“Don’t know yet,” he said. “Probably just another punk looking to rob the doorman. A drunk. Somebody with a record. We’ll get him.”
“Witnesses?”
Nailor laughed. “What, Sierra? You want a job? Nope. No witnesses. The bouncer went out to check the parking lot and didn’t come back.”
Nailor was leaving now, focused as I was on the shooting. I had the image of the black sedan driving off, leaving me to deal with Izzy’s bouncers. Surely Moose wouldn’t have sent his men back to take care of them?
I was thinking about Moose and the way he’d been so cold about taking out Dimitri the biker. But that was different, I thought. That was an immediate threat to my safety. This would’ve been a payback. I didn’t think Moose would trifle with a simple payback, not on something as petty as that. He wouldn’t risk getting tagged for murder for something that simple. Would he?
I watched Nailor leave, still not able to shake my doubts about Moose Lavotini. Then I remembered Yolanda and started wondering about her, too. Why hadn’t she come back? A girl as greedy and street-smart as Yolanda wouldn’t stay away from a possible paycheck. Where was she?
I stepped outside and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of anyone. The wind had started blowing and as I gazed overhead, clouds skittered across the sky. A front was moving through. Tomorrow it would be colder, probably gray and rainy. It wasn’t my kind of weather, not by a long shot. Still, winter in Panama City beat the gray slushy winter of Philadelphia any day of the week.
I moved inside, my arms wrapped around my sides, contemplating the relative merits of pulling on a jacket and walking across the street for tea with Raydean and Pat. Fluffy was looking unconcerned. She’d pulled up into a tight ball and was snuggled deep into the futon cushions. She was in for the evening.
“Girl,” I said, “don’t this stuff ever worry you? Don’t you ever stop and think, Hey, maybe we can’t handle this one?”
Apparently not. Fluffy sighed in her sleep, smiling at some doggy dream that chased across her subconscious.
“It’s a dog’s life, girl,” I said. “No doubt about it.”
Thirty
I was thinking that Yolanda was dead. I sat there on the couch next to Fluffy, tossing around the options and realizing that sometimes those irrational thoughts we all have are really instincts that shouldn’t be ignored. My instincts told me the only good whore was now a dead one.
When the phone rang, Fluffy and I both jumped. I grabbed up the receiver. “Hello?”
“I have to talk to you, right now.”
I rolled my eyes at Fluffy. I was getting a little tired of the husky-male-voice routine telling me we had to talk.
“Listen, who is this and why do you keep calling me? Now either we talk or we don’t, but I can’t hardly talk if I don’t know who it is, can I?” I was a little confused on account of I’d thought it was Moose Lavotini who’d done all the calling, but maybe I was wrong about that, too.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m telling you I want you to come down here and get some shit squared away.”
I recognized the whiny, impatient voice then: Izzy Rodriguez.
“And why should I?”
Izzy sighed. “Because I know something you don’t know and because if we get some shit worked out, your asshole of a boss might go free.”
That had me. “Where and when?” I asked.
“My club, right now. Use the back entrance so don’t nobody see you.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “All right, I’ll be there in twenty.” I hung up and stared at the dead phone. What was with Izzy looking to work a deal? What had him so desperate?
I glanced over at Fluff. She didn’t look like this was a mission she wanted to tackle. She looked like she was in for the night, and who could blame her? I was dog-tired myself. I leaned back against the futon cushions. Fluffy stood up, stretched, and moved closer to me before curling up and resting her head in my lap. I stared at her and stroked the soft skin behind her ears. I couldn’t help thinking that this could’ve been me and Nailor.
“Okay, girl,” I said, struggling to hop up off the futon. “I’ll go. Don’t trouble yourself. I got it covered.” Fluffy sighed and snuggled down into the cushion. After all, it wasn’t her boss we were worried about.
By the time I reached the Busted Beaver, I had a head of steam up and was working on a good lecture for my friend, Rodriguez. If he thought he could scam me into working for him, or calling any of the other dancers back, then he was dead wrong.
I pulled Raydean’s car into the space farthest away from the bright lights of the parking lot. I didn’t figure it would do me any good to be seen talking to a sleaze-ball like Izzy. All I needed was the word to get back that Sierra was talking to the owner of the Beaver, and the rumors would fly. The others might think I was actually looking to score a job first and cut them out.
I took my time wedging my way through pickup trucks and souped-up street cars, working along the edge of the paved lot, stepping in sand and briars in my attempt to slink past the doormen and the drunken customers. I could hear the music thumping rhythmically inside, pulsing out a don’t-you-want-to-fuck-me beat. The clink of glass, the smell of urine and testosterone, all worked to brand the Beaver as a slum club.
I crept up to the back entrance and was surprised to find the door standing wide open. That sort of security risk never happened around the Tiffany, but then, the Beaver probably worked prostitutes out the back. The people around Izzy Rodriguez weren’t exactly looking to enter through the front door.
Still, when no one came to meet me and there was no sign of anyone at all in the darkened hallway, I felt uneasy. Maybe Rodriguez was setting me up. Maybe I shouldn’t have come alone.
I felt the back pocket of my jeans, my hand running over my Spyderco, then reaching inside to bring it out and open it up. Something was making my skin crawl and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. The music was much louder now the closer I got to the stage, making it impossible to hear anything but the throbbing Latin beat. I just kept on moving, right down the hallway, looking for Izzy’s office like I belonged there, hoping I didn’t run into one of his gun-toting bodyguards.
The gold lettering on the thick wooden door was a dead giveaway. The empty bottles of cheap champagne lining the wall beside the door told me Rodriguez felt he had something to celebrate, or someone to celebrate with.
I knocked and waited. “This is stupid,” I whispered to myself. “Obviously the man is busy. Just go now and come back another time.” But no, I couldn’t do that. I was too curious, too eager to get it over with and go back home.
I nudged the door with my foot, pushed it open, and stepped inside Izzy’s office.
“Anybody home?” I called softly, like I was really expecting an answer. I gripped the handle of my knife tighter and stepped farther inside the office. No one was there and the place was a mess. Empty dishes and glasses were piled high on top of his huge desk. Papers were stacked with no apparent care in piles that spilled over onto the floor beside the desk. Izzy’s office was just like him, sleazy.
His desk chair was built for a giant, which was funny in light of Rodriguez’s tiny stature. I walked closer, thinking maybe to take advantage of the situation. But somebody else had already taken advantage of Izzy Rodriguez. He lay in a thick pool of blood on the floor behind his desk, his chest a bloody mess and his face a contorted death mask.
I didn’t have to scream, or if I did, my voice was drowned out by the music and the screaming of a naked woman who stood in the doorway just behind me. She stood there in a little G-string, her arms crossed across her scrawny tits, screaming her little bleached-blond heart out, and pointing at the knife I held in my hand, obviously terrified.
“Oh shit!” I said, and did what any other woman in my situation would’ve done. I ran—right past the little stripper, right out the exit door and into the darkness. I kept right on going, edging the
parking lot, hoofing it for the Plymouth and the relative freedom of the open road, hoping like hell that nobody saw me.
“Okay,” I said, once I’d hit the Hathaway Bridge, “no one’s back there. No one saw you. That girl will be so freaked out and hysterical it’ll be hours before anyone ever knows you were there. So calm down and make a plan. We need a plan.” But there wasn’t any plan to be made when I was shaking so hard I could barely keep the car on the road.
I focused on breathing, forcing all the thoughts of Izzy lying dead out of my brain. “Just drive,” I instructed myself. And I did just that, obeying the speed-limit signs, making sure I stopped without running any red lights, doing whatever it took to get home safely, without a cop getting curious. And I wasn’t followed, either. I kept looking into my rearview mirror, just in case they somehow saw me and were chasing me. But the road was virtually empty and the trailer park never as welcoming as it was this particular evening.
I ran up the steps, closed and locked the door behind me, and reached for Pa’s Chianti and a thick tumbler.
“Okay,” I said, after I’d downed a half a glass. “A plan. I need a plan and here it is.” I reached for the phone and started dialing Nailor. I walked across the darkened living room, the phone in hand, and peeked through the curtains. It was as if I’d sensed them. The black sedan was back in place, this time a little farther away from the streetlight and Raydean’s mobile home. How long had they been there? And why did Lavotini feel he needed to do me a favor? What had I done to inherit a mafioso bodyguard?
As I watched, the rear door of the sedan opened and someone stepped out of the car, walking briskly in my direction. It was Thomas the Sleepy Bodyguard. He moved purposefully, his jacket flapping open as he walked, as if he were making sure he could reach his holster without trouble, as if he were maybe expecting a hard time. Given his history with me and Raydean, I could appreciate his apprehension. On the other hand, maybe he just needed to take a leak. Whatever it was, I didn’t need him here now.
I hung up the phone. When Thomas hit the bottom step, I pulled open the door and put on a big Girl Scout smile.
“Third door on the left,” I said, “just down the hall.”
That stopped him. He looked at me with his dumb-bodyguard-on-steroids expression.
“You’re here to use the facilities?” No response. “The restroom,” I said, “the potty?”
“Mr. Lavotini wants to see you,” he said.
“Take a picture.”
Thomas didn’t flinch. “He says now.”
“I’d come, but I’m expecting company and I need to wash my hair.”
Thomas had no sense of humor. He moved toward me, taking the first step and stopping, like I should get the message and submit.
“He said now.”
I saw him slip his hand behind his back like a cop, like he had handcuffs or something. He was going to take me forcibly if he had to. He was the extended arm of his employer. He’d bring me to his master, one way or the other. I looked at him, sizing him up, aware that the sleeping pills we’d pumped into him were no longer having a visible effect. It was pointless not to go. After all, you had to choose your battles. Maybe laying low with Moose for a little while was a good idea.
I looked over at Raydean’s house. There was no sense in drawing her into it either. It was one thing when she had the upper hand and could surprise them, but they were ready for her now. She’d get hurt, maybe even killed. I was not going to risk that, not for a simple meeting with my newfound godfather.
“All right,” I said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m gonna go slip into something more comfortable and I’ll be right with you.”
Thomas shook his head like a dog worrying a bone, or the neck of a small animal. “Nope, we don’t got no time. The boss says now.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll get my coat.”
“I’ll come with you,” Thomas said.
I glared at him. “Obviously we have a trust issue,” I said. “That hurts me no end.”
Thomas walked the rest of the way up the stairs, following me into the kitchen. Fluffy, choosing her battles wisely, ignored the newcomer. Thomas looked at my coat lying across the back of one of the kitchen chairs and nodded in its direction.
“Okay, I see it, but I have to tinkle first.” I glared at him and spun around, walking away from him and down the hall. To my consternation, the man followed me.
“Now one thing I don’t do,” I said, pausing at the doorway to my bathroom, “is allow company in my bathroom. I need my privacy.”
I slammed the door and stood staring at my reflection in the mirror. What now? I couldn’t just head off into the night without letting Nailor know.
I looked around, saw a tube of lipstick and figured it was better than nothing.
“Gone to see my uncle,” I wrote. “Be back soon. I hope. Wait for me, I need to talk to you.”
Thomas knocked on the door.
“Just a cotton-picking minute!” I yelled. “Can’t a girl adjust her makeup without you getting all jammed up?”
“Mr. Lavotini said now,” he said.
I flung open the door and marched out, slamming it shut behind me and walking quickly down the hallway.
“Does anybody ever tell you that you have a limited vocabulary?” I said.
Thomas didn’t answer. It was all work and no play with this boy. What a stick-in-the-mud.
Moose had ensconced himself in the penthouse of the Baywater Condominium complex. I didn’t waste time trying to figure how he’d come into such luck. I figured with the mob you just push a button, make a phone call, and you got connections anywhere in the world. This was obviously one of those times, just like having a local entourage that appeared out of nowhere at the Oyster Bar to take out Dimitri and his bikers. The Lavotini Syndicate had connections.
He stood there by the fireplace, the gas logs burning cheerfully behind the glass doors, the air-conditioning set to compensate for the heat. He was holding a champagne flute in one hand and a bottle of Tattinger in the other. It was my lucky day … maybe.
He smiled, all white teeth and South Beach tan. He looked rested and hungry, like maybe I was dinner.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said. “Have I told you how lovely you look today?”
Being as I hadn’t seen him since the fiasco in the parking lot of the Beaver and he had been implying I was stupid yet again, I figured we could manage to omit this part of his daily ritual.
“Nope. I believe you were focused on my ability to handle a situation involving two minor thugs, if I remember correctly.”
“Now, baby,” he crooned, his voice sliding into a deep Barry White imitation, “you know I didn’t mean anything by that. Come on, it’s over. Let’s drink some champagne and enjoy ourselves.”
In the background I saw Thomas stifle a yawn.
Lavotini noticed and smiled. “Thomas, go take another nap or something. Put Carlos on the door, the outside door.” He stressed the word “outside” like we shouldn’t be disturbed.
Thomas nodded and vanished. A moment later a slim, darkhaired man crossed the marble foyer, opened the front door, and closed it silently behind him. Carlos.
Moose seemed not to notice. He was pouring champagne and motioning me to a small table by the plate-glass window. The table was dressed in a starched white linen tablecloth with pale pink roses in a tiny bud vase and candles. Hors d’oeuvres sat on little white plates, scallops wrapped in bacon, bruschetta with roasted red peppers and freshly grated Parmesan cheese, green and black olives. It was all thought out, all taken care of because the Moose had been certain I would come. In the Moose’s world there was no argument. It happened the way he planned it every time, without hesitation or exception.
“I don’t get this,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
Moose sipped his champagne and smiled. “I think you do, Sierra.”
I was waiting for Frank Sinatra to burst into song and come strolling out of a ba
ck bedroom. The lights were dimmed, making it easy to see the foam of the incoming surf splashing on the beach twenty-two stories below us. It was a movie set right out of the sixties.
“You think I don’t do my research?” He was leaning back in his chair, smiling at me. “At first I thought it was kind of cute, you using my name like we were related, using my reputation to protect yourself. I was flattered.” He put down his glass and leaned in toward me. “Then I saw your picture. That’s when I knew I needed to watch out for you.”
“What? Is there something in my picture that says I’m incapable of taking care of myself? Because I can assure you, I can take care of myself. I was just using your name a couple of times to keep the riffraff off my back. You know how that is. I wasn’t really in trouble or nothing.”
Moose reached over, plucked an olive from its bowl, and popped it into his mouth. The way he chewed communicated a different message, like he was savoring me, not the taste of some salty Greek olive.
“You never know,” he said. “That’s why I was watching. That’s how come I knew when you did get into something large. That’s why I’m here, to help you out of this jam.”
I took two huge swigs of my champagne, forgetting completely that this was the good stuff and not the Tiffany’s house brand. I could feel the reaction my body was having to the champagne and I didn’t want him to know. I was lost, losing control to a Mafia kingpin. I’d been here before. I sure as hell wasn’t going back again.
“Listen,” I said, “Vincent didn’t hit Denny. It’s gonna come out in the wash. He doesn’t deal drugs and he was only running the game to get himself out of hock to the IRS. I can handle this.”
Moose chuckled. I seemed to amuse him. I was “cute” to him.
“Sierra,” he said, “don’t be scared of me. I don’t want anything but to help you.” He pushed the plate of scallops toward me. “Come on, baby. Let’s have a truce. This is the one place where it’s safe. It’s not like the movies. You don’t owe me a thing for this. Taking care of you is my pleasure.”
I looked at him, lulled by the deep tone of his voice and the champagne that was slowly making its way to my head, bypassing my empty stomach, soothing away the vision of Izzy Rodriguez lying dead on his office floor. The alarm bells were ringing in my head, but I was ignoring them.
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