stuffed with balled-up tissues and gun magazines.

  “First I got to contend with a Flemish invasion, and now I got to put up with her. It just ain’t fair.”

  Raydean was firmly convinced that the Flemish were alien beings. It was a delusion that, thus far, not even medication could remove. But Raydean is my friend, and a useful ally upon occasion, and if believing in a Flemish invasion is one of her minor quirks, well then, let he who is without neurosis cast the first stone.

  Pat walked the length of the street, right out in the middle, like a gunslinger at high noon. She walked slow, probably because her arthritis was bothering her. At seventy, Pat was the only woman I knew who was still physically able to do the hard manual labor that comes with running a charter fishing boat. She is tenacious.

  Pat was taking in the scene, her snow-white hair gleaming in the early-morning sunlight, her work jeans on, yellow rubber gloves hanging off a tool belt that stretched around her ample waist. Pat wasn’t about to take any shit off Raydean.

  She strolled up, stopped, and looked over at Raydean, who had dropped the gun and was standing like a sullen schoolgirl at the top of her stoop.

  “Let’s go on now,” Pat said, her eyes never leaving Raydean’s face.

  “Tomorrow,” Raydean said.

  “You said that yesterday and where did it get us?” Then Pat looked over at Nailor lying on top of me, a long sigh escaping her lips. “If you two are going to monkey around, the least you could do would be to take it out of the gutter and into the bedroom. Why do you think trailer parks have such a poor reputation? Really, Sierra!”

  Nailor, sensing that the dangerous moment had passed, slowly rose up and helped me to my feet. My leg gave way again and I staggered against him, drawing the attention of both women.

  “Sierra, are you injured?” Pat asked quietly.

  “Naw, that’un’s taking advantage of her good nature and easy ways,” Raydean interjected.

  “I got shot,” I said.

  “In the line of duty?” Raydean’s antenna was aquiver at the possibility of further alien activity.

  “Yes, Raydean, in the line of duty. I was leaving work when someone shot another dancer and hit me, too.”

  Pat’s face grew worried. She sees herself as my surrogate mother and doesn’t particularly fancy my line of work.

  Nailor broke in. “I’m working on getting her inside and into bed,” he said.

  “Oh, I can see that!” Raydean crowed.

  Pat shook her head and motioned to Raydean. “Come on, honey. Let’s go. We’ll deal with Sierra’s situation later.” She meant afterward, after Raydean was back on the planet and calmer heads could prevail.

  I sighed and leaned heavily against Nailor. “You know,” I whispered, “in my condition, I really shouldn’t be left alone.”

  Nailor chuckled and I felt his arm tighten around my waist. Oh yes, I thought, I most definitely don’t need to be left alone.

  Four

  I thought he would stay. And even though I wasn’t in fighting trim, I was prepared. I limped off down the hallway to my bedroom, stripped off my clothes, and pulled on my sexiest nightgown. It was a white cotton number with lace bows and plenty of buttons. It was virginal, and perfectly appropriate for our first golden moment. Nailor had seen it before, but at that point in time he’d been in no shape to remember it. He’d remember it now, I thought.

  I ran a brush through my hair and walked slowly down the hallway. He was in the kitchen, the phone in one hand and a can of dog food in the other.

  “The witness heard her make the threat?” he asked, stooping to put the food in Fluffy’s dish. Fluff licked his hand and the spoon in her rush to get to the food.

  “Pick her up.” He straightened. “Yeah, now. I’ll be right there.”

  Shit. I looked down at my gown and back over at him. He hadn’t even noticed. Well, there went the best-laid plans of one Sierra Lavotini.

  He clicked off the phone and set it back on its base.

  “Pick up who?” I asked.

  He turned, his eyes taking in the Lavotini package. A half moan escaped his lips. For a moment he was distracted, then back on task.

  “Marla,” he said.

  “Marla! You’re picking up Marla in connection with the murder? You think Marla shot me?”

  Marla was my arch-rival at the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club. She liked to think that her fifty-two-inch chest size made her the better dancer. Her main act was to dress up in a silver sequined outfit with wings that fit over her arms to make her look like a plane. She’d swoop out over the runway attached to an elaborate set of wires and pulleys, grab her tits, and yell, “Bombs away, boys!” The local airmen from Tyndall loved it. I thought it was trite and overworked. But I digress. Marla hated me, but why would she kill Venus Lovemotion?

  “I’m not saying she shot Venus Lovemotion or you, either. We’re just interested in speaking to her. There are a few discrepancies in her statement, that’s all. I’m sure we can get it all cleared up.”

&n
bsp; Fluffy yipped again. I looked down at her. She was smiling. I was not the only one who could picture Marla squirming on the hot seat down at police headquarters. In fact, if Nailor needed help with the interrogation, any help at all, well, I was at the ready.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he said. “Get some rest. I’ll be back later to check on you.” The way he said that last part made me know he hadn’t completely missed out on my intentions.

  He walked toward me and my heart started hammering. It was always this way. It was his eyes, the way he smelled, the raw, untamed part of his being that reached in and connected with my own wildness. Somehow, there was always something that came between us, stopping us from going full steam ahead. But one day … one day. I sighed and stood perfectly still. He reached me, pulling me into his arms and pressing his lips firmly against mine. His hands pressed the small of my back and began roving. For a few minutes we stayed that way, Venus Lovemotion’s killer a million miles from our thoughts.

  I was feeling warm and floaty. His hands were doing things to my body that I had only imagined possible. And when he moaned, I knew I had been equally effective.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, breaking away from me.

  “I’ll be waiting,” I whispered, my voice stuck somewhere inside my body.

  Fluffy picked this moment to throw up her hastily consumed meal. Maybe she felt threatened by the new presence in my life. I am sensitive to her feelings. Dogs are like children. Whatever her inner issue, it broke the spell. Nailor was out the door and I was swiping up doggie retch with a paper towel.

  “Girl,” I said, reaching out to scratch Fluffy behind her ears, “it will happen to you someday. That special someone will come along, and you’ll be out of your mind, acting like a crazy fool.” Fluffy let out a long belch. Clearly she didn’t expect herself to ever lose control.

  “Well, mark my words,” I said. I shook out another pain pill and swallowed it with a large swig of my pa’s homemade Chianti. Ma says Pa’s Chianti thickens the blood. She gives it to us whenever something’s wrong, emotional or physical. I figured the way my blood was raging and my derriere was aching, Chianti was my only hope.

  It must’ve done the trick. Within moments my head was heavy on the pillow, Fluffy curled by my side. I fell asleep thinking of all the lovely little surprises I had in store for a certain Panama City homicide detective. I woke up to a living nightmare.

  * * *

  Someone was banging loudly on my door and calling my name. Fluffy was barking her tiny head off, and I seemed to be moving in slow motion, drifting down the hallway toward the back door. Why wouldn’t they leave me alone?

  I snuck a peek through the curtains in the living room. Vincent Gambuzzo’s Porsche sat on my parking pad, dripping black oil onto the clean cement. Behind it was another car that I didn’t recognize, a Chevy something or other.

  “Sierra!” Vincent called. “Open up!”

  “Keep your pants on,” I muttered, fumbling with the lock and trying to peer through my peephole. All I could see was Vincent’s black eye staring back at me.

  “This is pointless,” a pouty female voice said. “She knows it’s me.”

  Damn. The door swung open, and before I could slam it shut, Vincent had his foot in the door, a stubborn, determined look on his face. Marla. He’d brought the slut to the trailer, with me suffering; the very woman who might’ve killed me, given better aim.

  “I’m not in the mood,” I said. “Go away.”

  Vincent stood there, three hundred pounds of resistance, packaged in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie, wearing his wraparound black sunglasses and scowling with his jaw twitching nervously.

  “Sierra, this ain’t no freakin’ social call.”

  “Then bye.” I moved to slam the door, but he muscled his way into my kitchen. Behind him, shielded by his girth, stood Marla and her scuzzball boyfriend, Little Ricky. His name was Rick, but I called him Little Ricky on account of the rumors floating around about his steroid use shrinking up a certain part of his anatomy. Little Ricky aspired to a career as a pro wrestler, the kind you see on TV. A fake. He was a mass of muscles with very little brainpower to support it.

  Ricky smiled at me, the flirt, and reached his hand up to smooth his thick brown hair. He figured to be God’s gift to underprivileged women. I figured him to be garbage looking for a dump site.

  “Sierra, listen to me. This is Tiffany business. We got trouble and that means we all gotta pull together. Our livelihoods are on the line here, Sierra. Now quit fooling around.”

  Why me? Why do they always pick on me? Do I look like a troublemaker? Do I have “Will Give You a Hard Time” stamped on my forehead? Did someone tape “Kick Me” to my ass?

  “Make coffee,” I said, looking only at Vincent. “You got five minutes and then I’m heading back to bed.” Little Ricky looked interested. Marla caught him and stamped on his foot. Usually this would’ve provoked some smart-assed comment from her, but not now. She was strangely silent.

  Vincent rummaged around my cabinets, grabbing a filter and the coffee, then making his way to the sink to fill the coffeepot with water.

  “Sierra,” Vincent said, “sit down. Take a load off.” His tone had changed dangerously. He was acting nice, a sure sign of big trouble.

  “I’ll lean,” I said, taking a position against the counter. Little Ricky and Marla pulled up barstools and perched at my kitchen table, a round, rejected hightop from a failed nightclub.

  Vincent measured the coffee, poured the water, and hit the switch on the coffeemaker. He turned his attention back to me.

  “As you know,” he began, “Venus Lovemotion got herself whacked in our parking lot. We invited her, so we are responsible.” He stressed the word “we” like he was really meaning “you, Sierra.”

  “Now, in the interest of justice, and because we cannot let this savage attack go unpunished, I feel we must supplement the efforts of our loyal but upon occasion unprepared police department.”

  That got my back up. “Hey, them guys are doing the best they can, given the situation. John Nailor is working the case personally. He’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Vincent Gambuzzo hated John Nailor. He hated the way Nailor gave him no respect. He hated the effect Nailor had on the club. And he particularly hated the effect Nailor had on me. But to my amazement, he said nothing about Nailor.

  “Be that as it may,” he continued, “the police department has obviously received some erroneous information and is proceeding in a fruitless direction with their investigation.”

  The coffeepot hissed loudly. Marla and Little Ricky were avoiding making eye contact with me, preferring instead to focus only on Vincent, as if he were some kind of a prophet.

  Even in my dazed state of consciousness, I could tell I was being had.

  “Vincent,” I said, “leave us cut to the chase.” My backside was beginning to favor me with a dull, unrelenting ache. I wanted to drink another glass of Pa’s Chianti and go back to bed.

  Vincent busied himself pouring me a cup of coffee. He was figuring the best approach and coming up short. Finally he sighed, handed me a steaming mug, and looked over at Marla.

  “Sierra, I know you and Marla ain’t on the best of terms.”

  Best of terms? I thought back over the countless times Marla had tried to sabotage one of my acts, or to flat out manipulate me into giving up my status as club headliner, or talked trash about me to the other girls. “Not on the best of terms” didn’t begin to describe my feelings for Marla.

  “You could say that,” I answered.

  “I did say that,” Vincent puffed. “But blood is thicker than water, Sierra. And here at the Tiffany, we’re all one big family.”

  “Bottom-line it, Vincent.”

  He looked at me, his jaw twitching double-time. “The cops are trying to frame Marla for Venus’s murder. It ain’t right. It’s up to us to catch the bastard what done Venus and you, and get the heat out of our house.”
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  Vincent straightened up so maybe he looked taller than his natural five feet seven inches. He wore lifts, but I didn’t feel the need to let the rest of the world know.

  “So,” I said, letting my gaze run over Marla and Little Ricky, “how is that a problem for me? Guilty or innocent, we get rid of the prima donna and life is golden for me. I say, let her fry!”

  Marla squeaked but otherwise stayed silent. She was chaffing. On a normal day, we’d have taken this little dispute outside, but not now. Marla was scared stiff. She was grasping at straws. She needed me.

  When this realization hit, I stopped and savored it. Marla needed me. Well, well, well. The worm was turning.

  “Sierra!” Vincent’s voice cut into my pleasant reverie. “Put your personal feelings aside and think of the higher good.”

  “I am,” I answered.

  “Sierra, let me see you in the living room.” Vincent brushed past me and I didn’t move. “Please?”

  Vincent had to be just as desperate as Marla, a fact I found amusing. Nonetheless, I followed him.

  He walked a few feet away from the kitchen, into my living room, and began pacing across the bare wooden floor, his reflection echoed in the mirrors that lined the back wall. It made me angry. He was invading my practice space.

  “Sierra,” he said, his voice lowered in an attempt to keep Marla from overhearing him, “we can’t all be you. Marla’s not the brightest light on the Christmas tree, but you gotta admit she brings in her share of the business.” I was obviously unimpressed. “Sierra, she ain’t got nobody but us.”

  He stopped and stared at me. He knew that would do the trick. Inside, I felt a small twinge knock on the door of my conscience. Nobody? That figured. But still, a girl alone in the world.

  “She’s got Little Ricky,” I sputtered.

  “Oh, Sierra, come on. That half-wit? He’s about as loyal to her as a snake. Little Ricky runs through women like butter through hot pasta. He can’t keep his zipper up long enough to have a relationship.”

  I glanced back toward the kitchen. Little Ricky caught my eye and smiled. Marla pinched him. I looked back at Vincent.