The fog machine softly thrust mist across the stage, spilling around me and caressing my body. The music started, a slow throb that pushed its rhythmic beat deep into the souls of the men who waited. I stepped forward and surveyed the audience, looking for the big spenders, the ones I would play to solely because of the depth of their pockets. In the second row, his now-familiar drink resting in front of him, sat John Nailor.
For a moment my brain refused to accept his presence, thinking instead that in my anger I’d imagined him. When I realized that he was indeed in the house and watching me, I froze for an instant and just as quickly resumed my act with a vengeance.
The strobe lights flashed across the stage as I edged closer to the audience, my eyes fixed on John Nailor’s face. The music pulsated as I pulled off one black satin elbow-length glove and tossed it in Detective Nailor’s lap. His features flickered briefly but then went back to their smoldering appraisal. He had decided that if I could dish it out, he could give it right back. I loved the challenge.
Some women like to say that you should strip for yourself in order to more fully appreciate your body. In my experience, that’s never been what turned me on to my own body and power. It’s the look in a man’s eye when you finally hook him, that moment when he gives over to wanting you and loses sight of himself. I was stripping for John Nailor, waiting for that one moment when he lost control.
He sat there at the table, his hand tightening around his glass, his skin dark against his crisp white shirt. I reached up behind my back and undid the zipper of my gown with one slow fluid movement, letting the dress slip over my breasts and past my hips, descending like a velvet waterfall to the floor.
I lifted one leg out of the puddle of material and stood spread-legged in front of the crowd, towering over them in my stiletto heels. Bruno, sensing the heat in the room, moved protectively forward. I sought out John Nailor, locking eyes with him, daring him to follow me deeper. I brought my hands up, sliding them along my waist, caressing my breasts, gliding them along my neck, until I felt the lone pin keeping my hair in its tight coil. I let my gaze wander across the room, then back to Nailor. With a quick motion, I pulled the pin and let my hair cascade down over my shoulders.
Nailor didn’t flinch. He casually lifted the glass to his lips and drank, his eyes never breaking contact with mine. I began unhooking my bra. As it unfastened I reached around and held it in place, taking a step forward so I could be seen clearly, standing where the men could stick money in my garter. Again I let my eyes slowly slide around the room, trying to make contact with every man who watched, then letting my eyes fasten back on John Nailor.
“Do you want me?” I asked.
There was a chorus of shouts as men tumbled over themselves to stick money in my garter. Bruno moved closer still, with Big Ed bringing up the rear.
“Take it off!” they yelled.
“Do you really want me?” I cooed. I looked at Nailor. His face was tightly controlled, his eyebrow casually lifted as if I amused him, but was that a thin sheen of sweat I saw dampening his brow?
I let my hands slowly drop, and the bra fell to the floor, revealing my 38DDs and my black sequined pasties, the smallest made in the business. It was time to move in for the kill.
Men stood crowded around the base of the runway, their faces blurred by the fog machine and the glare of the twinkle lights that edged the stage. I knelt before them, cupping my breasts, then reaching my arms back to support myself as I slowly arched my back.
For a moment, I let myself go, envisioning myself walking slowly toward John Nailor, letting him reach for me. That was enough. It was as if a current surged through my body, disorienting me, and filling me with feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge.
With one fluid movement I rose to my feet. I sought out John Nailor’s eyes and saw that there had been a change. There was one brief instant when the veil of suspicion and professionalism dropped, and in that moment a promise was extracted and sealed away for another time.
My heart was pounding. I slid my hand behind my neck, scooped up my hair, and pulled it high on top of my head. The music rose to a crescendo, pulsing with energy and intensity. The lights wove across the stage, crisscrossing the audience and returning to focus on me. I glanced at Rusty and he gave me the nod. It was time.
I let my head fall slightly back, ran my tongue slowly across my lips, and moaned. The men surged forward as one, and Rusty flooded the stage with a gigantic cloud of fog. When it cleared, I had vanished. Bruno and Big Ed did crowd control as I slipped into my purple kimono and headed for the dressing room, weak with the effort I’d made to break John Nailor.
Vincent Gambuzzo waited outside in the hallway, his dark glasses quivering against the sides of his head as his jaw twitched violently.
“What in the hell did you do that for?” he asked. An unlit cigar dangled from his pudgy hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and attempted to push past him. He grabbed my sleeve, twisting me around to face him.
“You and that cop,” he said. “What was with you playing to him? Have you lost it completely? He could’ve busted us. All’s he would have to do is cite lewd and indecent, and we’d be shut down. That’s all I need,” he fumed.
“Vincent, calm yourself,” I said. “Do you see him back here issuing a citation?” Vincent didn’t answer. “No, you don’t, and you know why? It’s ’cause I know men. It’s my job and you gotta trust that.” The twitching was slowing but not gone. “You think I wanna be out of a job? What you saw tonight was me letting that guy know I got limits and I don’t scare.”
Vincent shifted from one foot to the other, moving his three-hundred-pound body from side to side.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Sierra,” he said, “but I don’t like it. You got two more days to get them guys off your back and away from my club, you hear me? Two days.”
I pushed past him into the dressing room. Nobody had to remind me that the clock was ticking. I could hear it pounding in my head, louder and louder.
Twenty-four
To his credit, John Nailor was not a runner. He was still waiting when I walked out into the house. I made my way to his table, walked around to his side, and stood so close that it would have taken almost no effort on his part to reach out and sample the merchandise.
“Did you like what you saw, Detective?” I asked.
He ran his eyes over my body, slowly, so I should know that he was back in charge.
“I told you I’d get back to you,” he said.
“So you did,” I said. “I like a man who keeps his word.”
For a short time, onstage, I’d forgotten how angry I was with him. Now it flooded back, overwhelming me with helpless fury. If he sensed the change, he didn’t acknowledge it.
“I’ve decided to take you off surveillance,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, almost choking on the bitterness that threatened to spill over, “is that what my brother Al said you should do?”
Nailor didn’t flinch. “Sierra, I was doing my job—maybe even less of my job, because I should’ve interviewed your parents. I decided I could get the information I needed from your brother.”
“Oh, I am so lucky,” I said. “Do you not think that it’ll be all over that you were up asking the nuns about me? I mean, I can see you checking my work record, but school?”
“I told them it was a background check. Your brother’s the only one who knew any different.”
“And what about Tony?” I asked. “Was that necessary?”
Nailor regarded me cautiously. “Why don’t you tell me, Sierra? The man was a felon. You could’ve been involved in his illegal activities. I say that’s relevant to my investigation. Your past history and relationships follow you wherever you go.”
I looked up and saw Vincent hovering near the bar. This was no discussion to continue in the Tiffany.
“You know I was cleared of any involvement,” I said. “You wo
uldn’t be calling off the watchdogs if you thought I was dirty.” I looked over at Vincent and back at John Nailor. “The boss don’t like you dogging me at my place of employment. I could lose my job.”
Nailor stood up and smiled. “Now, that would be a loss,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Do that,” I answered, but he was already walking away, nodding casually to Vincent Gambuzzo as he pushed through the door and out into the night.
* * *
Lyle ignored me. All I could figure was his feelings were hurt because I hadn’t made time for him to explain his aversion to law-enforcement officials. When I wandered up to the bar, he turned away, making like Rambo, who was sitting in front of him, was saying the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“Hey,” I called, “what’s a girl gotta do to get some service around here?”
Every head at the bar swiveled. The customers smiled and some started asking what kind of service I was looking for, but not Lyle. He was too cool to make a scene, so he walked slowly to my end of the bar, but he wasn’t going to make like everything was okay, either.
“What can I get for you, ma’am?” he asked, his voice stiff with insincere civility.
“Aren’t you being a little formal, considering as how I’m standing here in a G-string and a silk kimono?”
Lyle pretended not to hear me and waited for my drink order.
“A Coke with a twist of lime,” I said finally. If he wanted to be a prickly cactus, so be it.
He fixed the drink and brought it over, extending his arm to hand it to me while standing as far away as possible. This was ridiculous.
“Lyle,” I began, “look, I wasn’t up for talking last night. I got the message you left on my machine and that’s why I came over here. I wanted to set a time for us to talk.”
Lyle looked like he could be considering it. He swiped at the bar with a once-white cloth, his brows furrowed with cowboy angst. After a few moments he looked over at me.
“Well, when, then?” he asked. I was forgiven.
“How about tonight, after work? Do you have to close?”
Lyle looked down the length of the bar at his bar back. “No,” he said in his cowboy drawl. “Harv’ll do it. He owes me from last week.”
“Good,” I said. “We’ll go somewhere and grab a bite to eat.” Lyle relaxed enough for a slight smile. “Meet me out in the lot when you’re done, I got a little something to show you.” I meant the Z28, but Lyle and the rest of the bar thought otherwise. It don’t cost nothing to dream, I guess, but they would only be dreaming. For now, Lyle was on my personal back burner.
I’d have to say I drifted through the rest of the night. I’d reached my personal best and used up most of my energy on Nailor. I pulled out my Little Bo Peep routine for the second set and used Goldilocks for the closer. The tips were great as usual, but I could’ve worked the crowd for more. The problem was my heart wasn’t in it.
I was whipped by the time I headed for the parking lot. Maybe I’d lean back on the headrest, crank up the Camaro’s Bose speakers, listen to some Bruce Springstein, and reenergize. Maybe hash browns from the Waffle House, scattered, smothered, and covered, would do the trick. I was beginning to feel sorry I’d told Lyle we could talk. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep.
Maybe I dozed off. I’d parked the Camaro in the far corner of the Tiffany employee parking area so nobody would ding my doors or anything. It was dark, the music was good, and I was so dead tired. Something jerked me awake and I sat up trying to figure out what time it was. Where was that Lyle?
My watch said it was nearly three-thirty. The parking lot was almost empty. The dancers had long since left, and only the cleaning crew and the bar closers would be inside. This was ridiculous. I was going inside to tell Lyle he could just can it for another night, I wasn’t waiting. The least he could’ve done was come tell me he’d been delayed. On the other hand, he didn’t know about the Camaro. Maybe he thought I’d left him. He’d really be pissed if that was the case.
I hopped out of the car to go check, and that’s when my evening ended. I heard a sound behind me, half turned to look, and felt something hot explode inside my head. There was nothing after that but darkness.
* * *
I was aware of pain, radiating from my head, raking through my body, and gravel, little stones that bit into the side of my face, chewing my arms and legs as I struggled to move. It hurt everywhere.
I was trembling uncontrollably and moving was agony, but somehow I heaved myself up, clinging to the side of the Camaro for support. It was no longer dark, but not quite light. The parking lot and the back side of the Tiffany were bathed in shades of predawn gray. What in the hell had happened to me?
I pulled weakly at the door handle, finally using both hands to open the door. I sank down into the driver’s seat, my head resting on the leather-padded steering wheel. I brought my fingers up and tenderly felt the right side of my head. There was a knot the size of half a golf ball that brought tears to my eyes when I accidentally touched its angry center. No blood, I thought, bringing my hand down in front of my eyes; that’s good.
You grow up on the streets of northeast Philly and you are not exactly immune to brutality. Life has its share of hard knocks and punches. In the old days, I’d run with a pretty rough crowd. Somehow, here in Panama City, where the crime rate is low, I hadn’t expected to be a victim. Now in the space of ten days, I’d been battered more than I had in ten years in Philly.
I raised my head slowly and what I saw brought a fresh round of tears. Someone, some person or persons, had tossed the car. My pretty Bose speakers dangled from red and black wires. The contents of the glove compartment were strewn across the seats. The floor mats were ripped up and thrown across the front passenger seat. Even the backseat had been ripped up out of place. My purse and dance bag were empty, their contents sprinkled throughout the interior of my brand-new baby.
That was the last straw. Denise, Arlo, Leon, whatever and whoever, it no longer mattered because now it was personal; now they were messing with me and my car. I reached for the door handle again, pried myself out of the car and onto my feet. It was slow going, but I made it to the back entrance of the Tiffany and up the black wrought-iron steps to the door.
It took forever to fit the key in the lock, open the door, and punch in the alarm code, but when I had, I made straight for the phone outside the dressing room. I started to dial 911, then stopped. Why go through the trouble of calling a patrol unit? They’d only call Detective Nailor anyway. I had his card in my locker. It’d save us both a lot of trouble if I just called him directly.
I didn’t have to worry about being able to focus on the numbers of my combination lock. Someone had been there before me, leaving the door wide open and my belongings scattered across the floor. John Nailor’s card lay in a pile of broken makeup bottles, a crimson streak of blush all but obliterating his name.
* * *
I woke him out of a deep sleep, and when he spoke it was as if from a great distance, yet he recognized my voice.
“Sierra?” he murmured sleepily, as if thinking perhaps this was a dream. Then more alert: “It’s after five in the morning. What’s wrong?”
I gave him points for knowing that it would take a major act of God to make me call him at any time, let alone at five A.M.
“I knew if I called nine-one-one they’d call you anyway. I’m saving them the trouble.” There was a problem. Something was taking my voice away and huge black spots were floating in front of my eyes. I leaned against the cool concrete block wall of the hallway, cradling the phone against my neck. I was going to be sick.
“Tell me where you are,” his voice demanded.
“The Tiffany,” I whispered. It was worse than I thought. I was going to be sick all right, but I was also very afraid that I might cry. Cry or pass out. Something was wrong because my knees were jelly.
“I’ll be there in five minutes, Sierra,” he said. “Can you ho
ld on five minutes? You want me to send a patrol car?”
It didn’t matter. From a long tunnel I tried to answer, tried to keep the phone in my grasp and failed. The black spots converged and I felt myself sliding down the wall. The worst part was I could still hear. As darkness swirled around my head, I heard the rush of footsteps, running, and the sound of two voices whispering.
Twenty-five
After Tony was killed I had a miscarriage. It was all the more tragic because I had not known I was pregnant. I don’t know what I thought, because I knew I was late, but with Tony around, you forgot about normal. He treated me so good that I didn’t even care after a while that he was married. We had our life together, and then he had his other two-dimensional world in New Jersey.
When he got shot I found out about the other Tony, the one with not just a wife, but two little girls, the Tony connected to a crime syndicate out of Newark, the Tony who lay dead outside a nightclub after a rival family decided to make a statement and end his life. I guess the shock brought on the miscarriage. Anyway, I ended up alone, terrified, in the emergency room of Thomas Jefferson Hospital in Philly, because who was I going to tell?
The doctor and the nurses were kind, but there wasn’t a thing they could do except give me something for pain. I lay there for hours crying for Tony and the baby, mad at the world for taking him and mad at Tony for lying to me. I was alone and afraid and I hated myself for being such a fool. That was three years ago.
Of course my family found out about Tony; they’d seen me with him at the club where I worked. When his picture was plastered all over the Inquirer, the rest of the secret was out, but they never knew about the baby. I couldn’t do that to them. I lived with it and I live with the guilt and the what-might-have-beens every day of my life.
Maybe God was trying to make life catch up with me. Maybe that’s why everything was coming to a head in Panama City, Florida. Maybe I should let it happen. I thought all these things and more while I was lying on the floor of the Tiffany, drifting in and out of consciousness. The whispering voices of my attackers were gone, but I didn’t know where. Maybe they were gone. Maybe whoever hit me was coming back. Maybe they were going to kill me before the cops could come. It didn’t matter because I was powerless to lift a finger to stop them.
The Miracle Strip Page 15
