The Miracle Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

  From April through September they come, spilling their money and beer onto the sugar-white sands of Panama City Beach. And when they finally return to their homes and offices, they tell everyone they spent their vacations in Panama City. No, they didn’t.

  They missed Panama City completely, and for most of us locals, that’s fine. They raced across the surface of Panama City and entered Panama City Beach, another town entirely. They never turned down a side street and saw the Spanish Art Deco mishmash that forms the heart of Panama City. They didn’t stop at Panama Java for an espresso, or browse through the art galleries and antique shops. They didn’t drive by the civic center or the city marina.

  Thankfully, few see the elegant homes that line St. Andrews Bay or listen to music at the Bayview Cafe. Instead they race past the car dealerships and pawn shops, shaking their heads and keeping their eyes peeled for the bridge and the beaches. This is a good thing, I think to myself.

  One part of Panama City that seems most ironic is the area of Fifteenth Street and Balboa. That is where the car dealers have clustered, one after the other, next to and across from the forestry station. Amidst the loudspeakers and billboards, the freshly waxed vehicles and polyester pants of the salesmen, looms the wooden watchtower of the Forestry Service. Tall pine trees, dusky green service vehicles, and the pine-needled pathways to the ranger station all bumped up against the shiny metallic car lots.

  Fluffy and I edged our way along the strip, looking for a deal. It wasn’t going to be easy to replace the old Trans Am, not on my salary.

  “Fluff, we need to stick around three or four thousand,” I muttered. Fluffy moaned. “Don’t worry, girl, I got a plan, a really good plan.” A plan that involved the broken headphones to my handheld cassette player, a tape, and the unwitting assistance of Panama City’s finest.

  I looked in the rearview mirror before I pulled into Big Ed’s Cars, Home of the Itty-Bitty Payment.

  “Fluff, there’s a sucker born every minute,” I said. “Let’s do it to them before they do it to us.” I pulled into the lot and watched the unmarked car roll into the lot next door. “A piece of cake, Fluff.”

  Fluffy and I stepped out of the Toyota and surveyed the territory. I counted two salesmen to every vehicle, or at least it felt that way. It didn’t take long to scope out the situation. There were three cars in my price range: a Cavalier, an older Mercedes with a dented-in passenger-side door, and in the back of the lot, my new car, a Z28 Camaro. It was silver, with a black interior, and it was calling my name.

  A thin reed of a man with black hair nosed his way ahead of the pack that threatened to converge on us, smoothly making his way across the lot. He wore tassel loafers and plaid slacks. His tie dangled loosely around his neck, a contrived attempt to let me know that we were at ease here, just two friends chatting. A cigarette he held casually in his hand was tossed aside right before he reached me and Fluffy.

  “Well, hello there,” he called, the last wisps of cigarette smoke escaping his lips as he spoke. “What can I do you out of?” He laughed at his joke and stared openly at my breasts. Fluffy started to growl low in her throat.

  “Cute dog,” he said, not at all convincingly. “I’m Neal Roberts, and you are?”

  I smiled. It was all going according to plan. “Sierra,” I murmured.

  “What’cha looking to spend, Sierra?” he asked, his eyes still glued to my cleavage.

  “Well, I really need to stick around three thousand.” Fluffy strained at the rhinestone leash, ardent in her desire to nip at Neal’s calf.

  Neal’s mental calculator took stock of his bottom line as he looked around the lot. First up, he tried the Mercedes. He lifted the hood, cranked the engine, and stood there raving about the leather interior and what fine shape the car was in.

  “Honey,” he purred, “now don’t you worry about that little ding in the door. Auto body shop’ll take it right out and you’ll be good as new. Why, if we had a shop here, we would’ve pounded it out ourselves, then this car’d be way outta your range.”

  I stooped and peered under the car; it was dripping transmission fluid.

  Next he tried the Cavalier, but when we took it for a test drive, it pulled so firmly to the left and shuttered that I suspected it had been in an accident. Finally, I was ready to make my move.

  “What about the Camaro?” I asked. Fluffy sighed softly; perhaps she’d seen it.

  Neal glanced across the lot, almost too casually. “That, young lady, is an ’83 Z28 with a V-8 engine. You wouldn’t like it, honey; it drinks gas and it can really get away from you if you don’t know how to handle it.”

  To my credit, I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but it wasn’t in the Sierra Car Procurement Plan.

  “Aw, come on,” I begged. “Let’s take it around the block.”

  As I suspected, it ran like a scalded dog. Somebody had taken care of this car. The interior was almost in good shape—a few tears, a snag in the headliner—but overall the radio and air worked. I checked the engine while Neal pretended to lean over and show me the dipstick. His nose was almost inside my shirt, but still I didn’t flinch.

  “Let’s go inside and talk it over,” I purred. Poor Neal’s nuts were about to get squeezed by a pro. I almost felt sorry as he led the way into the air-conditioned dealership office.

  Once inside, Neal pretended to consult a notebook. “Honey, you’re in luck,” he cried. “It’s thirty-eight hundred dollars, American.” Again the knowing chuckle. He pulled the calculator that rested by his arm around to the center of the desk and started crunching numbers.

  “We could get your payments down to a hundred and fifty-eight fifty.” He looked up at my chest, his eyes twinkling with expectation. It was time for me to remove the gloves.

  I placed my index finger to my lips, cautioning Neal to be silent. I stood up and shut the door to his tiny office and Neal’s entire body went rigid with expectation and desire. Still keeping one finger to my lips, I reached up with the other hand and began unbuttoning my top. Neal was salivating.

  When I’d undone the top two buttons, I pulled the blouse apart enough for Neal to see the two wires I’d taped to my chest. The fact that they were wires from a broken set of headphones didn’t appear obvious to Neal. I motioned to the earpiece, now a fake microphone, then covered it with my fist.

  “Come here,” I whispered, rising and walking over to the tinted glass window. “Look out there,” I said, pointing to the unmarked sedan. “Your agency is a target of investigation. They told me if I didn’t cooperate, I’d do time on account of I have some pending legal business.”

  Neal gasped and his face went pale. I walked back over to my chair and sat, waiting for him to collect himself.

  “Neal,” I said, “your dealership’s crooked. They’re just looking for confirmation.”

  “What? Why, we’re not—”

  “Save it, Neal,” I barked. “I’m doing you a favor ’cause you’ve been sweet to me.” I batted my eyes and Fluffy sighed again.

  “What do I do?” he asked my breasts.

  “Neal, I’m up here, buddy,” I said. “Now, I can’t hold this mike forever. They’ll know something’s up. Just do the deal squeaky clean. In fact, cleaner than clean.”

  Neal was a mass of trembling anxiety. “Yeah, all right,” he said.

  I let go of the mike. “No, really,” I said, as if we’d been talking all along. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Neal didn’t waste a beat. “Let me go talk to the manager,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He scuttled from the room like a little crab, like somebody’d grabbed his testicles and squeezed really tight. I watched him walk up to the platform where the quasi–finance manager reigned. There was a huddle, a few thinly disguised glances from me to the sedan parked outside, and a hasty arrangement.

  Neal trotted back into the room, his eyes met mine for the first time, and he sat down.

  “Miss Lavotini, in view of your excellent credit, and beca
use we hope to have you as a customer for many years in the future, I have received approval to sell you the Camaro for a mere two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars, to be financed at the low rate of six-point-nine percent over thirty-six months, no money down.”

  “Does that include a warranty?” I asked.

  Neal blanched. “Twelve months or twelve thousand miles,” he croaked.

  I smiled and stood up. “A pleasure doing business with you, Neal,” I said. The Camaro was mine.

  I strolled out into the early-afternoon sunlight and made my way down the street to the car lot where my unwitting assistant waited.

  “Yo,” I said as he rolled down the window, “I gotta return this rental car. How about you follow me, then give me a lift back over here so I can pick up my new car.”

  He frowned and looked uncertain for a moment. I could see the wheels turning. Was this against departmental policy? He decided in my favor.

  “No problem,” he answered. I glanced back at the car dealership, aware that every eye in the place was on us. I gestured to the Z28.

  “Nice car, huh?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. A real talker this guy was. He’d probably been warned about me. I looked on the seat next to him. Facedown on the passenger side was Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. He saw me look and reddened.

  “Let’s get going,” he huffed.

  “Indeed,” I answered.

  The day was complete. I had wheels again and one hundred thousand dollars lay stashed behind the motor of my nonfunctional Jacuzzi. What more could I ask for?

  Fluffy stood on the front seat, her tiny body quivering, her lips pulled back in a snarl. I started the Toyota and pulled into the early-afternoon traffic. What was her problem? I wondered. Things were finally starting to go our way.

  Twenty-three

  The light on the answering machine was flashing when I finally pulled myself out of bed. Four hours of sleep hadn’t been enough, but I was due onstage in an hour. I hit the play button and listened while I brushed my teeth.

  “Sierra, it’s Al,” the message began. “Pick up if you’re there.” There was a pause while my brother waited for me to answer. “Sierra, this ain’t no time to be fooling around. It’s four-thirty. Call me at the station. I got desk duty until midnight. Sierra, this is really important.”

  I heard the urgency in his voice and tried to decide if Rosie had finally dumped him or if there was a real emergency. Hell, maybe Ma was sick, or Pop. Maybe one of my brothers had been hurt in a fire. My mind started racing as I considered the possibilities. If Rosie’d left, Al would’ve said so in his message. No, he considered this far too important to say in a phone message.

  I had the phone in my hand, dialing his number, before I was really aware of my action.

  “Precinct Four, Officer Lavotini speaking. May I help you?” His voice was controlled and professional, and it almost sounded like he was in the room with me. How bad could it be? I chided myself.

  “Al, it’s Sierra. I got your message. What’s up?”

  There was an instant change in his voice, from professional to near panicked.

  “Sierra, Jesus Christ, I thought you’d never call. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I didn’t want to leave a message, but finally I had to.”

  “Al, calm down. What’s wrong? Is something the matter with Ma or Pop?”

  “Worse,” he said. “I had a visit from a Detective John Nailor today. He was asking a whole bunch of questions about you.”

  “He what?” I screeched. I could feel heat coursing through my body, burning my face and ears.

  “No shit, Sierra. What the hell trouble are you in down there? He wouldn’t say much, only that you were part of an ongoing investigation. Sierra, I know what I know, and they don’t fly cops around unless it’s something big.”

  I sank down onto the lilac satin comforter that lay rumpled across the bed. What a mess. How dare that guy go disrupting my family, scaring my brother.

  “Sierra,” Al said, “this has something to do with Leon Corvase, doesn’t it? That’s why you were calling me about him, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, Al,” I said. “Leon Corvase was found dead in my friend’s apartment.”

  “So what’s that got to do with you?”

  Al was a bulldog, intent on following the scent until he had the complete picture. If I told him too little, he was liable to come check out the situation for himself. If I told him too much, he’d come to straighten things out. Neither option looked appealing.

  “Al, I’m the one found the body. I guess that made me a suspect or something.” Al didn’t need to know about the other body, or Arlo, or the car accident.

  “You ain’t being straight with me,” Al said. “Just finding a body ain’t grounds to look at you this hard.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, and sighed for effect. “The cops here are different than in Philly. They don’t get too many murders. I guess they’re being thorough.”

  This was not enough for Al.

  “Then why they don’t go after your friend, the one who was involved with the guy?”

  “They can’t find her just now, Al.”

  There was a moment of silence while Al added it up.

  “So you’re the link. They think you’re involved. Sierra, you aren’t holding out on them, are you? Sierra,” Al said, going into lecture mode, “you should cooperate fully in a police investigation. That’s the only way to get them out of your hair.”

  “Right, Al,” I said. “Al, what did Detective Nailor ask you about me?”

  “He already knew a lot, Sierra,” Al said. “He asked if you got into much trouble when you were a kid. How you did in school—the social part, not the grades. He already knew about those.” Al paused, hesitating. “He asked about Tony, Sierra. He wanted to know if that was why you left town.”

  I didn’t need this. An icy fist wrapped its fingers around my gut and squeezed. Of all the things I didn’t want to talk about, of all the things that would make the situation look worse for me, Tony was it.

  “What’d you tell him, Al?” I asked, holding my breath for his answer.

  “Aw, Sierra, what could I tell him? He’d probably picked up half of it at the Beaver. Anybody worked with you or knew you coulda told him.”

  “I know,” I said dully.

  “Sierra, the guy’s not all bad,” Al said. “He was a really nice guy, and I know from cops; I could tell if he was working me and he wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “He’s a nice guy and he’s just doin’ his job, but Al, you know I couldn’t whack nobody. The guy needs to be looking for my friend Denise. He needs to be chasing guys that do that kind of thing. He knows I couldn’t have stabbed Corvase. Women ain’t that strong. Bottom line, Al,” I said, “he don’t have no right to be asking questions about Tony.”

  “Sierra,” Al said, “cops ask whatever they feel is pertinent. Tony, being part of your past, and being a shaky part at best, is pertinent. And I’ll tell you one other thing, John seemed to feel you were in a lot more trouble than you’re saying.”

  “John? What’s with you calling the guy by his first name?”

  “Don’t get wise with me, Sierra.” Al was forgetting that he was my younger brother and was starting to sound like Pop. “I’m sayin’ this: I’m callin’ John in two days, and if you’re still in this mess, then I got no recourse but to tell Pop. It’s wrong, me not telling him now, but ’cause you’re my sister, I’m giving you two days’ head start.”

  “Aw, Al, don’t pull this crap,” I argued. “Pop don’t need to know nothing about this.”

  “Sierra, I should call Pop now. I’m warning you: Clean it up or I turn it over to the old man, and you know how he feels about trouble. Remember how it went about Tony.”

  I remembered, and there weren’t going to be any repeats of that fiasco. I moved to Panama City to avoid the very situation that now hung over my head.

&n
bsp; “I gotta go, Sierra,” Al said. “I got the Sarge looking at me. He don’t like us conducting personal phone calls. I meant what I said, kid, you got two days.”

  He was gone before I could argue, leaving me with a dead phone and twenty minutes to shower and make it to work. No matter how I cut it, I was going to be late and Vincent Gambuzzo wasn’t going to be happy, just what I needed. The way I saw it, it was all John Nailor’s fault.

  * * *

  I drove the Camaro like a drop of water streaking across a griddle, hot and fast. I didn’t give a wet rat’s ass if Detective Donlevy kept up or not. I was late and I was angry. I held imaginary conversations with John Nailor all the way to the Tiffany. When Vincent Gambuzzo attempted to read me the riot act for being half an hour late, I blasted him back. If it was gonna be a bad night, let it be the worst.

  I flew into the dressing room, looking for my outfit and attempting to regain my composure. One thing I could do, one area of my life that I could keep under my control, was my dancing. In order to knock their eyes out, I had to focus. I needed to sit out on the fire escape and meditate, center myself with my inner child, but tonight there wasn’t time. I had to close my eyes, take five cleansing breaths, and hope that did the trick.

  Rusty stuck his head in the door, trying not to stare at my naked ass and failing as usual.

  “Five minutes, Sierra,” he said and quickly withdrew.

  I settled for elegance, pulling on the long black velvet sheath and pinning my hair up into a twist. Tonight I would be cool and unattainable. I would stand before them and wait until every man in the house had to beg. I would be their mistress, their trembling virgin, and their unfulfilled fantasies, all wrapped into one streamlined package. I would titillate and hurt them, just because I could.

  I walked backstage wrapped in my professional persona, untouchable. Right before I walked on, I saw Vincent signal me, probably wanting the last word, but I ignored him and strode out onto the stage. Whatever he had to say could wait. I had a job to do and money to collect.