The Miracle Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

  Raydean hesitated and cut her eyes over at me. Pat took the opportunity to move up behind her and grab the arm that held the knife. Raydean started to struggle, but Pat was much stronger.

  “Raydean,” she said calmly, “Sierra ain’t up to this. Leave the nice man be, and let’s us go on.”

  Raydean pouted, or else still had quite a wad in her jaw. I sighed and looked over at Vincent. The pan with the lasagna shook ever so slightly.

  “Beware the Ides of March,” Raydean said cryptically. Pat led her gently from the kitchen and out the door.

  Vincent slowly backed away from the oven and put down the lasagna.

  “I’m sure you’re tired,” he said, trying to act like Raydean hadn’t shook him. He looked ridiculous in my apron, but I didn’t say anything. I was tired.

  “If you want to go lie down, I’ll bring you something to eat in a little while.” He looked embarrassed. “It’s my mother’s lasagna,” he said, nodding toward the pan. “She swears by it, an old family recipe.”

  “Vincent,” I said, suddenly wanting to cry, “that’s decent, thanks.” I headed toward my room with Fluffy at my heels. “There’s no place like home, Fluffy,” I said.

  Whatever the deal was with Denise and Arlo, I’d done as much as I could. It was time for somebody else to take over and leave me out. When I found her, that was just what I was going to say. That is, once I knew she was all right.

  Fluffy leaped up on the bed and stood on her pillow watching me undress. I had to move slow, pulling each arm gently out of my blouse, careful not to disturb the stitches on my right forearm or jar the wrenched shoulder on my left side. I was covered with bruises and scrapes. I stood for a moment and stared at my reflection in the mirror on the back of my closet door. My long blond hair needed attention, but it hurt to lift my arms to brush it. My usually tan, thin body looked pale and scrawny, and my legs were covered with black-and-blue splotches. I wouldn’t be dancing for a couple of weeks.

  “So how’re we gonna pay the bills, eh, Fluff?” Fluffy growled deep in her tiny throat. She was worried about her dog chow. “Hey, I always take care of you, don’t I?” Fluffy eyed me cautiously. “Have I ever left you hanging?” Fluffy barked and I took that for agreement. We’d get by, but it’d be lean for a while.

  I slipped into my SAVE THE EARTH nightshirt and crawled in between the covers. They’d given me another painkiller before I left the hospital, and I could feel it drifting up behind my eyes and pulling me down. I fell asleep and had the strangest dream. Denise and I were riding on her Harley, with Arlo on the handlebars. Frankie and Rambo were passing us on their bikes, going in the opposite direction. Rambo was leering at me but Frankie was screaming, his mouth wide open and blood trailing behind him. His eyes were fixed and filled with terror. Denise tried to reach for him as he flew past, but I pulled her hand away, forcing her to stay on the road.

  * * *

  I woke up to the sound of Vincent rumbling through the trailer, coming down my tiny hallway. When he reached my closed door, I could hear him shifting a tray filled with dishes.

  “Sierra?”

  “Come in,” I answered, hitching the covers up to my armpits.

  Vincent stood in the doorway. The apron had vanished and he carried a tray. Fluffy was gone from her pillow, outside I assumed.

  “What time is it?” I asked. Vincent set the tray down on the edge of the bed and consulted his gold Rolex watch.

  “Four-fifteen,” he answered. I pushed up further in bed and motioned toward the one chair in my room, an old cane-bottomed piece I’d found at a garage sale. It was taking a risk, but I figured it could hold Vincent.

  “Take a load off,” I said. Vincent looked uncertain but did as I asked. The chair groaned. I held my breath and waited. Nothing broke.

  “Vincent, I appreciate what you did here. You didn’t have to do that. It isn’t like we’ve been the best of friends or nothing.” I paused, trying to think of what to say next and how to say it. Vincent took that problem right out of my hands.

  “Sierra,” he began, “don’t think I don’t know how you and the others talk about me. I got my ways of knowing what’s going on.” I didn’t doubt that; he probably had tape recorders stuck in the dressing room. “But you girls gotta understand, the Tiffany means a lot to me. I gotta be tough to keep you guys in line. That don’t mean I’m gonna sit by and let one of you get hurt. And you being Moose Lavotini’s daughter…” His voice trailed off and he gave me a look of significance.

  I felt bad, because I wasn’t going to correct his belief that I was Big Moose’s daughter. I needed that hold, and I wasn’t going to give it up just because he was here making me lasagna. For all I knew, he was trying to get in good with Big Moose. So I laid back against the pillows.

  “But I need to know what’s going on, Sierra,” Vincent said. “Don’t think I don’t know something’s up.”

  “What are you talking about, Vincent?” I asked innocently, stuffing lasagna in my mouth. Vincent’s mother’s recipe was a killer.

  “Arlo hasn’t been to work with Denise in five days. She’s walking around crying her eyes out and you’re whispering to her every opportunity you get. Then some dead guy turns up at her place. Someone shoots at you two in the parking lot, thereby making it my business, and now Denise ain’t been to work or called in for three days.”

  “And all that means what to you, Vincent?” I was avoiding looking at him. Instead, I stared at his mother’s lasagna.

  “Don’t act dumb with me, Sierra,” Vincent snarled, back to his nasty disagreeable self. “I want to know what’s going on with you two. I got rights here, you know.”

  Fluffy picked that moment to go off. She came scampering through the doggie door and down the hallway, barking to alert me that we had company and they weren’t friends of hers.

  “Better see who that is,” I said to Vincent. He didn’t like it. He wanted to stay and hear me answer his question, but Fluffy upped the ante by barking louder and jumping all over him.

  “Get off me, you mutt,” Vincent growled. He stood up and looked out the window. “It’s that cop that came to see you at the club. He’s got some woman with him.”

  “That’s Agent Terrance.” I sighed, my heart suddenly picking up the pace and forcing the lasagna to stick in my throat. “Look, you put them in the living room and tell them I’ll be right there.” I’d be damned if they’d catch me looking like hell again. If I was going to jail, then I’d go in style.

  Most people don’t know much about double-wides and trailer parks. Some people have the preconceived notion that trailers are flimsy and trashy, that those of us who reside therein don’t have taste. That couldn’t be further from the truth. My trailer is real nice. It isn’t new, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s bright and filled with sunlight from the bay windows in the kitchen and the living room.

  If you come in off the parking pad, then you’d come in through the kitchen. In the eat-in area I’ve got a round, high-topped table and four barstool chairs that I got from a club that was going out of business. The kitchen cabinets are a light maple and the walls are white. I’ve got all kinds of doodads that I collect at flea markets and the like. I keep them on the pass-through bookshelves that divide the kitchen from the living room.

  The living room is filled mostly with plants and my stereo. I’ve got a futon sofa and a couple of armchairs, but it’s where I practice my routines, so I keep it clear in the middle. I keep my book collection on shelves I made out of boards and bricks. I’ve got a complete collection of McMurtry novels, J. D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee series, some Eudora Welty, and some old psychology books, just for a better understanding of my fellowman.

  After storms and usually in the winter, I go down to St. Andrews Park and collect shells. I keep them all lined up across the bay-window ledge. That’s where I found Detective Nailor, inspecting my shell collection. Special Agent Terrance was writing something down on a notepad and ignoring Vince
nt.

  Nailor smiled when I walked slowly into the living room. I ached all over from getting dressed and putting on makeup. For only a moment, he didn’t smile like a cop, he smiled the way a man smiles at a woman. I don’t think Special Agent Terrance saw him, but behind me I heard her notebook snap shut. Nailor looked at her for a moment, then back at me.

  “Your story checked out with the truck driver,” he said. “He woke up yesterday and we saw him this morning. Also, we recovered spent bullet casings from the parking lot of the Tiffany, and Bruno backed up your story.”

  I was about to heave a sigh of relief when Terrance decided to get in on the act.

  “That doesn’t mean we couldn’t make a case against you for reckless driving, driving while intoxicated, and reckless endangerment,” she said, her voice a husky rasp.

  “Then why don’t you?” I said, spinning to face her. Vincent had wandered over to the kitchen and he coughed like he was voicing the opinion that I should quit while I was ahead. Something about Terrance irritated me and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Special Agent Terrance took a step closer. I didn’t back off. If I hadn’t hurt so bad, I might have considered adding the charge of assaulting an officer to her list of possibilities, but as it was, I was doing well just remaining upright.

  “Where is Denise Curtis?” she snapped.

  “You tell me,” I answered. Vincent coughed loudly. Terrance looked past me and over at Nailor.

  “I didn’t come all this way to have some two-bit stripper give me a hard time,” she said. “I say we take her in. Screw doing things the nice way.”

  Nailor looked concerned, like maybe Terrance was going a little too far. He looked over at me and shrugged.

  “Ms. Lavotini,” he said, “you are going to force this to turn ugly. I don’t think any of us wants that to happen.” I wasn’t so sure Terrance agreed with that. She looked like she’d like nothing better than a good fight with anyone in the room.

  “Put it together for yourself,” he continued. “Your friend finds somebody dead in her apartment. You and your friend get shot at. What does that say, Ms. Lavotini?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “It says Ms. Curtis has pissed somebody off, and maybe they’re pissed at you now, too.”

  I’d like to say that I’d already thought of that, but I hadn’t. Maybe Denise had got herself disposed of, and now whoever it was would come after me. Maybe they would think I knew more than I did. I didn’t want to consider that possibility.

  “Why were you chasing a car that had fired shots at you?” Terrance asked.

  “I was doing my job as a model citizen,” I said. “I thought I could catch the license plate number and turn it over to you.”

  Underneath her dark complexion, Terrance burned a bright red. Nailor must’ve known she was about to blow.

  “Ms. Lavotini, I’m asking you to remember what I said about this turning ugly.”

  “All right,” I said. “I thought I saw Denise’s missing dog in the car and I was going after him.” When you can’t dazzle them with bullshit, hand them the truth.

  Even Nailor looked disgusted now. Terrance snapped shut her notebook and shoved it in her purse.

  “I’m telling you the truth. Someone snatched Denise’s dog, Arlo. They left her a note saying that when she gave them a hundred large, she could have him back.”

  “What the hell kind of dog was it?” Terrance demanded.

  “A mutt,” I answered.

  Nailor shook his head, like I was a slow learner. Terrance was still inches from my face.

  “Who in the hell would think a mutt dog was worth a hundred thousand dollars?” she asked. “There isn’t a dog in the world worth that much money.”

  Fluffy, who until this moment had been lying quietly on the arm of the futon, stood up, looked over at Carla Terrance, and proceeded to break loud, stinky wind.

  The interview was over. Nailor and Terrance left the trailer in one hell of a hurry. Denise’s search for Arlo meant nothing to the cops. They considered me an unreliable and hostile witness and they considered Fluffy a menace to society.

  Ten

  I woke up at two A.M. because there was a strange noise in my trailer. Little clicks and gentle taps. I looked over on the pillow and found that Fluffy was gone again. I’d come into my room hours ago to lie down, but instead had slept through dinner and into the night. I heard voices now, low and muffled. Who was in my trailer?

  Someone laughed and said, “Hit me.” I pulled on my purple chenille robe and ventured out of my room, creeping slowly down the hall. I paused at the entrance to the living room. A card table and four folding chairs were now arranged in the middle of the floor. A lamp had been dragged out from its place by the wall and positioned near the table. Bruno, Raydean, Pat, and Vincent sat around the table, embroiled in a game of seven-card stud.

  Bruno was dealing, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. From where I stood, it appeared that Raydean and Vincent had folded, leaving Bruno and Pat. Pat drew her last card slowly toward her, picking it up gently and placing it in her hand. She let the slight corner of a smile edge out, then quickly pulled it back into a frown. Bruno watched her and rearranged his hand.

  “How many d’you want?” he asked.

  Pat pretended to study her hand, the slight grin slipping loose again. “None.” She reached for two more chips and slid them toward the pot.

  Bruno shifted in his seat. “I fold,” he muttered. “Let’s see what you have. I know it was something ’cause of how you were grinning.”

  “Was I?” She looked flustered. “I can’t see how.” She inspected her cards, like maybe they’d changed and no one had told her. I felt sorry for Bruno; he was being played like a fiddle. “All I had was this.” She laid down her cards, face up. A pair of threes and a busted flush. Nothing.

  “And all this for me,” she said, raking the pot toward her. “How about that?”

  “Hit me!” Raydean exclaimed. “Hit me, big man. I love this game!” Raydean leaned over toward Vincent, who recoiled as if afraid. “What you say they call this game?”

  “Poker, Raydean,” I said. “Deal me in, Vincent.”

  Vincent was up like he’d been stung, grabbing a chair and pushing it in between his seat and Raydean’s.

  “Sierra, don’t they want you to stay in bed?” Pat had moved from cardsharp to mother.

  “I’ve been in bed all day. This’ll keep my mind off things,” I said, pulling my chair closer to the table. “What’re you guys all doing over here at two in the morning, anyway?” Vincent looked about half shot and Pat had to have a boat going out in three hours.

  “I told them I didn’t need company,” Bruno huffed. He probably thought his manhood was in question. “If there’s any trouble, I got Bruce.” Bruno edged his suit coat open to show the gun butt protruding from his shoulder holster. “I ain’t never needed no backup at the club and they all know it.”

  This was something. An elderly charter boat captain, a threehundred-pound nightclub owner, and a crazy person, all keeping watch over the professional bodyguard who was watching me.

  “You guys are something,” I said, looking around the table. “Who’s watching the club?” I asked Vincent.

  “Ralph,” Bruno answered for him, “and I called Big Ed in to cover the door. It’s taken care of.” Vincent glared at him.

  “And don’t you have to work in a couple of hours?” I asked Pat.

  “Not tomorrow,” she answered, bristling, “it’s Friday. I don’t go out on Fridays. And the issue here, Sierra, is your safety. We’re all concerned. I thought I could help out, that’s all.” Oh great, now I’d hurt her feelings.

  Raydean was the only one without a clue. She leaned over close to me and patted my arm gently, her expression blissful and loving.

  “Hit me, big man,” she whispered, and began dealing out the cards. Her expression suddenly changed, and she became intent and focused on her job. She glared around the table. “Fiv
e-card stud,” she growled, “deuces wild. Luck be a lady.” I wasn’t sure if her medicine had kicked in or if she’d decided we were all aliens.

  * * *

  We played until the sun came up. I couldn’t tell you who went home a winner. Vincent had been the first to leave. The urge to run over to the Tiffany to check the night’s take was too much for him and he left around four A.M. Raydean passed out on the futon around six A.M., and Pat wandered off to her trailer in time to catch the Today show. Bruno wouldn’t leave. He sat at the table, playing solitaire and watching out the bay window in the living room.

  “Bruno,” I said finally, “the cops were blowing smoke. Nobody is looking to hurt me. I am fine.”

  Bruno shook his head and kept on playing. He wasn’t much for heavy conversation. I struggled to make coffee, hoping something would keep me going. It was going to be a long day. See, I’d been playing cards, but I’d also been formulating a plan. The plan didn’t involve Bruno watching my every move. If I was going to find Denise, I needed a little room to maneuver.

  The way I saw it, the cops didn’t care about her. I hadn’t seen her boyfriend Frankie around, so chances were, he wasn’t busting his hump with concern. That left me. And Sierra Lavotini don’t run out on nobody, especially when I’m figuring they’re in trouble. If Denise’s ex had decided he had to have her back or possibly pay her back for leaving him, then somebody had to do something.

  I waited for the coffee to finish brewing, then poured a cup and faced Bruno. He was bent over his cards, and like a concentrating child, a tiny piece of his tongue protruded from his mouth. Bruno had a flattop, military haircut, and as he leaned closer into his game, I could see shiny white skin gleaming under his dull brown hair.

  “You know, Bruno,” I said, yawning, “I could do with a little lie-down. I think I’ll wander back to my room for a while.” He grunted and I escaped.

  Fluffy watched me come into the room and close the door. She knew something was up and she wasn’t going to miss out on the action.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “these are just the preliminaries.” I pulled the phone across the bed and dialed. “Let’s call your uncle Al. He won’t give us the runaround, eh, Fluff?” Fluffy sighed and rearranged herself on the pillow. “Yeah, I know,” I said, “pray his girlfriend already left for work.”