“Sierra, you all right?”
A voice crashed in on my thoughts, bringing me back to the Tiffany. Lyle. I looked up and scowled.
“So what happened to you last night, Cowboy? It would’ve been nice for you to at least stop back by and make sure I hadn’t been killed by the same guys that whacked Denise’s ex.”
Lyle looked uncomfortable. He squirmed in his snakeskin boots and fiddled with the brim of his hat.
“Well, it’s kinda like this,” he said. “I would sorta like to avoid the police.”
“You would sorta like to avoid the police? Now, what in the hell does that mean, Lyle?”
Lyle looked around anxiously, searching the faces at the nearby tables, hoping my voice wasn’t carrying. I didn’t care who heard us. He’d left me alone with a dead body and the police to deal with. I was going to have an explanation.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “is this something we could discuss later? You’re due up in a minute and Mr. Gambuzzo’s gonna have my tail if I don’t get back to the bar. Besides which, it ain’t exactly the time or place for me to be talking about this.”
It was the longest speech I’d heard Lyle make. Of course he wouldn’t want to be involved with the cops. Why should I be surprised? Everybody I ran into these days didn’t want to be involved with the cops. After my little tête-à-tête with Detective Nailor, I could understand the common reluctance.
“Sure,” I said, “tell me all about it later.” That’s what I was, the understanding dancer, always ready to hear somebody’s explanation of how whatever’d happened wasn’t their fault. They always meant to call, they always wanted to be there for you, but somehow fate intervened and whisked the opportunity to be reliable away. Lyle must’ve sensed my skepticism.
“Sierra, I’m serious about wanting to talk later. How about after we close?”
I looked up at the big brown cowboy eyes and thought he looked sincere, but what kind of judge am I? Fluffy was sincere. Arlo was sincere. Men are dogs, true, but that don’t make them sincere.
“I don’t know, Lyle. I gotta get backstage. You gotta bar full of thirsty customers. Let me see how I feel after work, all right?”
I didn’t wait for the answer. As far as I was concerned, nothing mattered right now. Humankind was closing in too quickly on me and I needed space. No better way to escape than to dance. At least when I danced, the rest of the world sat below me, looking up, and I was untouchable.
Vincent just had to get in the last word. He waylaid me as I wandered toward the back of the house, stepping outside his office and motioning me into the inner sanctum.
“Sierra,” he growled, “you got a problem.” Damn, did everybody have to crawl my ass at the same time?
“Vincent, I don’t got any problems that I can’t handle.”
“Be that as it may,” he huffed, “the cops are coming around, there’s an unmarked car with two detectives in it sitting in my parking lot, and you’re getting your panties in a wad over this Denise deal.” I started to interrupt but he kept going. “I know she’s your friend and you can’t find her, but Sierra, did you ever think maybe she don’t want to be found?” Vincent didn’t really ask the question to hear my answer.
“I don’t have to tell you how it is in this business. There’s lots about that girl you probably didn’t know and may never know. The Tiffany can’t have cops watching the door. It’s bad for business. So bottom line, you get them off you or you gotta go.”
“Vincent, don’t blow smoke. I’m your top act. I could go to the Show and Tail tomorrow and you’d be out a headliner.” What was this?
“Sierra, a headliner don’t mean squat if the house is empty. You got until the weekend to lose the heat. Much as I don’t want to lose you, business is business.” Vincent wasn’t going to back down. He stood behind his battered metal desk, his glasses reflecting the sequins in my costume, his jaw twitching, and his mind made up. The cops backed off me or I was out of work and with the cops on my tail, nobody’d hire me.
I was too mad to talk to Vincent, and it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. After all, he was right. Law enforcement and exotic dancing didn’t mix, not with customers and not with dancers. I had to get Nailor and his task force of overeager detectives off my back. If I didn’t, then Fluffy and I would be out on the streets, unemployed and unemployable. There was only one way to fix the situation. If I couldn’t find out where Denise was, I had to find out who killed Leon Corvase.
Twenty
I wasn’t really thinking; instead I drifted, flitting from thought to memory. My body was moving, becoming the music and, in the process, twisting the minds and wills of every man in the club. An old Bonnie Raitt tune, “Love Me Like a Man,” boomed through the club. The lights, strobed in reds and blues, pulsated, throbbing along with the tensions of sexually frustrated men.
My old man found out I was dancing shortly after I turned nineteen. I’d moved out of the house that summer, and in with one of the other dancers from this little joint where I worked in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. I’d moved so my parents wouldn’t find out what I was doing for a living. I was sure there’d be hell to pay when they found out, and I was trying to postpone the inevitable.
Upper Darby’s a close-in suburb of Philadelphia, full of blue-collar workers. I started off dancing there in a club that was only a step up from a biker bar. I figured nobody my parents knew would come in and see me, but of course, I was wrong. Word got back to Pop before I’d been there two months. Thank God, he had the decency not to show up at the club. Instead he arrived, unannounced, at my apartment one afternoon.
I opened the door, saw him standing there, and knew he’d found out. He looked at me like he’d never seen me before, and then he started crying. Silently, tears streamed down his lined cheeks. I’d never seen my pop cry, and it sucked the youthful feeling of invincibility right out of my body.
“Why, Sierra?” he asked. It wasn’t anger, just disappointment. That tore at me worse than anything.
“Pop,” I said, drawing him into the apartment and closing the door, “it’s not like you think.”
“No, that’s not what I’m asking,” he said. “I’m asking why you didn’t tell me. Why you thought you needed to sneak off in the dark and hide what you’re doing. That’s what makes it wrong, honey. That’s what says you’re ashamed.”
He had me crying then. I sat at my kitchen table with him, the two of us crying, and tried to explain to my pop why I did what I did.
“Pop, you and Ma raised us to do our best, to do what made us feel good inside. Johnny and the others knew, right from the get-go, what they wanted to be when they grew up. They wanted to be firemen, like you, or a cop. I didn’t know, Pop. I just knew it couldn’t be like anything I’d ever heard about.”
Pop was listening hard, like maybe he thought he should make up for not hearing me before in my life, like maybe he’d gone wrong with me by not listening when I was a kid.
“You know I didn’t like school. I did okay, but it didn’t come easy. I got more of an education from reading. And none of those jobs I tried after high school lasted. I couldn’t hack it, doing the same thing day after day for no money. I needed to do something exciting, where I was in charge.”
Pop was nodding and I knew why: He felt the same way. That’s why he fought fires. That’s why I started them.
“Then why didn’t you tell us, Sierra?”
“One night, me and a bunch of the girls were out at a club, for a bachelorette party. It was one of those clubs where guys and women both strip and they had an amateur night. I’d had a couple of drinks, sure, but they dared me and I thought, Why not?”
Pop chuckled. It was just like me, impulsively answering a dare.
“Pop, I was a little nervous at first, but then when the music started and all those men were staring at me, I felt this energy flowing all through my body. The more I danced, the more I saw what I could do. It was awesome, Pop. All those guys, stuffing mon
ey in my garter belt, and I made them do that.”
I looked to see how he was taking it, but his face was neutral and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“I won the contest that night, Pop. I came home with two hundred dollars in prize money and one hundred in tips—from one dance. I knew what I wanted to do then, Pop. I wanted to be the best in the business. I wanted to make a bunch of money and then, when it was time to retire from dancing, I’d have a nest egg. I could run my own business if I wanted.”
“Then why didn’t you tell your ma and me?” Pop asked in exasperation.
“And risk you not understanding, or worse, demanding I quit? I was going to tell you sometime, but I wanted to be working in a better club first. Pop,” I said, “I’m a good girl, really I am. I don’t use drugs. I’m not doing anything illegal. I just love what I do, finally.”
Pop shook his head and reached for my hand. “Honey, don’t you think that’s all your ma and I want for you? Yeah, I gotta admit I was angry when I heard, but part of that’s ’cause I heard from a friend and not from you. How you think I felt, hearing my daughter was taking her clothes off in some club in Upper Darby, no less?”
“I’m sorry, Pop.”
“You should be sorry for that, Sierra. That ain’t no way to show respect for your parents. But you should never be sorry for doing something you feel is right. Your ma and me, we raised youse guys to hold your heads up and be proud of yourselves. If you want to be the best dancer there ever was, then do it, but don’t you never apologize to nobody.”
Pop stood up and put his hand on my head. “I love you, honey, and I’m proud of you, no matter what you think. I’m going home now. I’m not going to tell your mother about this talk because it would hurt her to know you was afraid to come to her. But I expect you home for dinner on Sunday. I expect you to walk in and look your ma in the eye and tell her what’s what. That’s all I’m asking of you, Sierra. Hold your head up and respect your mother. God gave you a talent, and that ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, honey.”
He left and I showed up for dinner on Sunday. My brother Johnny was the only one to try and give me any grief. I asked him did he think he could strut down a runway, get naked, and walk off with two hundred dollars? He was concerned about his friends finding out.
“So what you’re saying, Johnny, is that you’re afraid of what they’ll think of you.” Johnny sputtered and denied it, but I cut him no slack. “I’m no different naked than I am with clothes on, Johnny. I’m the same person. I haven’t lowered myself. I’m not ashamed of my body. It earns me a decent living. If my dancing makes you insecure, then that’s your problem.”
Nobody else gave me any grief. When they saw that I hadn’t changed and I was still the same old Sierra, everyone lightened up. My brothers even referred some of their friends to my club for bachelor parties. Ma took to helping me craft some of my costumes.
“There,” she’d say, holding up a G-string, “this’ll bring in the tips.” In a way, my sheltered, stay-at-home mother was getting her own kicks out of seeing me be successful.
It was a nice couple of years, back then. I worked my way into some better clubs, made some more money, and enjoyed myself. That was before it all got so complicated and long before I made the move to Panama City. I guess I’d been naive to think that geography cured complications. Life in Panama City was turning out to be far more complicated than life in Philadelphia.
* * *
I finished my dance and my shift on autopilot, barely aware of the applause and catcalls. I wanted out of the Tiffany. I needed to think. I didn’t need to hear some sorry excuse from Lyle about why he ran out on me. I just needed to be alone, to think. I knew now that nothing would be right again until I’d gotten to the bottom of Leon Corvase’s murder and brought some control back into my life. That fact was underscored as I walked to my car in the parking lot. The unmarked white sedan had been replaced by a brown Ford. I was still under surveillance.
“Piss on it,” I said to no one, my voice filling the almost-empty lot. “I’m headed back to my trailer, if it makes it any easier for you,” I yelled across the lot. “Maybe you’d like to lead this time.” The detective sitting in the car ignored me.
I slid behind the wheel of the Rent-A-Wreck, turned the key in the ignition, and said a prayer of thanksgiving when it started. At least tomorrow I could go used-car shopping, maybe find another Trans Am. I attempted to chirp the tires as I took off, like I would’ve done in the old Trans Am, but all the rental did was belch black exhaust. I pulled out of the lot and onto Thomas Drive followed by my trusty police dog.
“Sierra,” a voice said in the darkness. My heart took off and I gasped. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me, Frankie.”
The voice came from the backseat, somewhere near the floorboards.
“About time you surfaced,” I said. “Where’s Denise?”
“We’ll talk about that in a couple of minutes,” he said. “First you gotta lose your boyfriend back there.”
“How do you know?”
“Sierra, don’t be stupid. I had to wait four hours to find a time to sneak into your car. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for two days. You got cops glued to you like dogs got fleas. Of course you got a tail. Now let’s lose him.”
I was feeling some ambivalence. The last and only time I’d tangled with Frankie, I’d been on the losing end until Raydean had showed her shotgun. How did I know he didn’t want to pay me back? In fact, given the death of Denise’s ex, how was I to know he hadn’t killed Leon and maybe even Denise?
“I can’t lose him, Frankie. Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?”
“Just do like I tell you,” he said. His voice didn’t sound like there were going to be any options. It wasn’t a polite request.
My curiosity got the best of me. I’d find nothing out if I stuck with my tail. Why not take the chance?
“Cross the bridge like you’re heading home. Go your normal speed. Don’t let him think anything’s unusual. When we get to Beck, turn right.” He was taking me to Old St. Andrews, a residential area filled with renovated older homes that lined the bay.
“That’s your plan?” I asked.
“No, Sierra, I didn’t want to give you too much at one time.”
“Well, we’re over the bridge and passing the college now.” I glanced in my rearview mirror. “He’s not too far back,” I said.
“All right, listen. When you turn onto Beck, make a left pretty quick, cut your lights, and pick up speed. You know that area?”
“Well, kind of, but it’s not where I usually hang, if that’s what you mean.”
Frankie sighed impatiently. “What you want to do is put some distance between you and him, then cut into a driveway or the back of a vacant lot and hide until he goes past and loses you.”
“Yeah, right.” Did he think I was James Bond?
“Sierra, he’s not planning on this. You’ve got the surprise element working in your favor.”
Frankie was right. When I veered suddenly onto Beck, raced for a side street, and cut the lights, I found myself behind the older homes in total darkness. I slid around darkened streets, looking for my opportunity. My heart was racing and my palms were sweating as I gripped the steering wheel. With a quick lurch, I turned into the gravel parking area of a big home, pulling my little Toyota up alongside a ramshackle former garage. As I peered out the back window, I saw the brown Ford glide by a moment later.
“Done,” I said proudly.
Frankie’s head popped up from behind the seat. He wasn’t smiling.
“Don’t get cocky. That boy’s on the radio right now, and in two minutes every squad car in Panama City’ll be down here looking for you. Come on.” He pushed the back door open and hopped out into the dark humid night.
I saw no option but to follow him. We stayed close to the side of the garage, edging our way out toward the road. Frankie had grabbed my arm and was guiding, pushing, me forward. He’d bee
n right about the police. Three squad cars moved quickly past the old home, responding to the detective’s call.
Frankie waited until the third car had passed, then pushed me forward into the light of a lone streetlight and across the street onto the beach that rimmed St. Andrews Bay. It was a cloudy, moonless night, and the black water of the bay seemed to drink any available light down into its depths. Frankie climbed over some fallen tree limbs, all that remained of Hurricane Opal’s rampage, and pulled me down and almost under the pile of debris.
“It’ll be hard to spot us here,” he said, “even if they come looking.”
I crouched down among the branches, resting on the moist sand. Above us on the road, I could hear the intermittent sound of a car’s powerful engine, slowly cruising down the street. John Nailor was going to be pretty unhappy about this development.
“Where’s Denise?” I asked.
“You tell me,” Frankie answered, his voice a harsh staccato. “I haven’t seen her since I moved her into her new room. She was supposed to sleep for a while, then meet me after work. She never showed up. It’s been over a week, Sierra.” Even in the darkness, I could see the anxiety on Frankie’s face. “I’ve got to find her.”
Frankie leaned over to peer into my eyes. “I’ve got to find her,” he said again, but this time his tone was harsh. “If you know where she is, then you’ve got to tell me.”
“Why would I hold out on you, Frankie? I told you I don’t know where she is.”
The nervous feeling was back in the pit of my stomach. Did he really not know where Denise was, or was this a careful manipulation?
“Did she say anything about me to you?” he asked suddenly. “Did she tell you anything about what’s going on?” What was he talking about?
“No, she didn’t say anything about you, except that she was happy and she felt safe with you.” I stared through the dark-ness, trying to read him. “Why? Is there something she should’ve told me?”
The Miracle Strip Page 12
