Drag Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

Where I come from, in the suburbs of Northeast Philly, when somebody dies from the neighborhood, we all attend the funeral or drop by the funeral parlor. It’s a sign of respect and, sometimes, more often than we’d like to admit, curiosity. When I arrived at work the second day after Ruby’s death, I was heartened to find out that dancers operate on the same level of personal principle. Either that or Vincent Gambuzzo was a public-relations whiz kid.

  “Sierra,” he called as I came rolling in through the back entrance. “It’s about friggin’ time. I gotta talk to you before you go on.” I looked at my watch. It was only seven o’clock. I was early.

  “Vincent, I’m not late,” I said impatiently. As I got closer I could see the jaw twitching. Vincent was in a state.

  “Did you reach him?” he asked.

  “Vincent,” I hissed, looking around in mock paranoia. “Don’t be running your mouth here. I told you I’d take care of it, and I did.”

  Vincent nodded. “Now listen, that’s not all. I got some extras here tonight. Some of the other clubs sent over representatives. You know,” he said, trying to prompt me, “for the tribute. The PDA.”

  “What? They did what?”

  Vincent puffed up like a rooster. “Yeah, I was talking to some of the guys, and they were all offering their condolences. When I told them about the tribute and asked if they wanted a part in it, they were all right on board. They sent their best girls.”

  I had to give the guy credit. This was a public-relations coup. The best talent in town, from every club, all packing in the Tiffany. There wouldn’t be a man in the area who’d miss this. The strippers with hearts of gold and the G-strings to match.

  “I want you to coordinate things for the evening. Get the girls lined up. Tell them what you want and how long they have onstage. Set the tone, Sierra.”

  “Vincent, you are friggin’ unbelievable.” On the one hand, I wanted to slap him for exploiting Ruby’s memory to his advantage. On the other hand, it was going to save the Tiffany from becoming “the place where that murdered girl worked” and turn it into “that club that cared so much about that poor murdered girl.” It was brilliant and disgusting all at once. And damn it, it was up to me to turn it into the real tribute I knew it should be.

  “So you’re saying I get free reign here to do it like I want?”

  “Anything you say, Sierra.”

  “Good,” I said, turning and heading for the dressing room door. “Then stay the fuck away from us until I tell you different. I don’t want you messing it up.”

  Vincent was fuming, but he was also remembering that he owed me now and he really couldn’t afford to piss me off.

  “You got two hours, Sierra,” he growled. “Have your ass out onstage at nine o’clock and don’t keep us waiting.”

  I didn’t dignify it with a response. I had two hours to put on a really fine memorial tribute and that was what I intended to do.

  Nine

  A fine mist of smoke blew gently across the stage of the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club at precisely nine P.M. I’d made Ralph, the stage manager, change our customary red backdrop curtain for a black velvet one, and at 9:01 the curtain slowly parted to reveal me standing center stage, dressed in a black velvet sheath, my blond hair piled high upon my head.

  It was a packed house, thanks to Vincent’s full-page ad in the local paper. The cover charge had been jacked up out of sight, with ten dollars out of each admission going to the local women’s shelter, another Gambuzzo finesse. When I stepped slowly out to the front of the runway, the crowd fell silent.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “welcome to the Tiffany. We have gathered here tonight to pay tribute to one of our own, a young dancer who I’m sure most of you have seen on this stage. A woman of extraordinary talent, who shared her gift freely with those who could most appreciate it.”

  There was an anticipatory stir among the men.

  “Tonight, those of us who share Ruby’s love of dance have assembled to pay our respects and to honor her life essence. We hope that by bringing joy to you we can remind ourselves that, while Ruby’s song is over, her melody lingers on.

  “Owen,” I called suddenly to the bartender, “pour everyone a shot of Wild Turkey.” This was clearly not in Vincent’s good-hearted scenario, and the dirty look he sent me confirmed it, but what did I care? A few of the restless shouted out, “All right,” but I signaled for silence.

  “Gentlemen, if you would refrain from drinking, for a moment, I would like to propose a toast.” Incredibly, they did. They stood silent, waiting as the topless barmaids handed out shots, thanking them respectfully, and not once hooting or attempting to pinch fleshy bottoms.

  When everyone in the house had a glass, I raised my own.

  “Here’s to the road we all must go down. Here’s to the gift that brought her to town. Here’s to a life cut short in its prime. Let’s honor our friend, ’cause, boys, it’s showtime!” With this, I yanked at the slender Velcro strip that held my dress on, letting it fall to the floor, revealing my black sequined G-string and tiny black pasties. A large fake ruby glittered in my navel. I poured the shot back, letting the fiery liquid slide down the back of my throat.

  “All right, girls!” I yelled. “Let’s give them what they came for!”

  The curtain slowly pulled back again, this time revealing twenty-five of the best exotic dancers that Panama City, Florida, had to offer, all dressed in tiny black G-strings and minuscule black pasties, all with red rubies glittering in their navels.

  The girls paraded forward, took a turn around the pole, which had been decorated for the occasion in black, then strutted out down the length of the runway, blowing kisses and giving the boys a little taste of the evening to come. The men went wild. Bills littered the air and the stage like confetti. This would be a night for Panama City to remember.

  Ruby would have been thrilled. She would’ve joined right in and danced her heart out. For a moment I thought of her, lying lifeless on the ground, and wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. I was a pro and the others were looking to me to pull us through the tough times. That’s what families do. They stick together through the rough patches, no matter what the cost and no matter how much it hurts.

  I knew my job tonight. I was the mother and the referee to a bunch of the best and most highly strung dancers that the Florida Panhandle had to offer. There was no time for my own feelings, not with twenty-five others to manage. So I kept them moving. I teamed them up in pairs or threesomes. I kept them busy changing costumes, helping with props and circulating the room doing table dances, and I laid down the law.

  “There will be no lap dancing. There will be no competition for the customer. This is a tribute, not a slugfest.”

  No one had a problem with this, not even the girls from some of the less formal clubs. The only dancer I had to ride was Marla, and that was no surprise. Marla fancies herself my competition for headliner, and so if I told her it was raining outside, she’d be the first to assure me how wrong I was.

  “I don’t see why I can’t do a fly-over,” she said, pouting.

  “Marla, it would mean rigging the stage with extra stuff, and we don’t have the time.”

  Marla had one big act. She called it her salute to our flying men in uniform. She dressed like a B-52 bomber, all silver sequins, complete with wings and wires so she could fly out over the runway, grabbing her tits and yelling, “Bombs away, boys!” It took a lot of wires to heft Marla and her 52DD “bombs” up over the stage, and this was just not the time.

  “Well, Ruby would’ve loved it,” she said, glowering.

  “Ruby would’ve laughed her ass off like she always did,” I answered.

  “You’re just jealous!”

  “Marla,” I said, “I really don’t have time for this. We each get five minutes. I put you on third, so if I were you, I’d get my ass in gear and get ready because you’re on in five minutes.” I walked off from that one, but she managed to mix it up with the guest artists and need
interference from me at least five more times that night. It was worse than watching a toddler.

  The real trouble came toward midnight. Tonya the Barbarian was full tilt into her big number. It involved a fake-fur cavegirl outfit, a club with rubber spikes, and a lot of grunting. It was a primitive workout at best, with the club utilized in ways no true cavegirl ever imagined, but it drew a fascinated audience. It was the same kind of crowd who goes for women mud-wrestling topless.

  Tonya was sort of rolling on the floor of the runway, much to the delight of the contingent of race car drivers who had elected to attend representing the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway.

  “After all,” Roy Dell had explained, “it happened on our turf. We felt like we ought to be here as a show of respect.” He’d brought along Meatloaf and Frank and some of the other drivers and pit crew members. All in all a good turnout. Even Mickey Rhodes had shown up, but he chose to spend most of his time huddled at the bar, conferring with Vincent.

  Roy Dell and Meatloaf were most enamored of Tonya’s G-string, which seemed to be made of chamois cloth and chicken bones. They were risking the wrath of Bruno the bouncer by leaning as close over the edge of the runway as they possibly could to insert rolled-up bills into Tonya’s tiny leopard-skin garter when a loud disturbance broke out.

  It started at the back of the room, near the door, and rumbled like a tidal wave toward the front of the house. Watching from just off stage, I saw men being shoved aside like spent paper towels and heard a dull roar, but because of the crowd I couldn’t tell for sure what was happening.

  Things seemed to move in slow motion for a moment as I saw Roy Dell’s facial expression change from a drooling leer to abject terror. Tonya was too absorbed in her act to clock that she was in danger of becoming a victim, and the only thing that may have saved her was Bruno taking a flying leap that landed him across the edge of the runway, effectively spinning Tonya back up the slippery runway and away from the action.

  “Roy Dell Parks!” a deep throaty voice called. “I done warned you for the last time.” The sea of bodies parted as a thick, beefy arm reached out and grabbed Roy Dell by the lapels of his bright yellow shirt.

  “Now, honey,” Roy Dell began, but his voice was quickly squeezed to a squeak.

  I had a good view now. Men were scattering like Ping-Pong balls. A tall, bleached blonde wearing a red and white vertically striped shirt, with the name LULU embroidered in red across the top half of the back and DERBETTES stitched across the middle, reached for a beer bottle. With one hand clutching Roy Dell by the shirt collar, she neatly tapped the beer bottle against the edge of the runway, thus giving her a perfect weapon for fending off an enraged and determined Bruno.

  Although she never made eye contact with Bruno or Fast Eddie, the backup bouncer, she seemed to sense their presence.

  “Don’t none of y’all bother us,” she shouted. “This is a domestic situation brought about and aggravated by y’all’s disregard for the sanctity of my marriage.” She took a step backward, dragging Roy Dell with her. “Sex has done reared its ugly head and made an addict out of my husband. He is a fool for race cars and now he’s a fool for women. It was only a matter of time.”

  “Lulu, honey,” Roy Dell squeaked.

  “Shut up, you worm!” Lulu continued to walk backward, the beer bottle waving in her left hand and Roy Dell gasping for breath in her right. “If you was half the man you think you are, you wouldn’t be running around looking for inflation.”

  “You go, girl!” Tonya yelled, apparently forgetting that with Roy Dell went a sizable portion of the evening’s tips.

  Meatloaf and Frank looked at each other and shrugged. Meatloaf snickered. The other racers stood, open-mouthed, as did the rest of the men. Bruno followed Lulu, getting as close as he could but aware of the flashing beer bottle. Vincent seemed to be the only one with any sense about him. He anticipated Lulu’s departure and pushed the double entry doors wide open so she’d have a clear path of departure.

  “You think I don’t know about you making a fool of yourself over that dead girl the other night?” she asked Roy Dell. “You think that creature found you attractive? Do you actually think I like sitting in the pit and looking across and seeing you sweet-talking some girl young enough to be your daughter?” She didn’t expect an answer from Roy Dell. “Then you come here to publicly humiliate me?” She snorted. “Them days are over, Roy Dell.” By now they had reached the doorway, but unfortunately, so had Detective John Nailor.

  I saw him approach slowly, like he was out for nothing more than a stroll. Lulu was so wrapped up in her speech to Roy Dell and in guarding her front, that she never thought to look behind her. With one fluid movement, Nailor reached up, relieved Lulu of the beer bottle, and kept walking right past her.

  “Y’all have a pleasant evening now, y’hear?” he said.

  Lulu and Roy Dell continued on their way out to the parking lot, and the entire audience at the Tiffany stared at John for a long moment, then instantly lost interest as the music cranked back up and Tonya the Barbarian began to wriggle on her belly like a reptile.

  I stood and watched John from my position at the edge of the backstage curtain. He appeared to have popped in for a quick drink, like he was only John Q. Public, but I knew better. Everything John did was for a reason.

  Vincent Gambuzzo was apparently thinking the exact same thing I was, because he began to circle John’s table, his face growing increasingly red as his jaw twitched angrily. I knew what was coming. It happened every time John Nailor entered the Tiffany. Vincent would puff up like a blowfish and Nailor would merely watch. One of these times Vincent was going to really make a fool out of himself, and then where would we all be?

  As usual, it was up to me to see that cooler heads prevailed. I nodded to Ralph, the stage manager, signaling the girl I wanted to go on next, and headed out to play den mother.

  “Detective,” Vincent was saying as I approached the table, “you’re bad for business.” John was staring at him like he was a specimen in an aquarium.

  “Gambuzzo, I’m a paying customer,” he said, gesturing toward his Coke. “I’m just here to enjoy the evening.”

  “Nailor, you know and I know—” Vincent began as I stepped up to the table.

  “Table dance, Detective?” I said, placing my stilettoed foot firmly up on the table in between the two men and giving John Nailor a good glimpse of the goods that made the Tiffany famous.

  He didn’t move a facial muscle, but he let his eyes do the talking, running them up the length of my leg like silk stockings.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said slowly. Then he reached forward and slipped a twenty-dollar bill in my garter.

  This was a first. Usually he’d settle for a smart remark and then leave, but not tonight. Vincent, mollified only slightly by the display of money, sniffed and moved back a few steps.

  “Well, I guess there’s nothing wrong with a paying customer,” he groused, “but I got my eye on you two.” With that he wandered back to his spot at the end of the bar, leaving us alone.

  “What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you didn’t want to be seen around me.” John eyed me slowly, lingering over the pasties and the giant ruby in my navel.

  “Start dancing,” he said softly, but with a firm no-nonsense tone.

  I looked over my shoulder. Vincent’s jaw was pumping. I began to move to the music. John leaned back in his seat, hands clasped behind his head, watching me like any other customer. But he wasn’t any other customer. The memory of our kiss, shared in the darkness of my kitchen, came coursing through my body, and I felt suddenly vulnerable.

  “Look at me,” he said, “and step closer.”

  All right, I thought, if he wants the full treatment, then that’s what he’ll get. I looked him right in the eye and produced the best moves I had to offer. I brought my hands up to cup my breasts, then let my fingers drift down below my waist. John watched, a soft smile playing across his face.
/>
  “Is this how you like it, Detective?” I said softly, then let my fingers dip below the edge of my sequined G-string. I was waiting for him to break, to look away, to back down, but he didn’t.

  “I’m liking this just fine,” he said, sliding forward in his chair. In his hand he held another bill, but it was wrapped around a thin white piece of paper. He waved the bill in front of me, beckoning me to come closer. I ran my hands down my thighs and wiggled so close I could smell his cologne. With an easy, practiced movement, he shoved the card and the bill in the front of my G-string. My stomach turned over as his fingers brushed my skin.

  “In case you need to reach me,” he said, “that has my pager number on it.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “What makes you think I’ll need you?” I asked. I placed my hands on either side of his chair and leaned over him, my breasts a few inches from his face. “Maybe it’ll be the other way around.” Nailor’s hands moved involuntarily, reaching for me, then dropped back to his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing himself to stay in control.

  “I read the paper,” he said, opening his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, but somebody doesn’t like you. You need to watch your back.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about me, Detective,” I said. “I’m used to handling trouble.” I pushed back from his chair and stood right in front of him, staring as hard as I could into his eyes. “Maybe you’re the one playing with fire.” My heart was pounding and I could feel my face turning red.

  “Be careful what you ask for, honey,” he said. “You just might get more than you bargained for.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. Neither one of us moved. We were as close as we had been in my trailer. I could feel the heat between us and it took my breath away. He reached a hand out and touched me lightly under the chin.

  “It’s time to quit playing games, Sierra,” he said. “You’re moving into a whole new league.”

  I wasn’t sure if we were talking about Ruby’s death or me and him. Either way, I wasn’t running away. I stood and watched him as he tossed back the last of his Coke and walked out the door.