Film Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

  “Ain’t nothin’ a wise human cain’t avoid for hisself,” she said. “You’ve been through it all before.”

  He nodded and walked up the narrow paved path to her door, avoided the third stair step, and ducked under the nearly invisible fishing line that attached to a water-filled bucket tucked up just under the awning. Raydean reached behind her back and pulled out the detonated dog.

  “Careful,” she said. “Explosives can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  Nailor sighed and his back stiffened. I could imagine the many things he wanted to say to her, but saying them would’ve only caused Raydean to clam up.

  “Thank you,” he said in a tightly controlled cop voice. “Maybe y’all could tell me what you know about this”—he hesitated—“this … invasion.”

  That brought Raydean around to his side again, and his threat to hospitalize her was forgotten. With great care, she repeated everything she’d told me, with one addition.

  “I didn’t see the fella what done this, but I heard a car slow down in between our two houses, just about the time Fluffy come running out. I was around back, weeding. I am always alert to invasion potential, so I stopped, especially when I picked up on the tune playing on his radio.” She had our complete attention. Raydean leaned forward, looked both ways up and down the street, and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “You see, I ain’t heard that tune in a long, long while, not since Dan Hicks and his Hot Licks used to play the VFW up home and my dearly departed husband would request it.”

  “What was it, sugar?” I asked, hoping to stop her from straying down memory lane.

  “‘How Can I Miss You When You Won’t Go Away.’” Raydean leaned back and smiled. “I never took it personal. He was just a fool for a catchy tune.”

  Nailor was giving up. He turned to walk back down the steps, the wires and plastic cradled in his hands. Raydean let him get about halfway down the path before she dropped another bomb.

  “Yep, them floral delivery folks must really love their music.”

  Nailor turned back around. “How’s that, Raydean?” he asked.

  “Well, unless I miss my guess, and I don’t usually, it was the same car as what brought them flowers to Sierra. It was running rough.”

  Nailor obviously didn’t give this much credence. How could an old woman tell the sound of one car’s engine from another? He shrugged and started to turn away, but Raydean cleared her throat.

  “Oh, and he was listening to that same song when he drove up to bring her the flowers.”

  Nailor looked at me. Once again, Raydean had come through.

  Thirteen

  Nailor didn’t hang around to discuss the finer points of police investigatory technique. He was off for the forensics lab, dragging his broken toy dog with him. The only thing he would allow was that the dog had been meant as a warning.

  “If they’d wanted to seriously hurt you or Fluffy, they’d have made a real bomb. This was just a little follow-up to the flowers. They want you uninvolved, Sierra, a sentiment I echo, though not quite like that.”

  He didn’t make me any promises. He didn’t even look at me with anything other than his cop’s eyes. He was on the job. I was for later, a reward after a hard day’s work. I could live with that. I had my own career to tend to. If I didn’t show up at the club and make my presence known, who knew what lowlife dancer Vincent Gambuzzo would let try and take over my job?

  I settled Fluffy down with Raydean for the evening, leaving them to a Braves game, a boxful of Moon Pies, and a pile of doggie treats. If Fluffy didn’t die from an overdose of doggie junk food, she’d be fine, and safe. No one was going to bother Raydean, not without a hell of a fight. At least I hoped not …

  “You go on, Sierra,” Raydean said from her perch on the sofa. “Me and Fluffy will be fine. Besides, Marlena won’t take no crap off invaders.” Marlena the Shotgun leaned against the corner, fully loaded and ready for action. “Go on now, honey.” Raydean urged.

  I left her sitting on the sofa with Fluffy and yelling at the Braves’ pitching coach. It was time to turn my attention back to the Tiffany. On a normal night when I’m driving to the club, I focus on Sierra, Queen of Passion. Tonight my thoughts were all over the place. I was worried about Fluffy and Raydean. I could take care of myself, but they were vulnerable. The killer knew this.

  The killer appeared to be threatened by me, or maybe the killer had picked me as his next target. That thought was new. Maybe the fact that I was “on the case” wasn’t an issue. Maybe the killer was targeting dancers. Maybe Venus had been only the first. Or worse, maybe the killer had been aiming for me and Venus had caught the bullet.

  My mind raced as I crossed Hathaway Bridge. Below me, boats crisscrossed the bay, their running lights twinkling against the inky-black water. Stars hung in the early-evening sky, winking out one by one as they made their appearance. The night was clear and warm. On a regular night I might’ve lingered by the water as I headed into work, driving slowly to catch the spring breeze against my skin. As a dancer, I try to connect with my inner being; it brings me more in touch with my sensuality. Tonight it was all I could do to drive.

  By the time I pulled into the parking lot and parked, I had pretty much given up on doing one of my regular theme-centered acts. It’s hard to pull off Little Bo Peep when you’re injured. No, tonight was red velvet and elegance.

  Rusty the stage manager saw me step inside the back door and ran up, his eyes wide with surprise. He twitched and looked from me to the locker room. With a jerky leap, he positioned himself between me and the door.

  “Hey, Sierra,” he squeaked. “You’re supposed to be home taking it easy. What’re you doing? You need rest, lots of rest.”

  I raised one eyebrow, straightened up so I towered over him, and proceeded to push my way toward the dressing room.

  “Sierra, I don’t think—”

  “Obviously,” I said, and walked on into the room.

  A strange woman sat in my chair, in front of my station, peering into my mirror. The other girls looked up and all conversation came to a standstill. It took the newcomer a few moments to realize that the room had frozen. She stopped, mascara wand in hand, and turned slowly around. She was blond, bottle color, a cheap brand if I had to guess from the brassy, home-done highlights. Her eyes were empty sky blue and she had a little baby-doll nose that tilted up like a miniature ski jump.

  “Hi!” she said in a perky, cheerleader voice. “I’m Frosty Licks.”

  I just stood there, taking it all in, trying not to act out of my inner-child rage.

  The blonde took it wrong and proceeded to ram her foot farther down her throat. “Oh, hon, I know. I’m a movie star, true, but really, sweetie, we’re just people.” She giggled and one of the regulars gasped. Frosty was clueless.

  “Well,” I said, “ain’t that nice. My name’s Sierra, just like it says on the back of that chair where you’re sitting.”

  Frosty looked at the back of the chair and smiled. “Ain’t that cute! They put your names on the chairs.” There was a sudden swift change as her previously empty eyes darkened and flickered. “Well, I’m sure you can find another spot to roost. Mr. Gambuzzo said to sit here and here’s where I’m staying. I mean, after all, I’m the visiting star. And I would appreciate it if you girls kept the noise down while I’m trying to do my makeup. I need to concentrate. After all, I am an artist, not a stripper.”

  I crossed the room in three, long strides, my ass no longer a factor. I wasn’t feeling pain at that moment. I grabbed the back of the chair and yanked, dumping the cheery little guest star on the dressing room’s comfy little concrete floor. I bent down, grabbed a hank of Frosty’s hair, and pulled her head back so she could see me better.

  “I don’t care what Gambuzzo told you to do. I don’t care what flat-backing flick you just got off doing, and I certainly don’t give a rat’s ass what you think. I’m the star here, and you are just a gnat in my galaxy. So while you’re here, you’l
l be playing by my rules. You’ll sit down at the end of the bar where there’s an empty chair. You’ll be polite and courteous to the staff, and you’ll keep your little trap shut. Are we clear?”

  “I’ll tell my agent about this and you won’t have a job tomorrow.”

  I let go, straightened, and looked at the others. “Hey, I’m frightened by that. Aren’t youse guys frightened?” The others moaned in mock terror.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, turning to look at her. “We are definitely terrified. Oh, please, don’t tell your agent.”

  Frosty struggled to get up, raising her hand and gripping my wrist. I grabbed her thumb and bent it backward until she screamed softly.

  “You’re not playing nice so far,” I said. “Now, let’s try this again. Whose rules are you playing by?”

  Frosty didn’t answer. I squeezed a little harder. “Yours,” she gasped.

  “That’s right, mine. Now, play nice and we’ll let you stay. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself very unhappy. You are here as our guest.”

  Frosty glared at me, snatched back her hand, and rubbed her thumb and wrist. She picked up her makeup case and stalked off to the end of the bar. The other girls watched her for a moment and then went back to their normal activities. Tonya the Barbarian waited until Frosty wasn’t looking and sidled up beside me.

  “Listen, I got a heads-up for you,” she said softly. I raised a questioning eyebrow. “She’s hooked up. Rumor is she’s got paid protection. You know, the film business is different than dancing. There’s big money at stake. Sierra, they don’t mess around.”

  I looked back at Frosty. She had pulled out a tiny cell phone and was speaking into it. From the expression on her face and the way she was flapping her hands all around, she was dropping a dime on me.

  “Who’s her agent?” I asked. Tonya, not the brightest light in the stable, straightened the chicken bone that held her hair up in a tight pigtail.

  “It’s that Barry guy, same as Venus. He reps all them film stars that work the southeastern circuit.”

  Barry Sanduski did not frighten me. I figured that in a fair fight I could take him.

  Tonya went on. “Frosty was giving Barry the business earlier. She said the locker room wasn’t up to her standards. She didn’t like the security either and told Barry he should be getting her more money on account of the hazard.”

  Tonya kept watching Frosty, as if she wanted to make sure she wasn’t overhearing us. This was unusual. Tonya the Barbarian was a dancer we’d hired away from the Show and Tails. She carried a caveman club as part of her act, and had been reputed to use it as situations warranted. She wasn’t the type to scare easily.

  “So where’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Well, when Barry said there wasn’t going to be any extra jack, Frosty went off. She said he ought to grow a set of balls. She said if he was having to pay for protection, then he should be damn sure they got it.” Tonya looked real nervous now. “Her agent said Frosty wasn’t understanding, that it was protection for extreme emergencies. It’s for if another ‘family’ muscles in, not everyday complaints. ‘Protection,’ that’s what the mob calls it. They don’t actually protect you from anything other than themselves.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Protection rackets in little Panama City? Organized crime here, not just passing through but trying to make a home? Back in Philly, protection money actually bought you a service, whether you wanted it or not. It was a day-to-day reality. Was Barry Sanduski telling Frosty the truth? Or was the protection out of Atlanta only hooked to Frosty because she was part of the circuit? Was she getting protection on the film set?

  I looked back over at Frosty. She was slamming her tiny phone back into her makeup kit and looking genuinely pissed.

  “She told him not to pay the money then if they weren’t getting nothing for it.” Tonya’s voice was rushed and breathy, as if she were trying to get two words in the space of one. “He told her that ‘they’ didn’t play like that. He told her this is the way it is in the film business and that technically they owned her dance time, too.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Oh way,” she said. Tonya adjusted the tie on her leopard-skin breechcloth and tried to fit more of her breasts in her tiny bikini top by leaning over and tugging. What was the business coming to, I wondered, when protection money was a requirement? We were hardworking girls. If the protection racket was hitting the film stars, how long would it be before it touched us?

  I walked over to my locker and pulled out my red velvet sheath. I couldn’t take that worry on right now. It was time to center and focus. I had an act to produce and a point to make. No porno flick bimbo was gonna steal my thunder or take a chunk out of my tip money, not while Sierra Lavotini was alive and on the marquee.

  Fourteen

  Rusty dimmed the house lights and turned the smoke machine up high. Billows of thick white fog rolled across the stage, drifting up about four feet. The twinkle lights went on in the backdrop, bringing instant nightfall. When he touched the strobe light, little moonbeams circulated throughout the room. Annie Lennox started to sing “I Can’t Get Next to You,” and I stepped through the curtains and onto the stage.

  I was wearing a long red velvet tear-away sheath, molded to my body with two long slits on either side that reached my thighs. In the center of the stage was a chair. I walked toward it, my hands caressing the velvet fabric, moving up slowly toward my breasts, then across my chest and behind my neck. The room fell silent and the men began to move toward the runway and the edge of the stage.

  Bruno looked up in surprise. I’d caught him off guard, hanging with his girlfriend at the bar. With the other girls, his presence isn’t usually necessary at stagefront, but with me it is a requirement. He slid his glass across the bar and moved down the house, walking quickly, but looking as if he were only out for a stroll. If one man so much as reached a hand out to touch me, Bruno would be there. And he would anticipate correctly every time which idiot was going to get out of line and go for the gold.

  I reached the chair and with one quick move unfastened the sheath. It slid to the floor, leaving me to stand before my audience in a red satin and sequined merry widow. My 38 double D’s were propped up in my bra like an offering, brushed with gold glitter powder. The men love this.

  I propped one stiletto-heeled leg up on the chair and proceeded to run my hands slowly up and down my leg, toying with the snaps that held my stocking in place. That’s when the money began to flow. Men crowded the edge of the stage, throwing bills and begging me to “take it off.” God, I love it when they beg. I love the control of knowing that I’m in charge of what comes off and when, that I rule the fantasy not them.

  I pulled the pin that held my hair up in a French twist and it cascaded around my shoulders.

  “Sierra,” a young salesman called, “please!”

  This was followed by a chorus of men, all wanting to stuff bills in my garter. What could I do but oblige them? I was counting the tens and twenties and thinking how much of a bite this would take out of Frosty’s evening when I looked up and saw the Italian Stallion enter the club and walk to his now customary booth.

  With a quick turn, I returned to the chair and leaned over the back, giving my fans a little wiggle as I moved to unhook my corset.

  “Oh, honey,” a man moaned, “let me help you!”

  I ignored him and slowly unhooked each little snap, making eye contact with every man who lined the stage. “This one’s for you,” I was saying, and they believed me.

  I straightened and pulled the merry widow away, leaving only the G-string, the garter, and my stockings to go. Men were moaning, calling my name in tones usually reserved for their lovers. I strolled slowly down the runway, giving them a good look at the breasts that made the Tiffany famous. There, I thought. Now there’s no doubt about who rules this club.

  I looked over at the Stallion. Even he was watching. I brought my fingers to my lips, blew him a
kiss, then let them circle my nipples on their way down to my G-string.

  “Oh, man!” a young airman cried. “I’ve gotta have me some of that!”

  No one seemed to hear him except Bruno. He moved like lightning as the boy started to scale the runway. The boy seemed to poise in midair for a moment, and then sail, his feet off the ground, back toward the exit. Gordon intercepted him at the midpoint, relieving Bruno so he could maintain his stage presence. With strength that I had never thought possible for such a skinny new-ager, Gordon propelled the offending client through the double doors and out into the parking lot. It was several moments before Gordon reappeared, looking none the worse for wear.

  Rusty cranked up the smoke machine as I turned around and bent over to pick up a few errant bills. With a controlled move, I straightened back up, pulled the tie on my G-string and threw it out into the audience. It landed exactly where I’d aimed it, right in the Stallion’s lap. The smoke covered me and the lights went down. It was a rock-hard performance, if I do say so myself.

  Rusty helped me into my kimono and I rushed out into the house. The Italian Stallion wasn’t going to get away this time. I passed through the crush of admirers with Bruno’s help, acutely aware of being totally naked beneath my gown. Usually I take the time to dress, but not tonight. I was going to have a talk with that gentleman. I was going to find out what he was doing here and what he’d seen the night Venus Lovemotion died.

  I reached his table just as he started to leave the booth. I blocked him, sliding in beside him and acting as if he hadn’t been ready to leave. Up close he was better looking than he’d seemed from the stage. Dark features, wavy black hair, and eyes that sank into mine with an all-knowing penetration that both disturbed and intrigued me.

  “I believe you have something of mine,” I said softly.

  He pulled the G-string from his pocket, caressing it as he dangled it in front of me. “I believe so,” he answered. He smelled of cologne and his body radiated heat and energy. The gun was there, beneath his expensive wool jacket. Every time he moved, even slightly, I was aware of his powerful, panther-like build. Everything about him spelled danger and seduction, yet I ignored the signals. I was on the job, not on the make.