Strip Poker

by Nancy Bartholomew

  Moose didn’t miss the look, but for some reason he didn’t move. Instead he leaned back in his chair again and smiled.

  “It ain’t that easy, Sierra,” he said. “It’s not that luscious body I’m after. I’m after you.”

  That did it. My stomach rolled over and I couldn’t look at him. My heart was jumping up and down, choking me and making me squirm in my seat. The Sierra Lavotini fountain of cool was running dry and Moose knew all about it.

  “Relax,” he said. He poured more champagne in my glass and stuck the bottle back in the ice bucket. “Let’s take a little break from you and me and talk about your situation.”

  “Situation?” I heard my voice squeak and regretted it. How had he found out so quickly? Oh, why didn’t I just wear a sign that said “potentially out of my league”?

  He was enjoying my anxiety. He enjoyed it like Sister Ignatius used to enjoy it when she’d call on me to read the answers to the math homework I hadn’t done. It was Catholicism at its very best.

  “I think you’re looking at a bargain-basement corporate takeover gone wrong,” he said. “I think Izzy Rodriguez was looking to buy out the Tiffany and corner the market on the trade in this town.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  Moose smiled. “Easy. I asked him what the plan was.”

  “You talked to Izzy?”

  “You could say that.”

  “When?”

  “Earlier.”

  We were circling again. I was flashing back on the sedan arriving at the Busted Beaver. I had assumed they were following me, but what if they weren’t? What if the Moose had been there to see Rodriguez? What if Moose wasn’t happy with Izzy’s answers?

  Moose stretched his legs out in front of him and smiled. He could read me. “Sierra, this ain’t Hollywood. I don’t drop in to talk to people and take them out if I don’t like their answers. But I do find ways to get results. Now Mr. Rodriguez assured me he didn’t kill Watley in a moment of inspiration, that he didn’t intend to put Gambuzzo out of action any way but legally.” Moose shrugged. “But be that as it may,” he said, “I do know this: He intended to buy your club from Riggs. And I think I convinced him that there’s a better plan.”

  My heart was pounding. All I could see was the look of agony on Izzy’s dead face. Moose had a plan, all right. He was waiting, like I should fall down at his feet worshiping the great idea maker, but I wasn’t going there.

  He smiled. “All right, since you’re too shy to ask, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Here’s what I got to offer. I suggest I buy the Tiffany from Riggs. I’m sure he’ll be glad to let it go at a reasonable price. Then we buy out the Beaver and whatever other competition there is in this pissant little town that wants to sell while the getting’s good. Then you’ll run the action locally, and I’ll make sure there’s no trouble. It makes money for me, and it makes money for you.”

  I stopped chewing on olives and stared at him. Was he out of his mind? Did he really think I’d do a Mafia-financed operation? And that “reasonable price” shit, what was that?

  Moose continued. “We’ll give Vinny a job, don’t worry, but a convicted felon can’t own a nightclub. He’ll be all right. I’ll take care of him. When he’s done doing his time for the IRS gig and the drug stuff, we’ll put him into something comfortable.”

  I was pushing back from the table, preparing to stand up and give Moose the business about what he could do with his enterprise, when there was an explosion of noise outside the penthouse. Someone was in the hallway, maybe as many as three or four someones, and none of them was happy.

  Moose looked up and frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said, like I was Fluffy and would stay on command. He stood up and started for the door, not tracking that I was following him. His hand slipped behind his jacket, to the waistband of his pants, pulling out a black gun, dropping it into his right-hand jacket pocket like he expected to reach for it. For one instant I found myself wondering how many suit coats Moose owned that had bullet holes in the right-hand pockets.

  He opened the door, took in Carlos standing there with his back to us, his legs spread and arms crossed like there wasn’t going to be any way in but through his body. On the other side stood John Nailor and Carla Terrance standing like they were joined at the hip and looking as mad as hell.

  “What seems to be the problem, Officers?” Moose asked. He sounded like smooth water, soothing and ready to help in any way he could. What a load of crap, I thought.

  Terrance wasn’t going to do it easy. She bellied up to Carlos, talking through him to get to Moose.

  “We want to talk to you,” she said. She saw me, frowned, and then smiled, like “Bingo! I won the lucky number!” She looked back at Nailor, nodding in my direction, as if maybe he hadn’t seen me all along. “Look what we found curled up in the snake’s den,” she said. “You done questioning my judgment?”

  Nailor’s face tightened, the color flooding it as he took in the champagne flute, the low-cut top I wore, and Lavotini’s superior air of ownership.

  “It’s not a social call,” I said, looking at him.

  “Neither is this,” Carla said. Unless I missed my read, she was in ecstasy.

  I looked at Nailor, who wasn’t saying a word, and lost my head. “Where’s your coat?”

  Carla didn’t miss a beat. “He doesn’t need a coat when I’m around,” she said.

  Moose, new to the game I thought, laughed. “Aw, I see how it’s gonna be now!” He looked at Nailor and shook his head. “I’m glad it’s not my problem,” he said. “I don’t try and keep up two at a time. I find it unnecessary.”

  I think Nailor wanted to kill him then, but suddenly I was enjoying myself, enjoying the fact that someone was defending me for a change.

  Moose’s voice hardened. “Let them in, Carlos. Perhaps this will get more interesting if we all sit down and have a more civilized discussion.”

  Moose smiled at Carla and she looked momentarily disconcerted. Moose didn’t wait to gauge his effect, instead he turned his back on the two officers and walked across the marble foyer with all the seeming confidence in the world that they would follow.

  He pulled the bottle of Tattinger from its bucket and frowned, then turned and met Carla’s gaze.

  “Well, looks as if there’s one glass left. You a fan of champagne?” he asked. He was smiling again, as if he knew secrets about her, and to my total surprise, she was almost going for it.

  “Uh, no,” she stammered. “I’m on duty.” Then she straightened and reverted to the Carla we all knew and loved. “I want to talk to you.”

  Moose raised his eyebrows. “Well, I thought that’s what you were doing?”

  Carla frowned and Nailor looked out the plate-glass window. I figured he was going to let her hang herself.

  “There was a homicide tonight at the Busted Beaver, that’s a local club in town.” She threw that last part in like she was giving him the benefit of the doubt, like he might not know. “You were there earlier today. You and the owner had words. I want to know what that was about.”

  Moose shrugged. “It was business,” he said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Private business. It’s unimportant.”

  Carla looked at Nailor, who was still staring at the moon or whatever it was that was so fascinating outside the window.

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” she said. “This is a homicide investigation. Everything the victim did that day is important. Every discussion. Every argument. Every move he made. It’s all part of our investigation.”

  I set my glass down, aiming for the table and missing. It crashed to the floor and shattered.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, ignoring the glass. “Why are you picking on him? I had words with that guy earlier today, too.”

  Carla ignored me. It was John who turned around and stared at me, looking through me as if I had become the enemy or worse, a total str
anger.

  Carla’s cell phone rang. She stepped away from us, flipping it open and listening to the voice on the other end. In the background, Carlos arrived, cleaning up the glass behind me, moving with the slick efficiency of Moose’s men.

  I couldn’t figure it. Why was I getting the fish eye from Nailor? It should’ve been the other way around. Here he is, ponied up to his ex, not having the decency to put her in her place when she intimates that they’re thick as thieves again, and he’s giving me the Sister Francis eye? Forgive me, but I don’t think so. Of course, there was that little piece about me finding Rodriguez dead and a half-zonked stripper seeing me there. Maybe that was what had Nailor in a funk. In that case, I could understand his confusion.

  Carla walked back toward Nailor, gave him the nod, and then stepped back, passing the lead to him.

  “Mr. Lavotini, we have a search warrant issued for this property and your vehicles. It’s in transit from the courthouse. Would you like us to wait until it arrives or may we start now?” Nailor’s face and tone were neutral. It was in Moose’s court.

  He wasn’t playing ball. His face changed into a hard, stone mask of disapproval.

  “We’ll wait,” he said. “I like to see the paperwork all signed and neat.” He snapped his fingers once at Carlos and the man handed him a cell phone from his pocket.

  “Before I consult my attorney,” Moose said, “I’d like to know what your basis is for searching my property.”

  Carla snapped. “Because, scumbag, you’re selling drugs.”

  Lavotini laughed, but it was an angry sound, a harsh cough of disbelief. “I don’t know who you’re talking to, lady, but I don’t go there.”

  Carla drew herself up like she was the law and scowled at him. “I never knew a perp yet wasn’t innocent. We got drugs, we got a witness, and we got you at the scene of a deal gone bad, arguing over payment. I think we got you, sport.”

  Lavotini appeared to be unconcerned. He walked away from her and dialed a number, waited a moment, then started talking in low, clipped tones that brooked no argument. He was issuing orders and taking charge. If the police wanted a fight, it was about to get larger than little Panama City had ever seen.

  Nailor was watching me. When Carla walked away from us, mobilizing whatever was about to take place, I took my opportunity.

  “What in the hell is going on and why are you looking at me like I had two heads?” I asked.

  He frowned. “You know, I don’t know what the game is here with your ‘uncle’ or whatever he is to you, but you’ve gone over the line now.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” A shiver of anxiety spread through my gut, working its way through my body. His tone was so cold, as if he totally bought I was hooked up with Moose Lavotini.

  “Sierra,” Nailor said, “I’m telling you this and I shouldn’t, because somehow I want to believe you’re not involved, but it doesn’t look good. Nolowicki can put your ‘uncle’ here at the scene of a murder. Do you know what he’s up to?”

  Before I could answer, Nailor went on. “He’s looking to shake down the owners of all the local clubs. He wants to take control so he can run drugs and prostitution out of them. Sierra, do you not know what kind of animal this is?” Nailor wasn’t waiting for answers to anything. “This is the big time, honey. You think because he’s smooth and attractive he couldn’t be a bad guy? What dream world are you in? Do you not see what’s going on? The man’s trying to take over here. He’s bringing organized crime to Panama City and do you know why?” Nailor was on a roll. “I’ll tell you why. Because of you, Sierra. He’s here because of you, or don’t you get that? You did this.”

  I couldn’t speak. I didn’t get a moment to defend myself or to explain. Uniformed officers arrived at the door. Carla presented the search warrant, and the show was on the road.

  My “uncle,” the alleged kingpin of New Jersey, was deep in conversation with his legal team. His underlings were all lined up in the living room, looking like the cast of The Sopranos on holiday.

  Nailor and Carla were deep in conversation as well, directing the search, intent on doing their jobs and righting the wrongs of civilization.

  No one noticed when I left. After all, what did it matter? They were all too busy fighting crime to worry about me. I was just the carrier for a deadly virus that had now infected Panama City. I mean, how many people walked past Typhoid Mary when she stood at the bus stop, never imagining that that one woman brought the plague down on their heads?

  To my way of thinking, I had managed to wreck everything. Vincent Gambuzzo was no closer to freedom than when I’d started. The girls at the Tiffany were out of work. And Panama City was on the brink of being owned by a mobster who wanted to show his affection and appreciation for my earthly talents.

  Thirty-one

  “I think what we got here, sugar, is a failure to communicate.” Raydean was sitting at her kitchen table, plying me with strong, sweet tea, and listening to me cry it all out.

  “First off,” she said, “the Typhoid Mary metaphor don’t work. You are not the cause of the ruination of this town. The Flemish is what done that, and done a good job of it too. I point to them new county buildings and the dog pound as an example.” She leaned back in her seat, her head covered in pink foam rollers and her face still sporting a little of the green goop she used as a beauty mask.

  “No, baby, what we got here is King Kong and Fay Wray. You’re in the palm of that monster’s hand and, therefore, you’d be in the catbird seat. Why, honey, with your natural talents, you can wrap him around your little finger. And that other one, that police, he’s just temporarily insane, that’s all, baby. His little head ain’t thinking and his big head’s done worked it too much. We can handle all that. What we got to do now, though, is pull Vincent’s fat out of the fire and back into the frying pan.”

  Raydean shook her head again. “You ever think you might have an attention-span problem? You’re just all over the place. Give you one thing to work out and you spawn a yard full of problems. Just stick to the basics. Who killed that whiny boy and what will it take to get your boss out of jail and the show back on the road?”

  “But, Raydean, it’s more complicated than that!”

  “Life ain’t hard, honey,” Raydean said, “you make it hard. Now work a task list. That’s what they give us in life skills class down at the nuthouse. They make you do a priority list and then work the list. Isn’t your livelihood and the rest of the crew’s the most important thing? Don’t you think you should put aside your love life for a moment? Do you not think them boys can hold their own dicks long enough to pee?”

  “Raydean!”

  “I don’t call ’em like I see ’em,” she said with a wise nod. “I call ’em like they is. My brother taught me that. Used to run a baseball club.” Raydean sniffed. “Follow the money, Sierra. In a thing such as this, it ain’t about revenge or lust, it’s money.”

  I put my head down on the table and sighed. “I’m tired,” I said. “It’s the middle of the night. I can’t do this anymore.”

  She reached over with one gnarled hand and laid it on my head, as gently as Ma used to do when I was a kid.

  “Go on home, baby,” she said softly. “Tomorrow’s another day. Don’t you worry about nothing. It’s not like we’re alone here. We got each other, always will.”

  I looked up at her, saw the belief shining in her eyes and had to give her a smile back, like I knew we could do it, a stripper and a crazy old woman. I gave her the smile because I wanted her to think I believed in the concept because she needed it more than I did. The way I saw it at that moment, we were sunk, but she didn’t need to know that. I didn’t need to take that away from her.

  In the morning it would be different. I kept telling myself that the whole way home. I told Fluffy that as I stripped off my clothes and reached for the softest, oldest T-shirt I had. In the morning it would be different. I would wake up with a plan.

  But the
plan came to me. This time it didn’t arrive fully formed in my head. It arrived with the sound all night-shift workers come to dread: banging on my front door.

  “Sierra! For God’s sake, you got nothing better to do than sleep the night away?”

  Pa? It couldn’t be Pa. I was dreaming, but his voice just got louder and louder. He was working his way down the side of the trailer, banging on the aluminum siding, making the inside of my house sound like a hollow can. Pa was in Panama City.

  I sprang out of bed, grabbing my bathrobe and running for the door. Had the old fool lost his mind? Who was gonna take care of Ma? What did I have to do to make him get the clue that Ma needed him?

  I threw open the door, ready to give him the Lavotini business, but then saw Ma, propped up on pillows, lying in the backseat of the blue Lincoln Town Car. She looked to be either sleeping or dead, and for an awful moment I figured she was dead and Pa hadn’t figured anything else to do but bring me the body.

  “Pa!” I cried, seeing him underneath my bedroom window, banging away. “What’s the deal? What are you doing here? What’s wrong with Ma?”

  Pa, red-eyed with fatigue, his cheeks covered with gray stubble, turned around and looked at me like I was the stupid one.

  “Sierra, they don’t just bounce back from a major surgery like that,” he said. “She’s sleeping. She took some of them pain pills and told me to drive or she’d do it herself! She’s a nutcase, Sierra. She thinks the only good thing for recovery is Florida sunshine. She says we need a vacation. Now what is that?”

  Pa was wearing his faded white long undershirt and a pair of jeans, notched at the waist with a thick leather belt, the same belt he wore with his uniform pants when he was working at the firehouse. He looked tired and wired on caffeine and ready for relief.

  “Okay, okay, I gotcha.” And I did indeed have the number. Ma wasn’t looking for a vacation, she was looking to take care of me, the very last thing she needed to be worrying about.