Bruno shook his head. “Nah, Sierra,” he said, “this time it’s different. She got Big Ed to rig up this apparatus that makes her fly.”
Immediately I started to picture Marla, her big boobs hanging like watermelons as she careened out over the audience, singing in her squeaky off-key voice “God Bless America.” Big Ed, nice guy that he was, couldn’t have rigged any device that could make Marla fly gracefully across the runway. It was impossible. Even if he had, Marla didn’t have the natural wherewithal to pull it off.
“No big deal, Bruno,” I scoffed.
“No, Sierra, it is a big deal. She made it all fancy, with a silver sequin costume made up to look like a B-52 bomber. She even got silver wings on her arms. The guys love it, especially when she grabs her tits and yells, ‘Bombs away, boys!’ I’m telling you, honey, they’re flocking like bees. Vincent said the door was up five hundred bucks last night.” Bruno didn’t look any too happy.
“So? That’s great, isn’t it?” Bruno didn’t need to see me sweat.
“No, it’s not great. Them Air Force boys get to drinking, then they start fighting. Then I gotta break it all up. It’s a pain in the ass, Sierra. The Tiffany don’t cater to that crowd. If she keeps this up, the regulars will stop coming in.”
“Bruno, take it easy,” I said. “I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“You are?” He looked uncertain. “How’re you gonna do that?”
“Bruno, I’m fine, really. Tell Vincent I said to make sure my spot’s open because I’ll be there.”
I’ll admit I was feeling a little nervous, but Marla was going to eventually screw it up, it was her nature. She wouldn’t need my help to topple, but nonetheless, I shouldn’t take chances. I’d been out long enough. It was time to make my return, and it better start off with a bang.
Sixteen
The house lights dropped. The spots panned the audience briefly, more a product of Rusty’s ineptitude than intention, then crossed together to form a slender pool of light in center stage. The fog machine I’d rented for my big comeback belched a low gray cloud across the runway.
Out in the house, the crowd was noisier than usual. Marla’s fans were ready for action and stoking their libidos with alcohol. I stood behind the curtain, waiting. The music began. Tracy Chapman’s throaty voice undulated over the crowd, signaling that the headliner was about to make her appearance.
I stepped out of the fog wearing a strapless black velvet sheath. The skirt was slit to my thigh on either side, and five-inch stiletto heels stretched my legs to infinity. I wore black satin gloves up to my elbows and a rhinestone dog collar necklace, and I had piled my blond hair high up on my head. If you can’t dazzle them with silver sequins and B-52s, give them the real thing.
I moved forward, stepping out of the fog and onto the runway, letting the music guide my movements. I swayed, slowly, running my satin-sheathed fingers up my torso, bringing them up until they cradled my breasts, pushing them forward like an offering. The room had come to a complete standstill and the only sound was Tracy Chapman’s smoky voice, echoing through the night.
I slowly stripped off each glove, tossing them to the quiet servicemen who knelt almost reverentially in front of the runway. Then I reached back to undo the zipper of my gown, letting it fall in a puddle around my high heels. There was a collective sigh, and I knew every man in the room was mine.
Instead of going for the thigh-high black fishnets, I let my hands wander slowly up my neck, up until I reached the pin holding up my hair. Men were slowly moving toward the stage, as if drawn like lemmings by an unstoppable force. Their eyes were pleading. Take it down, they begged silently. Men are such babies, I thought.
Habit led me to glance over at the bar, looking for Denise. Frankie and Rambo were sitting there watching. Rambo stuck his boot out when he saw me looking and made a kicking motion. I ignored the asshole and turned my attention to behind the bar, where a newcomer stood wiping it down. Mechanically, I reached for one of the hooks holding up a fishnet stocking. Fucking Vincent, I thought. That was loyalty for you. Denise had been gone what, a week? Already he’d replaced her.
Now her replacement was watching me. He stood behind the bar, a tall, lanky man in a Stetson. His face was thin and full of angles. Vincent must’ve hired a token cowboy. The bartender smiled, a slow, easy, knowing grin, and I looked away. Smart-ass cowboy.
I ran my stocking between my legs and tossed it out to a businessman at one of the front tables. He caught it, grinned, and walked up to the edge of the runway holding a twenty-dollar bill. The room was heating up. I saw Bruno and Big Ed move protectively forward as I started to unhook my bra. The airmen were in for a surprise if they tried getting out of hand. There was always one, but Bruno’d snarl at him and it’d be over before it really started.
Rusty, the stage manager, was standing by the fog machine, waiting for the grand finale. I tossed my bra in his direction and strutted forward down the runway. This is always my favorite part, right close to the end, when the tension and the testosterone are mounting and I’m the one in charge.
I reached the end of the runway and stood there, massaging the tips of my nipples until they stood up stiff and hard. There wasn’t a dry seat in the house. Then with one hand I snatched at my breakaway panties, and with the other I dropped the little smoke bomb my friend Ernie at the magic shop had given me. There was a moan from the audience and I’d disappeared.
Vincent was backstage when I walked off. He handed me my silk kimono and he was smiling.
“You came back in a big way,” he said. He wasn’t gonna be pissed that I’d disappeared on him. His headliner was back and the bucks were rolling in. Out in the house I could hear the dull roar of the crowd, still clamoring for more Sierra.
“So, who’s the asshole in the cowboy hat you got out front?” I asked.
Vincent didn’t flinch. “That’s Lyle. He’s from Texas.”
“No, I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Vincent knew we were going to have a problem. His dark glasses could hide his twitching eye, but they couldn’t hide the way he clenched his jaw.
“What about Denise?” I asked. “We just going to forget about her and hire Roy Rogers?”
We were drawing a little audience. The girls getting ready to go on couldn’t quite pretend they weren’t listening. Rusty stood just behind Vincent, to his left. He was openly listening, forgetting all about the next act.
“Sierra,” Vincent huffed, “I run a business. That girl’s been gone a week. She ain’t called. The police ain’t worried about her. It’s the general opinion that Denise don’t want to be found. What else can I do? I covered for her with the backups as long as I could, but I need someone here full time to cover her shift.”
I didn’t answer him. I whirled around and headed off for the dressing room. Why did I think anybody around here gave a shit, anyway? I knew Vincent was only doing what he had to do, but still it felt wrong, unfair.
Marla was waiting in the dressing room. She was carefully applying silver glitter eyeshadow and trying to act nonchalant. She was wearing part of her costume, a silver sequined bodice with an American flag on her chest. Matching silver shoes lay beside her chair and the wings leaned against the side of her dressing table.
“You’re back,” she said in a strangled, little-girl tone. “I’m glad.”
“No you’re not,” I said pointedly, “but nice try.” Marla straightened up and eyed me nervously.
“Sierra,” she said, all sugar and spice, “let’s us try to get along. We’re all one big family—”
“Marla, cut the crap. I’m not in your family and you damn sure ain’t in mine. Face facts. You spent the week I’ve been gone trying to worm your way to the top and take my slot.” She wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I expected no less from you. But I’m back now,” I said as I walked slowly toward her, enjoying the fear in her eyes, “so any ideas you had about taking my place are hereby made history. Got that?”
&nbs
p; Marla was trying hard not to blink, not to back down, but her south Alabama breeding didn’t hold her up. She swallowed hard and would have answered me, had not Rusty interrupted us.
“Sierra, the new guy, Lyle, told me he found some of Denise’s stuff behind the bar. He was wondering what to do with it. I figured you might want it, maybe you’ll be seeing her.”
I stared at him, completely forgetting Marla. Rusty stood holding the dressing-room door open. He was trying to act like it didn’t faze him, seeing girls running around half dressed, but he was one of those guys who never quite get used to it. Rusty was fair-skinned and redheaded. His feelings had a way of creeping up his neck and staining his face, no matter how much facial hair he tried to grow. Rusty was a boy and wouldn’t be a man even in old age.
“Where is it?” I asked. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that Denise had left something behind at the club.
“Lyle’s got it behind the bar. Says it’s a makeup bag or something like that.” Marla was using the distraction to edge her way toward Rusty and out the door. I let her go. Life had suddenly slipped back into focus. I had Denise and Arlo to think of. This was no time for a catfight.
* * *
Lyle was an efficient bartender. He combined an economy of motion with an easy patter of small talk. I watched him reach into the cooler for a beer and a frosted mug with one hand, while neatly placing a napkin in front of a customer and saying something that made the man in front of him laugh. He was a man’s man, but not one of those with a point to prove. He was easy and confident with his masculinity.
I stood at the edge of the waitress station, watching him finish with the customer and waiting. I knew he saw me because he reached under the bar and picked up Denise’s floral makeup bag before he turned around and walked toward me.
“You must be Sierra,” he said in a soft Texan drawl. He glanced up at me quickly, then looked away, almost as if he were shy.
“No flies on you, cowboy.” I took the bag he offered, my fingers lightly grazing his. “This all?” I asked.
Lyle shoved his tan felt Stetson a little further back on his head and stared into my eyes. With my heels on, we were even. Maybe he had an inch or so on me, but I could look almost straight back at him. His face was tanned and lines played around his eyes and mouth. He looked like the genuine article, but why would a real cowboy tend bar?
“It is, Sierra, less’n you’d do me a favor and let me buy you a drink after closing.”
I looked back at him, then over his shoulder at the customers lining the bar. They were all watching, and despite the volume of the music, I had the feeling they all knew what was going on and what Lyle was asking. They were rooting for Lyle.
Lyle looked at me, his gaze unwavering, expectant, and earnest. What I liked about the way he asked was that he was straightforward. No gimmicks. It wasn’t going to make or break his day if I said no. Shit. Why the hell not, I thought. I say yes to one guy and simultaneously fulfill the fantasies of ten others. It wasn’t like I exactly had an overload of male company in my life. And it was only a drink, for pity’s sake. Why the hell not? I said yes and the whole bar ordered another round.
To his credit, Lyle didn’t try to act like this was a goal and he’d just scored. He merely nodded politely, said he’d see me later, and went back to his job. I went backstage clutching Denise’s bag and feeling like maybe the tide was turning.
Don’t misunderstand me. I am not a princess and I do not feel like any man who gets to spend time with me has been granted some royal privilege. Quite the contrary. But in my line of work, men overlook the personality inside and deal only with the package. I can understand that. I created my image. It earns me a good living, but the drawback, and sometimes the blessing, is that I don’t meet too many men who go beyond the exotic dancer to the self-actualized inner being.
I dated a therapist one time who told me this was a defense mechanism. “Well, who doesn’t know that?” I said. “Sometimes being a little lonely, with money to spare, is better than life with an alcoholic asshole who beats you.”
My therapist boyfriend said, “Let’s talk about the alcoholic asshole who beat you.”
“Hey, Sigmund, when I need a therapist, I’ll pay one,” I said, and quit dating him. Like I was saying, who needs complications and assholes? Just give me a man who doesn’t feel you’re an engine that needs to be tuned up or overhauled. This once, let me find a guy who doesn’t only want to get laid and own you.
I was ready to hop up onstage and start lecturing when I remembered Denise’s bag and the real reason for traveling out and meeting Lyle in the first place. I took a detour into the dancers’ rest rooms and decided to have a look-see in private.
I sat down on the commode in one of the stalls and unzipped the bag. Denise had crammed her few essentials into a small space. A lipstick in a cheap gold case spilled out onto the floor and rolled across the cracked ceramic tile. Mascara, powder, and various other cosmetics crowded to the top of the bag. I emptied them out hastily into my lap, hoping to find something, anything, that might lead me to Denise.
At the bottom of the bag, I found the only remaining tokens of Denise’s life in Panama City, a picture of Arlo sitting on the back of Denise’s Harley and a Blue Marlin Motel key. I figured the key was Denise’s spare, hidden in her bag in case her other one got lost. I cradled the picture of Arlo, staring at his little gray face. His dark dog eyes seemed to stare back at me. Where are you guys? I wondered.
I packed the makeup back into Denise’s bag, keeping the key and the picture. Denise had been gone for a week. If she’d really left town, then her stuff would be gone from the motel efficiency. Her Harley wouldn’t be parked out in front of her room and her car would have vanished, too. But if someone had snatched her, then maybe her stuff would still be around. Maybe there’d be something in her apartment that would help me prove she’d been kidnapped, because no matter what anyone else said, I was sure Denise had left against her will.
Seventeen
He caught me as I was leaving. I almost didn’t recognize him without the hat. He stood there outside the supply closet, holding a case of liquor and looking at me with his big dark eyes. It was going on three A.M. I’d done my last set, removed my stage makeup, and scurried into my clothes. I had one thing on my mind and Lyle had another on his.
In my rush to get to the Blue Marlin, I’d forgotten Lyle and the promised drink. I turned back around and faced him. I could have blown him off and continued on my way, but a promise was a promise. Sierra Lavotini keeps her word. Truth was, I wanted a drink before tackling Denise’s room. And truth was, too, Lyle was growing on me. I liked the way his hair fell over his forehead into his eyes when he wasn’t wearing his Stetson. I liked the way his forearms rippled and pulled taut when he hefted the case of bottles.
“I didn’t forget,” I began, shifting my dance bag up on my shoulder.
“No?” He didn’t believe me, but he was playing along.
“No,” I said firmly. “I was going to toss my stuff in the car so I wouldn’t forget later. I’ll be right back.”
He favored me with one of his half-amused lopsided grins. “If this is not a good time, Sierra—” he began. I cut him off.
“Lyle, really, this is a great time. How about a vodka gimlet?” He nodded and headed off toward the bar. I watched him walk away. He had a nice ass for a cowboy.
* * *
The vodka gimlet was waiting when I returned. It was perfect, heavy on the vodka, light on the lime. Lyle leaned back against the wall behind the bar and watched me take the first sip. He was drinking a Corona, a wedge of lime squeezed down the long neck of the bottle. An empty shot glass stood next to a bottle of tequila and a salt shaker.
I sat and waited for the preliminaries, because they always come: “I liked your act” and “How’d a girl like you…” But Lyle didn’t say any of the expected.
“I hear tell you didn’t exactly cotton to me taking over your frien
d’s job,” he said, his voice a long, dry drawl.
“It don’t have a thing to do with you, I guess,” I said. “It was just a shock to walk in after only a week and see you.”
Lyle laughed. “Believe me,” he said, “it was a shock to look up onstage and see you walking out of the fog and not the B-52s of Miss Marla Angelica.” He grinned. “It was a very welcome surprise, I might add.”
I took another sip of my gimlet and looked Lyle over.
“You got something against our men in blue?” I asked. I was going to enjoy this. The vodka was warming its way down my body and I felt like sitting for a while.
“No,” Lyle said slowly, “I don’t object to a military salute, but I’m not a glitter-and-sequin man, personally. I like a woman who knows she’s a woman, with the right equipment, and ain’t afraid to use it. I like,” Lyle said, leaning forward, “simplicity and sophistication.”
Something other than vodka was spreading like a brushfire through my body. This had the makings of a long evening. I looked down and realized that my glass was empty. Just as quickly, Lyle replaced it with another gimlet. He poured a shot of tequila, licked the V between his thumb and forefinger, salted it, and licked again. He tossed back the tequila with one short move, then bit into a wedge of lime. We sat quietly for a few moments, long enough for me to realize he’d switched the bar music to country.
“Why’d your friend quit?” he asked after a while.
“She didn’t quit,” I answered impatiently. What had Vincent told him, anyway? “She’s missing.”
Lyle straightened up and looked like maybe he hadn’t heard me right. “Missing?”
“Yeah, but nobody else thinks so. Vincent and the others think she took off.”
Lyle looked concerned. He moved closer to the bar and touched my hand lightly. To my surprise I found myself crying—not big crying, just tears leaking and running down my cheeks.
The Miracle Strip Page 9
