Sweetie? Nailor had called me sweetie. Suddenly I was a basketcase. I couldn’t relax. I was going through the motions, all the while arguing with myself. God, that feels good, my body would say. And my head would answer back. Sweetie. What is this sweetie stuff? You can’t do this. This is going to be a disaster. You can’t go letting yourself fall for him like this. You know what happens. Every single time. You give yourself away, and look, your heart gets broken.
And then the other half of my head started answering. What’s wrong with you? He’s a good guy!
Yeah, right. He seems like a good guy. Maybe that’s an act. And maybe that’s a little too boring. I like bikers. I like bad boys.
My head shook its head. You poor stupid idiot!
My body broke it. Hey, will you guys knock it off! Do you feel what he’s doing here?
And then I moaned as Nailor’s tongue slid across my belly and his fingers moved to part my legs ever so slowly.
For once my body and my head were in agreement. We felt that. But only to a point. I opened my eyes and looked down at his shoulders. Strong, tanned shoulders that rippled as he moved. John Nailor had the sexiest shoulders, I thought. I reached out and stopped him, pulling him up to me.
“Now,” I whispered. “I need you inside me, right now.”
Nailor frowned. “No, you don’t,” he said, and made an attempt to move back.
“Yes, really, I do.” And then I moved to make his retreat impossible. He sighed as I touched him, guiding him inside me. He gave up to what felt totally right and moaned as we began to move ever so slowly.
“Oh God, Sierra,” he said into my shoulder. “This feels so good.”
But my head wasn’t listening. Something was really wrong here. I was sabotaging the one true happiness I’d had in years. Truth be told, it was maybe the only true romantic happiness I’d ever felt. What in the hell was wrong with me?
Right before we fell asleep, he pulled me against his chest and lay there holding me. His fingers gently stroked my hair.
“Sierra,” he whispered, “where did you go?”
I struggled up onto my elbows and stared at him. “What do you mean?” I asked.
He brushed a tendril of hair away from my face and stared at me. “You know exactly what I mean, babe. You can’t con a con. What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, my heartbeat quickening a little. “I guess it’s just Bruno and everything. I can’t let loose. I mean, that’s understandable, isn’t it? After all, it’s not every night a girl gets shot at, her friend critically wounded, and her boss loses the freaking club.”
Nailor nodded, as if he still didn’t buy it. “It’s a lot, I know, but, babe, when we connect, the rest of the world always goes away. I’m thinking I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you.”
I smiled and kissed him. “A little sleep and I’ll be fine.”
John smiled back and then looked serious again. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” he said. “Bruno’ll be fine. I bet he’s out of the hospital in time for Christmas.”
That’s when the second ton of concrete hit me, weighing me down until there was no pretending. Christmas. What was I going to do about Christmas? I always went home, but how could I do that with my friends in trouble and the club at risk?
“I was gonna go home for Christmas,” I muttered. “There’s no way I can do that now.”
Nailor was getting sleepy on me. He pulled me closer to him and stroked my hair again. “Don’t worry, honey,” he said, his voice a thready whisper. “We’ll make this a great Christmas, best you ever had.”
With that, John Nailor drifted off to sleep, leaving me lying there listening to the only sound in the room, the strong and steady beating of his heart.
Six
I should never have given into technology, but it was on sale, so like a backwoods tourist on my first trip to Atlantic City, I sold out to temptation and became the owner of a cell phone. Like a further fool, I gave people the number, so they called me. I could’ve turned the thing off, shoved it under my car seat for emergencies, but no, I couldn’t do that. “What ifs” surrounded me. What if someone needed to reach me? What if there was an emergency? What if, what if, what if?
So when it started chirping as I drove across the Hathaway Bridge, I reached reflexively, rooting to the bottom of my purse, half dumping everything out in my attempt to catch it before it went to voice mail and I had to start punching numbers.
“Hey!” I yelled into it, grasping the steering wheel with one hand and attempting to hear the incoming call over the surge of air that blew through the T-tops in the Camaro.
“Sierra.” Vincent’s voice boomed out into my ear, forcing me to hold the phone out and wince. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Vincent, it’s five-thirty. Where else would I be? I’m on my way to work.”
Vincent continued almost as if he hadn’t heard me. “Listen, we got a setback here.”
A setback? He was calling what we had a setback? I was thinking of it as a red-hot emergency, or a thermonuclear meltdown, but not a setback. Setbacks are for hangnails or bad hair days.
“But Ernie’s on his way, so don’t worry about it.”
I was coasting down off the bridge, heading for the beach, my foot hitting the accelerator a little harder as I listened.
“Vincent, shoot it straight. What are you talking about? Have you been arrested? I thought Ernie was taking care of that last night.”
“Yeah, he did. This is kind of a little different.” Vincent sounded like a teenager explaining why he was late for curfew and it was driving me nuts.
“Vincent, how about you quit the dance and talk.”
“I’m under arrest for murder, Sierra.”
That was shooting straight. I gripped the phone for a minute, unable to speak. “Okay, what are you talking about?”
“He didn’t tell you? That prick you call a boyfriend didn’t fucking tell you?” Vincent’s voice rose in a crest of anxiety. “Somehow those assholes say I shot that dick Denny. Apparently the ballistics came back on the bullet in his tiny brain, and they say it matches up to my gun! They say the gun has my prints and no one else’s. They say I got gunpowder residue on my hands. Now, what the fuck is that?”
For once I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there at a red light, clutching a little black phone to my ear and looking stupid.
“Sierra, hello! You still there?”
“Yeah,” I said softly, “I’m here. Vincent, I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand? What’s to understand? It don’t make no sense. I didn’t shoot nobody. I shot at somebody, but they was robbing the place. I didn’t have time to shoot no pissant Denny.”
“It’s a mistake,” I said.
“Damn right it’s a mistake, and you gotta take care of it.”
“Me?” I turned out onto the beach road and got a glimpse of dazzling blue water and sugar-white sand. December on the Panhandle of northwest Florida. It couldn’t get any better … or worse.
“Yeah,” Vincent continued. “You gotta help me. You think some two-bit lawyer in a Hawaiian shirt who plays the ukulele is gonna be able to get me outta this? I don’t think so.”
“Look, Vincent, there’s a mistake here, all right? I’m sure—”
“Sierra, this ain’t Candyland. Something’s going on here and I need you. Besides, I ain’t got the jack to pull in no high-powered team of private eyes and lawyers. I’m in a temporary financial situation. Maybe it’s time to call your uncle.”
“Uncle?” I was stalling for time. I knew who Vincent meant.
“Sierra,” Vincent sighed. “Don’t you think with your connections you could, you know, do something?”
Okay, so Vincent Gambuzzo was laboring under the assumption that I was hooked up to the “Big Moose” Lavotini syndicate out of Cape May, New Jersey. So maybe I let him think this on account of it bought me some clout when I needed it, but the reality of the situation was that I didn’t know �
�Big Moose.” I mean, he had heard of me, but we had not been formally introduced. I used his name once too often, and word had finally reached him up in New Jersey. So far, he hadn’t issued a cease-and-desist order in the form of a visit from one of his henchmen, but I wasn’t going to press the issue by using his name in vain.
The familiar white stucco of the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club loomed up ahead of me, only there was a problem. The huge neon sign had been covered over by a large square of plastic that said: BIG MIKE’S HOUSE OF BOOTY. I gasped and Vincent was on me.
“What? What? You hit something? I told you about driving and talking. It’s illegal, Sierra.”
Then don’t fucking call me. “No, Vincent, I just almost missed my turn, that’s all. Now listen, you gotta calm down. I’ll talk to Nailor. I’ll find out what’s going on. This is temporary. You won’t be in there for long.”
“I will be if they deny bail,” he said. “Hell, if they set bail at much over twenty dollars, I’ll be in here for years.”
I didn’t respond, I was so distracted by the sign in front of me. Big Mike’s House of Booty! The silhouette of a naked woman, her breasts pointy and her hips thrusting outward, let it be known in no uncertain terms that Big Mike’s was gonna be nothing like the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club. I shuddered and pulled into the parking lot. I was going to have to talk to Big Mike, try to make him understand a little about the exotic dancing business.
“How’s Bruno?” Vincent asked.
“I called the hospital right before I left,” I said. “He’s conscious, but they’re keeping him doped up on account of the pain.”
Vincent sighed. “Damn, I really made a mess of things.”
I looked back up at the new sign and cringed. A mess was an understatement. “Listen, I’m here. I’ve gotta go inside. Vincent, try not to do a number on yourself. I’ll call Nailor. Something’s wrong here, but we’ll get it straightened out.”
Gambuzzo had radar. “What’s Mike done to the club?” he demanded.
“Nothing, jeez, I just got here. I’m not even inside!”
“Sierra, don’t run no shit with me. I can feel it. What’s he done?”
I sighed. “The sign says ‘Big Mike’s House of Booty.’”
“I’ll kill him! I’ll freakin’ kill him!”
In light of Vincent’s current situation, I thought making terroristic threats from the pay phone at the county jail a little inadvisable.
“Vincent, just let me handle it. Big Mike’s a little excited, that’s all.” I reached for my gear bag and climbed out of the car, the cell phone still glued to my ear. On the other end I could hear Gambuzzo hyperventilating.
“Gotta run, big man,” I said. “This is gonna be fine. Don’t worry.”
Vincent was still huffing and puffing when I hung up, but there was nothing I could do about that. The Tiffany was vibrating with the sound of loud tasteless rock music, the kind with no discernible beat that appealed to a class of clientele that the Tiffany did not desire. Poor Mike, he needed some expert guidance, and I was just the girl to lead him down the right path.
Vincent was going to have to do his part. He was going to have to find the money to pay off Mike before our reputation was completely ruined.
Things were no better inside the club. For one thing, Rusty wasn’t working the stage. I couldn’t find him at first, and then I saw him, working the lights.
“What are you doing?” I called up to him. Rusty gave me a pained look, hit a switch, and looked back at me.
“Waiting for you, basically,” he said. “Then I’m blowing this pop stand.”
I looked around. In the spot where Rusty should’ve been, I saw Big Mike. He was wearing the headset Rusty used to direct the show, its microphone pulled up close to his fat lips. He looked like a kid in a candy store. When he saw me he motioned me over, a big smile on his face like he was inviting me to his birthday party.
“Hey, come on over here, gal!”
I approached with caution, strolling across the concrete floor like it was nothing but an ordinary day at the park for me.
“Shouldn’t Rusty be doing that?” I asked. “I mean, don’t you have other more important things to tend to?”
Big Mike had changed from the night before. His wiry hair was slicked down with pomade; he was wearing a button-down shirt that couldn’t quite cover his huge beer gut without showing a little skin, and he’d shaved, in an attempt to look respectable, I supposed.
“See, that’s just the problem with this joint,” he boomed. “Gambuzzo didn’t take a personal hand in the management of the place. I’m here to make sure it runs right.” I followed his glance out onto the stage and was instantly horrified. Big Mike had five girls out on the catwalk and stage area. Five strippers, not to be confused with your artisans like myself, all dancing with no apparent theme or choreography. They were just flashing meat, and lots of it, in an attempt to blatantly solicit money. No class. No seduction, just sex for hire on a platter. It was disgusting.
I looked back over my shoulder and saw the dancers queued up in the doorway of the locker room, waiting to see what I was going to do. I turned back to Mike, who seemed to be also waiting for a response from me.
“Mike, in all due respect, this is not the Tiffany way. We are not about screwing a pole for money. We are not low-class hookers. We are women of desire. Our clientele expects that. That’s what they want.”
Mike frowned and pointed to the edge of the runway. “Then you’d better tell them that, ’cause they sure seem to want it bad enough!”
A cluster of twenty-year-old airmen stood barking like dogs, gripping their crotches and indicating that they did indeed want something. Of course, it’s hard to grab your pants and insert money into a girl’s garter at the same time, so the strippers’ garters were nearly empty. I decided to try another tack.
“Mike, you know this is only temporary, right? I mean, Vincent’ll get the money and pay you off, he could even do it today, so let’s not—”
Mike spun around and stared at me. His eyes weren’t sleepy sheepdog eyes anymore; they glittered with something I hadn’t seen in him before: greedy determination.
“Sierra, this club’s mine now. I don’t care if he offers me twice what I took it for, I ain’t selling.” He barked out a thick laugh. “You think I’m not gonna jump on this golden opportunity like white on rice? Hell, you think I like taking drunken executives out twenty miles and baiting their hooks and waiting on them like they was royalty? Reel their fish in, bring ’em cold beer, hell, I do everything but hold their dicks while they pee. I ain’t about to give this up for that!” Big Mike laughed. “Honey, you can tell ol’ Vince I know where there’s a used charter boat he can buy for cheap! That is, if he ever gets his ass out of jail!” And Mike was off, laughing at his newfound change of status, pleased as punch with himself.
I stood there and watched him, my attention flickering between him and the strippers on the stage. I couldn’t do this. I wouldn’t do this. I was aware of Rusty’s eyes boring a hole in my back, and the girls waiting for me to do something. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen.
Mike finally stopped laughing and looked back over at me. “What you doing standing there, Sierra? Ain’t you supposed to be working? Hurry up and change. I want you and the next four girls in the alphabet out there in five minutes. Scoot!”
I just stood there.
“Hey,” he said, not noticing that I hadn’t made a move, “and don’t put on one of them gussy things you always wear. Put on a thong-back and pasties. We don’t need to stall off giving these men what they want. Window dressing is not allowed in Big Mike’s House of Booty.”
That did it. The slow burn ignited into an inferno.
“Yo!” I said.
Behind me I heard Tonya’s voice. “Here she goes!”
Big Mike turned around. “What?” It was a big dumb “Whut?” The kind of “Whut” that made me want to sucker punch him for being stupid, but I didn’t.
Somehow I didn’t.
“Okay, let me lay it out for you, Hot Stuff. This isn’t your club, not for long anyway. And we aren’t your dancers. We will not prance out on stage like flat-backing hookers. We will not lower our standards. We will not compromise our integrity.”
Behind me a few girls started calling out “Yeah” and “That’s right, honey!”
Big Mike smiled like maybe I was a difficult kid. “Sierra, I didn’t ask you about your values. I told you. Now, honey, I understand that in Vince’s house you were the alpha dog, but, baby, here you’re just a bitch like all the rest. So go squeeze your ass into a thong and trot it on out here, girl, or you won’t be making a trailer payment this month.”
I’m sorry. I slapped him then, and it felt good, right up until he pulled his fist back to return fire. That’s when Eugene appeared out of nowhere, a black tower of rage and aggression.
“Motherfucker!” he yelled, grabbing Mike’s fist and holding it like a child would a lollipop. “You messing with my sister?”
Two men materialized out of the darkness of the backstage, gripping guns and looking very much like they might use them as easily as they had probably used grappling hooks the day before to bring a sailfish aboard Big Mike’s boat.
Big Mike slowly pulled his fist from Eugene’s grasp, straightened his collar, and glared at all of us.
“Those of you who want a job will play by my rules. My rules are simple: Get naked and get your ass onstage. Now!”
There was a general movement by the locker room door. Five girls, the lowest of the strippers, materialized dressed in next to nothing. Fifteen girls filed past them and walked over to the back door, gear bags in hand and determined looks on their faces.
I looked at Rusty and Eugene, then over at the girls by the back door. Inside I felt like I was going to bust out crying, but outwardly I knew I looked cool as a cucumber.
“All right, guys,” I said. My voice was barely louder than my heartbeat. “Let’s blow this pop stand!”
I turned around and saw an unexpected face in the shadows. Izzy Rodriguez stood just inside the back entrance, watching the scene unfold. I didn’t know why he was there, but I could guess. He was just like any other predator, looking to take advantage of a bad situation. Whatever his business, it had nothing to do with us.
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