I peered out cautiously through the peephole and saw roses. I unlocked the door, swung it open, and came face-to-face with a delivery boy holding a mass of bloodred roses. Not my favorite color, but then, one mustn’t look a gift horse in the proverbial mouth.
“Sierra Lavotini?” the pimple-faced teen squeaked.
“You don’t know? I guess at your age, you don’t know. Yeah, that’s me.”
“Okay.” He shoved the vase of flowers into my arms and took off. Before I could do or say anything, he was driving off, the heavy thump of the bass line to his music vibrating through the neighborhood.
I peered over the roses to Raydean’s trailer. The door slowly opened and she appeared, shotgun not quite hidden behind her back.
“See? What I tell you? Damn roses! Oldest trick in the book. Gain entry, subdue victim with charm, and take over the world.”
“Raydean, these are harmless. Come on over here and see.” Raydean was undecided for a moment, then started out of the trailer. “Leave the gun at your house, please.”
She scowled but left it behind. She approached cautiously. “I’m telling you, there’s something not right about receiving flowers from a stranger.”
“Come on, I’ll make coffee. Besides, Raydean, what makes you think they’re from a stranger?” I knew who needed to be sending flowers. It was a lovely way to apologize, even if yellow or pink roses were the better choice.
Raydean walked behind me into the kitchen, still keeping her distance. “What does the card say?” she asked.
I reached into the bouquet and extracted the tiny florist’s envelope, opened the flap, and pulled out the card. “Hope you stay as lovely as you are. Stick with what you know. I’ll take care of you.”
Well, if he’d wanted to apologize, John Nailor’d missed the mark. Raydean snatched the card from my fingers and read it, holding it out at arm’s length because she’d forgotten her glasses.
“Aha!” she cried. “Alien death threats!”
I set the vase on the counter and started to make the coffee. My hands shook slightly and I watched them as if they belonged to someone else. No, it wasn’t a threat. John just wasn’t good with words. I poured water in the machine, measured the coffee carefully into the filter basket, and turned back to look at Raydean and Fluffy.
“I’ll just call him and say thank you,” I said softly, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. It just wasn’t Nailor’s style to send flowers, to back down from an argument.
“Denial’s a river in Egypt,” Raydean said, her eyes soft with understanding.
I dialed the police department, holding the phone close to my ear, waiting for the call to go through.
“Criminal Investigations, Nailor.” His voice was strong and familiar, and for a second that was enough.
“Hey,” I said. “Thanks for the flowers and the card. They’re lovely.”
There was a long moment of silence, then the words I didn’t want to hear.
“They weren’t from me, but I guess that happens all the time.” Now he was pissed.
“Not from you? But the card referred back to yesterday’s misunderstanding.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you got another guy misunderstanding you,” he growled. “I figure that’s right common, too.”
I bit my tongue. “So you didn’t send me a dozen roses with a card saying to stick with what. I know and you’d take care of me?”
More silence. “I’ll be right over,” he said, and severed the connection.
“Called out the reinforcements, did you?” Raydean asked.
“No, but it seems they’re coming anyway.”
We were headed for disaster, that much I knew. Two steel-headed opponents, steering through a collision course. I knew what he’d want, what he’d say, and I wasn’t coming down on the same side of the matter. The only thing a threat meant was that I was on the right track. Someone was afraid of what I’d uncover. To me, that meant I was the only person close enough to the murder to solve it. Nailor wasn’t going to like it, but then, that was his problem, not mine.
Nine
Raydean and I stared at each other. Behind us the coffeemaker hissed to a stop, but neither of us moved to pour the coffee.
“Looks like we got us another kettle of fish to fry,” she said. “Mayhaps the aliens want you, mayhaps the guy what done killed that pretty girl wants you ’cause you’re on to him. Either way, you’d better CYA. In fact, your ass has already taken a good hit, I’d cover it extra special if I were you.”
Raydean went and peered out the bay window. “Reckon that feller’ll be screaming down the highway to save you.” She and I snorted at the same time. “Way I recollect, you saved his bacon last time. I figure he’ll be looking to repay the favor.”
As if on cue, John Nailor’s Taurus turned into the trailer park.
Raydean sighed. “Love, it’s a turrible thing.” She looked from the window back to me. “I think I’ll clear a path and let you young kids have a shot at bliss. Nothing like the fear of mortality to bring two people closer.”
Fluffy, sensing or perhaps hearing Nailor’s car, flew into the room, skidded on the floor, and bounced off the window ledge. She yipped, shook her head, and kept right on going, out the doggie door and down the steps.
“See what I mean?” Raydean said, and opened the door.
Nailor looked up through his windshield, took in Raydean standing like a specter at the top of my stoop, and instinctively reached under his armpit for his holster. Just as quickly, he let his hand drop and moved swiftly out of the car, standing with the door as a buffer between him and Raydean.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I ain’t armed and you ain’t man enough to take me anyway.”
Nailor smiled. “No doubt, ma’am,” he said softly.
Raydean sailed down the steps and out into the road, passing Nailor as if she were the queen and he a loyal subject. When she had crossed her yard and reached the top of her own steps, she turned to face us.
“You have my blessings,” she said, and walked inside her trailer, the door slamming behind her.
Nailor shook his head and climbed the steps to stand beside me.
“You all right?”
“Never better,” I answered. “You didn’t need to come out here, you know.”
“I know.” His eyes melted into mine. He wasn’t thinking about danger, and a moment later, neither was I.
“We got off on the wrong foot yesterday,” he said. He reached out with one hand and touched my cheek.
“Hell, Nailor, we got off on the wrong foot just a few minutes ago.”
He frowned. “Let me see the card.”
I handed him the florist’s card and he studied it and the tiny envelope, turning them over and over in his hands. Fluffy came back into the kitchen and stood next to him, panting.
“I’m with you, girl,” I muttered.
“Which florist was it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What does the envelope say?”
Nailor held the envelope out for me to see. It was pure snow white, no florist’s imprint. “Did you see the delivery van?”
“It was a kid in a car.”
“Shit.” We both spoke at the same time. I turned away and went to the coffeemaker, pouring us both mugs of steaming liquid, black, the way we both liked it, undiluted and strong.
“I figure someone thinks my nosing around might uncover something.”
Nailor took a sip of his coffee and eyed me over the rim of the cup. “You aren’t going away, are you?” he asked.
“Are you?”
We studied each other, the conversation hitting on two levels. “I have to be involved,” he said.
“And so do I. I just don’t get a badge and a gun to work with.”
Nailor stepped closer to me. “This time you ought to know something about self-defense.”
He smelled too good to resist.
“I think I can handle myself,” I said softly. A moment later I felt my
body falling, landing hard on the kitchen floor, pain shooting from the good side of my ass to the bad. He was on me, his hands pinning my shoulders to the ground, a determined look on his face.
“If you could handle yourself,” he said, “I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
Fluffy went wild. She lunged at Nailor and bit him right in the meaty part of his forearm.
“Ouch!”
“Fluffy, no! It’s all right, girl.”
A thin trickle of blood ran down Nailor’s arm. Fluffy stood back, snarling, ready to further defend me.
“Well,” I said, Nailor still sitting on top of me, “guess I can handle myself. Guess if I really wanted you off of me, you’d be gone, or maimed by a killer chihuahua. Next time I might not call her off. I might let her chew a while longer.”
Nailor shot Fluffy a nasty look. Fluffy smiled, but it wasn’t her friendly smile. Her hero had suddenly gone south on her.
“Fluffy doesn’t travel with you in a murder investigation, Sierra. You know what I’m saying. Now, let me show you a couple of things.”
Pain was radiating through my backside. I wasn’t in the mood. “Let me up.”
“No,” he said. “Make me.”
I was getting angrier by the second, feeling the white-hot Lavotini temper well up inside me. Nailor didn’t know what he was asking for.
He leaned forward and pressed his hands down on my shoulders. “I said, make me.”
That was all it took. I tried bucking like a horse, tried to move my arms to gouge his eyes out, tried to kick, but he had me pinned.
“Want me to show you what to do?” He was grinning, enjoying himself.
“Fuck you, Nailor.”
“That too, but not now. You want me to show you how to get out of this?”
I sighed. Men were such children. “Sure, show me. Knock yourself out.”
“All right. Here, pull your leg up, outside mine, like that.” He reached back and positioned my left leg. “Now, bring your arms up, inside mine, and hit here.” He showed me a spot inside his forearm. “Hit hard, it’s a pressure point. It hurts when you do that.”
I whacked ineffectually and he stared down at me, his eyes meeting mine. “Oh, come on,” he whispered. “Get your money’s worth. Hit me.”
I hit, hard, and he half fell onto my chest. “All right,” he said, “use your leg, roll over and off.”
I hurt. I was tired. And like I said, I wasn’t in the mood. Something inside me snapped and I heaved, using my leg to push him off balance. Over he went, but just as quickly he was back, lunging over top of me and positioning himself above me. This time his legs were outside. He was getting ready to teach me yet another of his little techniques, but I didn’t wait. I brought both knees up, hitting him squarely in the most vulnerable area of his body.
He grunted. I hit his right arm, pushed him off balance with my left arm, and rolled away. Fluffy went ballistic, this time attacking Nailor’s thick shoes.
I stood up and stared down at him. “Any questions?” I said. The adrenaline was surging through my body and I wanted to take him out. It took every effort not to kick him, but some last vestige of civilized behavior took over. He was, after all, only trying to help.
Nailor started to laugh, lying back on the kitchen floor, with my dog doing her best to kill his shoe.
“Hey, Fluff,” I said, “you can knock it off now. He gives up.” Fluffy looked at me, her teeth still gripping Nailor’s shoe. “Want a doggie treat?” She dropped the shoe and came trotting over.
Nailor lay there for a moment, watching, then struggled to his feet and walked toward me, the smile fading slowly from his lips.
“Sierra, you know this is serious. It’s not a game. Venus Lovemotion wasn’t the victim of a drive-by or any other random act. Your friend Marla has never played on your team. She doesn’t like you. For all I know, the bullet was intended for you and hit Venus only by accident.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I asked. “If somebody, and it wasn’t Marla, wanted to hurt me, then I got all the more reason to find out what’s going on.”
Nailor shook his head. “I can’t stop you, but it’s suicide. I wish for once in your hardheaded lifetime you’d let someone take care of you.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t had a great record with caretakers. And I find taking care of myself works out a whole lot better. I like a relationship built on a more solid foundation than one person needing another.”
Nailor sighed. “It’s not about that, Sierra. I’m in a position to help you out here. It’s something I do for a living.”
I walked over to him, slipped my arms around his waist, and kissed him gently on the lips.
“How about this, ’cause you know I’m not walking away: I nose around my way, you investigate your way, and we both watch each other’s back.”
He didn’t like it. He thought I was playing with him, but what could he do? He pulled me closer and kissed me harder. His hands slipped up under my shirt, investigating. Things were starting to heat up when the phone rang. It was Little Ricky, his slick, weasel voice oozing through the receiver.
“Hey, Sierra, I want to see you. I think maybe I know something that can help Marla.”
I choked off a thousand sarcastic responses and told him to meet me at the club. Nailor, sensing a change in the disposition of his afternoon, sighed and straightened his tie.
“You could meet me here later,” I whispered, running my fingers across his shoulders and looking deep into his eyes. I had plans for this man, and they didn’t include learning how to defend myself.
His pager answered for him, shrilling out into the quiet of my kitchen, instantly pulling his attention away. He looked at the little box, shook his head, and then looked back at me.
“Duty calls,” he said.
Fluffy had had all the excitement she could take for one day. Without warning, we both heard the unmistakable sound of water hitting the floor.
“Oh God, Sierra!”
I looked down at his shoes. Fluffy had finally claimed them as her own.
Ten
I reached the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club by four o’clock in the afternoon. The parking lot was bright with reflected sunlight that bounced from the white stucco walls to the windshield of my car. In Florida, sunglasses are more than a fashion statement; they are a necessity.
I walked across the parking lot and stepped into the dark recesses of the Tiffany. It was that awkward time between the lunch crowd and the after-work crowd, when no one but losers sit on the barstools and only the lowest-ranking dancers vie for the customer’s attention. It was naptime, and business was slow.
The bartender was grumpy from lunch and not looking forward to the after-work crush. The waitresses sat at the end of the bar talking among themselves, irritated if a customer tried to interrupt them with a drink order. After all, they’d done lunch with its hustle and bustle of impatient customers all trying to beat the clock and get back to the office.
Little Ricky sat with the losers. Wedged in between a fat telephone repairman and a bearded truck-driver type, he looked even seedier than usual. He spotted me instantly, almost before I could identify him. He was up and off the stool, making just enough commotion for his companions to notice that he was approaching me like an old friend.
“Sierra, honey!” he cried, and every head in the half-deserted bar turned to look at us.
“Don’t touch the merchandise,” I said, trying to smile and fend off his unwelcome hug at the same time. “I mean, I’m still in a lot of pain and I can’t take it.”
Little Ricky never knew a social cue, but the look in my eye told him to back off and do it quickly.
“Come on over here,” I said, trying to make my voice sound both friendly and interested. It was a stretch. I led him to a booth, the same one the Italian Stallion had occupied the night before. Ricky slid across the seat and patted the leather space next to him. I pretended not to notice and slid in across from him. I ha
d the advantage. He’d called me before I’d had to call him.
“So, you said you had something to tell me about Marla?”
A confused look crossed Little Ricky’s face, then he smiled, as if remembering.
“That I did,” he said, “but let’s relax a bit first, get to know each other.” He raised his arm and snapped his fingers in the direction of the waitresses. They were not impressed. One of them recognized me and stood up, wandering slowly toward the table.
“Ricky,” I said, “etiquette demands that you do not snap your fingers at the barmaids. A, it is rude. B, one of them might decide to hurt you, as a morality lesson to other customers. And C, you don’t know what they do when they make your drinks and they’re pissed.”
Ricky took this in, not sure at first if he should believe me, but finally deciding I might know more about barmaid habits than him. When the girl stepped up to the table, she found a humble Little Ricky waiting on her.
“Darlin’,” he said, “I don’t know what came over me there. I did not think. See, I was in New York City yesterday, promoting my new professional wrestling video, and I guess I got swept up in northern rude behaviors that are far from my own gentlemanly manners.”
The waitress, a short blonde with a tiny chest and a wad of gun stuck in her mouth, regarded him as if he were a common species of toad.
“Bullshit, Little Ricky,” she said. “I seen you in here yesterday afternoon and you were just as rude. Now whatc’hu want?”
Little Ricky looked nervous, thinking about his personal safety and drinks that were the least prone to staff tampering.
“Well, honey, bring me a long-neck, twist top, but don’t open it. I need the exercise.”
The waitress nodded and turned to me. “What’re you doing here?”
“Slumming.”
The little barmaid nodded again, looked at Ricky, and smiled back at me. “You want coffee or somethin’?”
“Coke’d be nice, if it’s no trouble.”
“Uh-uh,” she said, “it ain’t no trouble at all.”
She flounced off and Little Ricky watched her, his eyes tracking the way she moved, calculating the odds of ever improving his options.
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