Barboni shook his head slowly. He couldn’t believe it.
“I have explaining to do?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Like, where’s your suitcase? Where are your toiletries? Why is there no sign that you’ve ever slept in that room?”
We were coming up on Grayton Beach. If he stopped I was in good shape. If he kept on going, I was dead. He stopped two minutes later at the only five-star restaurant on the Panhandle. Michael’s is perhaps Florida’s best-kept secret, and yet the tiny parking lot was full, leaving only one space beside the trash Dumpster. NO PARKING AT ANY TIME, read the sign. Barboni couldn’t read.
“You know what?” he asked, turning to look at me.
“What?”
He smiled slowly. “You’re full of shit. I like that. Let’s eat.”
He wasn’t going to answer my questions and he wasn’t going to kill me. At least, not until after dinner.
He unfolded himself from the tiny sportscar and stood waiting expectantly. Apparently waiting for him to open my door would’ve been pushing it. I stepped out onto the sand and gravel lot and pointed to the No Parking sign.
Barboni shrugged. “Don’t look like a fucking law to me. Do you see any trash trucks coming to make a pickup?”
I walked around the front of the car and started up the wide wooden steps to Michael’s. The building was low-slung, with a tin roof. If you’d dropped it down by the beach it would’ve passed for an elderly vacation cottage. There were rocking chairs on the porch and a huge beveled glass door that swung open as an unseen hostess spotted us and opened it.
“Welcome to Michael’s,” she whispered. She was a reed-thin blonde with a long black skirt, a white form-hugging polyester blouse, and a need to please.
“Barboni, party of two,” he said, smiling like he approved.
“We’re expecting you, sir.” Her eyes were only on him. “Right this way. I believe you requested the private room?”
“I did.”
She was walking across the pine floors, past quiet tables with flickering candles and white linen tablecloths, out onto a small screened porch. One table waited in the middle of the tiny room, banked behind it was a chintz sofa. Intimate dining at its best.
The hostess pulled the table out and waited for us to sit down before she pushed it back, trapping me against the wall. Barboni sat beside me, a foot away, turned slightly so he could face me. The way I figured it, I was right where he wanted me.
“Bring us a bottle of Taittinger,” he said, smiling at the hostess and slipping a bill into her hand. Funny how the guy tipped everywhere but the Tiffany.
I studied the porch. There were bookshelves behind us, filled with old novels. An elderly ceiling fan whirred, producing the barest breeze, pulling in warm sea air. Glass windows were folded up like shutters waiting for the truly hot weather of summer, or the occasional thunderstorm. In any other circumstance, this would be my kind of place. Tonight, however, it seemed two-dimensional, a façade that, should I allow it, would lure me into a false sense of security.
A waitress returned with the champagne and two flutes. She popped the cork slowly and poured, all the while rattling off the evening’s specials. Barboni waited until she finished.
“Just bring us two good salads with a balsamic vinaigrette, two filets, medium-rare, two baked potatoes, fully loaded, and then finish up with two coffees, regular, a piece of key lime pie and”—he looked over at me appraisingly—“a chocolate mousse. You got that?”
The tiny waitress nodded, her dark-haired bob jumping up and down. How New York provincial, I thought. Order your usual, don’t consult the lady, just take charge. Whatever. I needed to arrive home alive. What was making a stink over steak and potatoes compared to my personal safety?
Barboni watched the waitress walk away, picked up his glass and then motioned for me to do the same. I figured he was going to make some crass toast and was surprised when he didn’t. Instead he drank thoughtfully for a moment and then looked over at me.
“Sierra,” he said, “I like your style. You’re a liar and you make no apologies for it. Even your explanations are lies. Fair enough.” He took another sip of champagne and I fairly gulped mine. “You and I come from the same background. Things aren’t always what they seem and you learn not to ask a bunch of questions that might cause an otherwise lovely evening to turn ugly. Am I right?”
I nodded. I was listening, but I was also casting about for my eventual response. I needed a don’t-fuck-with-me policy, something that would ensure my safety.
“So, here’s how it’s gonna work,” Barboni continued. “No questions. No lies. Just a good time had on a casual basis between two consenting adults. It ain’t gonna last because I’m not sticking around this hellhole any longer than I have to, and if you were looking to return up north, you would’ve done so by now. Understand?”
I nodded, took a sip of my champagne, and prepared to knock his dick in the dirt. I set my flute back on the table and turned toward him.
“I’m guessing we come from the same, shall we say, family structure?” I said. “And just so’s you can feel more at home, I should tell you that my family has a long connection with New Jersey.” I looked at him like he should be catching my drift and saw that he was listening carefully. “To be specific, my uncle Moose lives in Cape May.”
Ah, the lights were on and the Barbonis were home. His eyes widened a little. I saw him thinking that he’d been about to mess seriously with a member of another family, a family that would not take kindly to someone hurting their little girl in any way, shape, or fashion.
“Your uncle is ‘Big Moose’ Lavotini?” he asked.
I shrugged like maybe he was slow on the uptake. “What do you think?” I said. “In fact, his son’s due in town to visit me tomorrow. You know, take in the sights, relax a little. That might jam up my free time a bit, but I could still probably work in a lunch or something.”
Too late, I saw the wheels turning. Little Moose would be due in tomorrow; that left all of tonight.
“Actually,” I said, sneaking a peak at my watch, “he says tomorrow, but he’s so precise. I figure him to arrive in town sometime shortly after midnight.”
If I didn’t miss my guess, Barboni gulped. What was it about that syndicate that scared the piss out of everybody? Someday I’d have to do some more careful research into those Lavotinis, but for now, it was enough that I used them to bail me out of any and all difficulties where a mobster would be a helpful contact.
“Of course,” I said, eyeing the waitress’s approach, “I’m sure you got family back home, too. Have you met my uncle?”
Barboni laughed. “Ain’t nobody seen Big Moose. Not for years. Word is, after the big one, he decided it was better to lay low.”
What big one was that? I wondered.
“Aw,” I said, “I saw him just last year. I was up for the holidays. He’s big on family togetherness.”
Barboni was looking at me like I had two heads. “Your dad must be the other brother,” he said softly. “The one the Moose didn’t kill.”
Shit. What could I do? I nodded and dug into my salad. I had a very dangerous family.
“So, set me up to meet Little Moose,” he said suddenly.
I dropped my salad fork, sending it crashing to the floor between us. “What?”
“I’d like to meet your cousin,” he said. “Maybe we share some common interests.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s a quiet guy. He don’t even drive fast. Besides, when he comes to see me, he just wants his rest and relaxation.”
Barboni laughed. “That’s not what I hear,” he said. “Word is Little Moose does his thinking with the little head and not the big. I figure he’s coming to see you so’s he can try the variety at the Tiffany without having to pay for it. I hear he ain’t big on relationships. I hear he’s left a trail of dead pros. I hear he wears them out and then…”
Barboni stopped, probably realizing he sh
ouldn’t be talking about my cousin in such a cavalier fashion. He was right.
“Little Moose ain’t like that,” I said. I was starting to warm to my role. “Little Moose may have his problems with the opposite sex, but that is because he’s a thinker. He don’t spend a lot of time with feelings, henceforth, he misconstrues the signals his women give him. If he’s turned to pros, it’s on account of he don’t want to get hurt any further. Little Moose is a sensitive guy.”
Barboni chuckled softly. “If you say so,” he said. “I’ve just seen the mess he leaves when he’s on a tear, and believe me, it ain’t pretty.” He raised his left hand in defense. “No disrespect intended, understand. I’m just saying, people shouldn’t cross him, that’s all.”
I took my opportunity and looked Barboni right in the eyes. “Nobody should cross a Lavotini,” I said. “Nobody.”
Barboni refilled our glasses and raised his in a toast. “Here’s to not crossing any Lavotinis without mutual and informed consent.”
I tossed mine back, never taking my eyes off his face. “So,” I said, “are you here on business or not?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something white moving, just behind Barboni, outside the porch, level with the floor. My team had arrived. I smiled and sat back, waiting for Barboni’s answer.
“Like I said, and I mean no disrespect to you and yours, but ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
He wasn’t budging, not for the Big Moose or for the little one. Oh, well.
“Just like you got the word wrong about my cousin, I thought you would welcome the opportunity to set the record straight on the rumors about you.”
“What rumors?” Barboni asked.
“Like that you’re here to teach a lesson to certain circuit girls who won’t pay to play, so to speak. I hear you’re the muscle to enforce a certain, shall we say, insurance policy.”
Barboni’s face reddened.
“Word has it, sometimes you gotta do that to set the others straight. Sometimes, when you’re looking after people, you’ve gotta keep them in line.”
Barboni seemed to be wrestling with himself. He sat there, a faraway look in his eyes, and said nothing. When he roused himself, he looked back at me and shrugged.
“Everybody needs insurance,” he whispered, and drained his flute dry. “If my company has a customer and they don’t pay for the service we provide, well, sometimes I have to step in. I guess you could call me a customer-relations sort of guy. Likewise, if my customers are in need of assistance, I’d be the man to call.
The waitress picked that moment to arrive with our steaks, effectively cutting off any response I could’ve made. At least I had him on the run. I was one of those Lavotinis.
Twenty
Dinner was lovely, so long as you didn’t think about the company or the circumstances of said dinner. The mousse was lighter than air, but it was the key lime pie that did me in. A dancer is not supposed to indulge in indiscretions like dessert, but I’ve never had to worry about my figure. It takes care of itself; the Lavotini genes, I guess.
Barboni was having an equally nice time. He smiled continuously, at everyone, including me. Every now and then his beefy hand would slide over and rest on my thigh. After a couple of glasses of champagne, I began to think I rather enjoyed the attention. By the time he paid the bill and we started to leave, I was having ideas that maybe I wouldn’t mind kissing him. Crazy, I know, since I was fairly certain he was a hired killer working to ensure that the visiting porn stars paid their cut to their mob protectors.
We stepped out onto the porch and he slipped his arm around my waist. We walked at a leisurely pace toward the car. I could practically taste the man, so that was an indication of my level of sobriety. I was chalking it up to the Courvoisier we’d had with our coffees. He stopped just short of the Boxster and grabbed my arm. Here it comes, I thought, and turned to face him.
“Holy fucking shit!” he yelled.
This was not exactly the effect I had worked to engender, but then, different men react differently in the throes of passion. However, I did open my eyes. He was staring at his car. It had four flat tires.
I knew they’d heard him from inside, but I guess the little blond hostess knew it wasn’t her job to deal with an irate expatron. The door remained firmly closed. We were in the middle of almost nowhere, with four flat tires and no hope of salvation. So when the tow truck pulled into the driveway mere seconds after our discovery, I was not only shocked but delighted. The fact that the tow truck was the twin of Pat’s pickup, with a yellow flashing light hastily stuck on the roof, only further peaked my euphoria. The team was working.
Pat hopped down from the truck, left it running, and strode forward. She was wearing her work clothes: faded overalls, a bleached-out ball cap, and a tool belt. She walked up to the Boxster, kicked one of the tires, and turned to face Barboni.
“Reckon you don’t have four spares, huh?” she asked.
Barboni barely stopped himself from exploding. I squeezed his arm and stepped in front of him.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Can you help us out?”
Pat grinned. “Sure can,” she said. “My sister’s on her way with a cab. Way I see it, we gotta call for a flatbed from over in Destin or P.C. Cain’t get aholt of one before tomorrow morning. We’ll have you good to go by then. In the meantime, Geniveve’ll run you on home. You folks staying nearby?”
I managed to look disappointed. “No, we’re at the Moongazer back in Panama City.”
Pat just nodded and looked at the car. Barboni stepped away and pulled out a tiny cellular phone. We watched in silence as he paced back and forth across the lot, talking, gesturing with his hands, and venting. He paused, he listened, and finally he gave up, slamming the little phone shut and walking back to face down Pat.
“This is the best you can do?” he said, as Raydean’s Plymouth Fury pulled into the lot. “You don’t even got a real tow truck?”
Pat nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “Best we can do this time of night. See this?” she said, motioning to the winch mounted onto the bed of the truck. “That’s my multipurpose tourist-hauler. I can pull you outta the sand when you attempt to four-wheel. I can haul you outta the water when you’re fishing and don’t know the tide tables. And I can haul you back to the garage when you break down. But I cannot haul a fancy foreign car with four flat tires. What’re you people doing out here anyways? Ain’t no restaurant worth paying a gagillion dollars for food that don’t fill a plate. And to drive twenty-something miles just to get here?” Pat shook her head. “Why that’s just asking for trouble.”
Raydean pulled up beside Pat, stuck her head out the window, and spit. At least she’d lost the curlers. It was taking a hell of a chance that Barboni wouldn’t recognize her as it was. But it was dark, and to some men all old ladies look alike.
“Geniveve’s Giddy-Yaps,” she called cheerfully. “You two need a ride?”
“Can you take us to the Moongazer in P.C.?” I asked.
“That place is overrun with aliens,” she said, “but, yes, if you insist, I can take you there.”
Barboni looked at the mint-condition 1962 Plymouth Fury and scowled. It was not a limo. It was not even the yellow cab I knew he was used to, but it was transportation. He didn’t give Raydean more than a cursory glance.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he muttered.
We slid into Raydean’s backseat and I quickly pulled on a seatbelt. Barboni, never having ridden with her, didn’t. Poor baby. Raydean floored it, chirped the tires out onto Highway 98, and took off like a bat out of hell. With one hand she reached over and switched the radio to a country station and cranked up the volume.
“You lovebirds enjoy yourselves,” she yelled from the front. “Nothing like country to put you in the mood.”
“Can you turn it off?” Barboni boomed.
“What?”
“Turn it off!”
Raydean reached
over and turned the volume up. “Anything you say, sir!”
Barboni groaned and leaned back against the seat. His evening was clearly ruined. Tammy Wynette started crooning “Stand by Your Man,” and I laughed.
“Aw, lighten up, Barboni,” I said. “Look at it like this: you’re in the backseat of a car with a beautiful woman on a lovely evening. Relax.”
Barboni took my advice. He turned to me, slid his arm around my neck, and started to pull me toward him.
Raydean jerked the wheel and Barboni lurched sideways.
“What the fuck?”
“Possum!” Raydean yelled.
Barboni tried again. This time he cupped my chin with his fingers and tilted my head. His lips brushed mine and Raydean ran off the road, onto the shoulder. We bounced around like rubber balls as Raydean fought to regain control of the car.
“Antelope,” she called back to us. “Feisty little critters.”
“Don’t you mean armadillos?” Barboni asked.
“Nope,” Raydean answered. “Have a nice day.”
It took Barboni only three tries to figure that whenever he made his move, Raydean would be watching. If she was watching us, she wouldn’t be watching the road. He gave up.
We rode along with Raydean humming to the golden oldies, country-style. Now and then I peeked through the rear window and saw a comforting pair of headlights following us. My team was working their magic.
Raydean slowed down as she approached the edge of Panama City Beach.
“Y’all sure you want the Moongazer?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” Barboni said. He was counting down the seconds until he would escape the backseat of the Fury.
Raydean drove on, making a beeline for the hotel. She turned into the sweeping expanse of cobblestoned driveway, narrowly missing the fountain itself, and screeched to a halt in front of the revolving doors. She then jumped out of the front seat and pulled my door open, bowing like a servant as I stepped out of the car.
Film Strip Page 12
