Drag Strip (20 page)

“What's all the yelling?” she asked, as if she hadn't heard every word through my paper-thin walls. “Youse two got low blood sugar. That's your problem. You need to eat!” Ma was on a tear, whipping out pots and pans, and running water for noodles.

“Don't you got work, Sierra?” she asked. “It's going on five o'clock. You gotta get out of here soon. Go on and take your shower. I'll call you when supper's ready.”

There I was, in my own house, taking orders from my mom the espionage queen! What was wrong with this picture?

“Ma, we gotta talk,” I said.

She gave me an anxious look from her spot behind Al, making a chopping motion at her neck, like I should slit my throat. Don't talk. Okay. I understood.

“Yeah, you're right, Ma,” I said. “I need a shower.”

By the time I returned, transformed into Sierra, Wonder Queen of Desire, Al and Ma had settled into an uncomfortable silence.

We struggled through dinner, with each one wanting to say stuff but not wanting the other to know. Al followed me out to the car as I was leaving for work, frowning.

“Don't go near that Meatloaf guy,” he said. “He's dangerous.”

“I can handle Meatloaf.”

“Sierra, no you can't. That woman he assaulted?”

“Yeah?”

“She was a dancer.”

A cool breeze blew across the parking pad, making me shiver. “All right, Al, I'll watch my back extra special. But Al, you gotta do one thing for me, all right?” It was my turn.

“What?” Al was plenty suspicious.

“Ma and Raydean kinda pissed off Lulu and her boyfriend, Frank. Just on the off chance that he takes a mind to pay back, would you watch Raydean's place?”

“I knew it. I just knew it. There's always more, isn't there, Sierra? You just never tell me the whole story.”

But I was gone by then, gunning the car into reverse and laying a patch down the road just like we used to do up in Kensington when Bridge Street was quiet. I looked at Al in the rearview mirror. He wasn't laughing.

Twenty-two

The night called for something special. The Tiffany was jumping. Vincent Gambuzzo, smelling a big take on the door, was walking around like a stuffed panda bear, puffing out his chest and trying not to stumble on account of the RayBans he wore even in the darkest parts of the club. Roy Dell and the racetrack crew were conspicuously absent. But I'd given Bruno, the steroid-impaired bouncer, a heads-up on Meatloaf and Frankenstein. He'd be ready to bounce their sorry tails off the sidewalk should they show.

There was a surprise waiting for me when I got to the club, a surprise I'd been working for months to score. My source, Dickie the Deal, had come through on procuring tonight's costume. I didn't know how he'd done it, and I didn't want to appear even curious, but I was grateful to the tune of one hundred large. I counted out five twenties and handed them to Dickie on the back fire escape. He shoved the brown-paper package into my hands and fled, anxious not to be recognized.

“It'll fit,” he called over his shoulder, “even with them vavooms of yours, it'll fit!”

I laughed and ran inside. It fit all right. Right down to the silver cuffs, it fit.

When I stepped to the edge of the stage and signaled Ralph to cut on the smoke machine, he looked up and for a moment was frozen in admiration.

“Where in the hell…” he started.

“You don't even want to know,” I answered. Then I adjusted my hat, gave my belt a little twitch, and wandered out onstage as the opening strains of Fiona Apple's “Criminal” started pumping up the audience. Officer Sierra was reporting for duty, fully decked from the hat to the black polyester shirt to the gear belt. The only things nonregulation: the micro-miniskirt, the five-inch stilettos, and of course my black lace G-string.

The crowd went wild. Especially when I pulled my fake pistol and blew them all a kiss over the end of the barrel. Oh, yes, I was in complete control.

“You're all under house arrest,” I cooed, whipping out my handcuffs. “Any troublemakers in the house?”

Bruno barely beat the crowd down to the edge of the runway, positioning himself between me and them.

“I like you!” I said, to an innocent-looking young businessman. “Show me your wrists, lover boy!”

He didn't think, he just offered his wrists, his hands clutching dollar bills, and let me cuff him to the pole at the end of runway. “What're you gonna do to me?” he squeaked.

As little as possible,
I thought, but to his face I just smiled. “Relax, sweetie,” I said, running my hands down the length of his body. “I'm gonna frisk you, and then Officer Sierra is gonna turn you loose. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you.” The crowd at the foot of the stage laughed, and my victim turned bright red.

“Hurt me, baby!” a man's voice cried. “Oh, hurt me bad!”

I uncuffed my prisoner, stepped back, and pulled the baton out of my gear belt. The music rose. I caressed the baton, stuck it slowly back into my belt, and ripped my skirt off with one quick move. There was a collective sigh from the audience.

I pulled my hat off, and my hair tumbled down around my shoulders. Slowly, very slowly, I started to undo the buttons of my uniform, all the while leaning my back against the pole and sliding up and down. I licked my lips and looked hungry. Even Bruno was watching.

“You've been bad, bad boys,” I said, and lost my bra.

The men were going wild, and I was collecting a G-string full of bills. If things kept up like this, my costume would earn its price many times over. I squatted down and swiveled my thighs out toward the runway so my admirers could stuff in whatever money they had left, and then, as I straightened, I saw him.

My body feels John Nailor's presence and there ain't squat I can do about it. When our eyes locked across the room, I felt my temperature rise by a good two degrees. He was watching me the same way he always did, like a hungry animal. But this time, he was an angry, hungry animal. I guess he takes police work seriously. Maybe he didn't take to my salute to his boys in black. Whatever. I tipped my hat and winked. The boy needed to learn how to take a joke, develop a sense of humor.

I stood up and walked slowly down the runway, ever closer to my fans and John Nailor. As I walked, I began unbuckling my gear belt, taking my time, and lingering just a little too long on the buckle. The belt broke free and I tossed it to Bruno, who grinned like he'd captured a prize. Then I slipped my thumbs under the thin straps of my G-string, looked out at the boys, and made like I was going to yank it off.

They were screaming and throwing money. I smiled this little impish grin like “Hey, ain't this fun? Now I'm gonna do something special for you and only you.” Each man was just sure I was looking at him. At that exact moment, Ralph put on the smoke machine full blast, and I disappeared back up the runway in a puff of smoke.

“Damn, Sierra!” Ralph said as he helped me shrug into my purple silk kimono. “Damn!” I peeked back around the curtain. The smoke had cleared and, true to form, John Nailor had disappeared.

“Damn!” I said.

Marla chose this moment to make her appearance, strutting up like an alley cat with hemorrhoids.

“I see you warmed them up for me, honey,” she said, preening in her silver B-52 bomber outfit.

I scowled over at her. She was about to have Ralph hook her up to an elaborate set of guy wires so she could fly out over the crowd and pretend she was a plane. I failed to see the appeal. She called it her salute to our flying men in uniform on account of how half our trade some nights is men from Tyndall Air Force Base. But I don't see why she bothers, since them boys don't tip worth your time and effort.

“Marla, learn to walk in them shoes and you might have half a shot at an act,” I said.

She sniffed and walked on by, trying to balance on seven-inch platform stilettos while counterbalancing her silver wings. Some act!

I took another look back out into the house as Marla flew out over the runway. No sign of Nailor. Well, that wasn't a surprise. He'd turn up again, and from the way his jaw was twitching, I figured it would be sooner rather than later. Wonder why he'd come to the club? Was he trying to reach me? Did he need to tell me something? I flashed on the image of him in my trailer, in the darkness of my kitchen, his arms on either side of me, pinning me to the wall, his lips connecting with mine.

“Whew! Don't go there, girl,” I whispered. “You don't wanna be the victim of a spontaneous combustion!”

But I couldn't get him off my mind. I found myself looking for him for the rest of the night every time I walked out onto the runway. By the time I was ready to leave work, I was practically sweating. Why in the world did that man have such an effect on me?

Vincent Gambuzzo stopped me as I was leaving. I could tell he'd been just waiting to get me alone. He could've come and found me any time during the night, but instead he positioned himself by the back door, knowing I'd be close to the last one to leave. I always am, on account of how I take time to put my costumes away neatly and prepare for the next night. I see that as the mark of a professional. Take care of your stuff and it'll take care of you. My new costume was a case in point.

“Sierra,” Vincent said, suddenly looming up on me in the darkened hallway, “what was that cop doing back in my club?” Vincent hated having the heat in the house. He figured it cut into his business. He particularly hated John Nailor, because Nailor saw right through Vincent, down to his small-time attitude and wanna-be posturing.

“Vincent,” I said, “looked to me like the man was a paying customer. He had a drink in his hand, didn't he?”

“A Coke, Sierra,” he groused. “It was a lousy Coke!”

“So? What do you care? You charge the same for a soda as a beer!”

Vincent wasn't satisfied, I could see it, but he let it go and leaned in closer. The man had a serious case of garlic breath.

“What're you doing about our situation?” he said softly.

“What situation?” I was playing dumb and stalling while I manufactured something.

“You know. Ruby.”

“Ah,
Ruby,
” I said, acting like it had slipped my mind, just to make Vincent a little nuts. “Didn't I tell you I had company?” I said. “Who do you think it is?”

Vincent raised an eyebrow and nodded appreciatively.

“They getting anywhere?”

“Let me put it to you like this,” I said, leaning back from his face and making a show of not wanting to be overheard. “The big one's on-line with his network, communicating. And the short guy's going around cranking up the heat. Everything that was in the frying pan is in the fire now!” Vincent didn't need to know I was talking about Al and Ma.

He smiled. “That's why you call in an out-of-towner for things like this,” he said. “We needed the large talent. Convey my gratitude to your uncle Moose.”

“All's I can say at this point, Vincent, is that things are really cooking around my house.”

“That's all I wanted to hear,” he said.

I walked past him, out into the night, shaking my head. Vincent was never gonna get it. The lights could be on forever, but nobody was home at his house.

I stepped down off the back steps and started toward my car. Just as I thought, a shape sat in the passenger seat, waiting. I smiled. Nailor could no more stay away from me than I could from him.

I forced myself to saunter slowly toward my vehicles, as if I weren't in the least bit interested. Nailor was slouched down, wearing a cowboy hat, probably thinking it was an adequate disguise in case Detective Wheeling was watching. I shook my head. The guy was pitiful.

I flung open the driver's side door, tossed my bag in the backseat, and sank down behind the wheel.

“You know, that's a stupid disguise,” I said, but my voice trailed off as soon as I realized the man in my front seat wasn't John Nailor.

“I know, ma'am,” Roy Dell Parks said, “but it was the best I could do given that the law is on my tail and I'm wanted for murder.”

Twenty-three

Roy Dell looked worse than usual. Stubble climbed up over top of his beard, running up his cheeks and giving his face a dirty, unkempt look. His clothes were filthy. His hair was about the same, standing straight on end, wiry and a grayish yellow. His breath smelled of liquor and his eyes were bloodshot. But that wasn't what worried me about Roy Dell. It was the gun in his shaking left hand that had me concerned.

“What's the gun for, Roy Dell?”

“Insurance, sugar,” Roy Dell answered. He didn't look any too happy. In fact, he looked about half in the bag and totally crazy. “Start your engine,” he said. “I think better when I'm moving.” He hefted the gun up a few inches for emphasis, his finger sliding around the trigger.

“Roy Dell, put that gun down!” I was trembling. How could Raydean's nephew be a killer?

“I give the orders now,” he said, his voice rising above my Camaro's engine, “and if I want to stick the barrel of this gun down yer purty little throat, I'll do it!”

“You the man,” I answered, and peeled off out of the parking lot onto Thomas Drive. There was a clinking noise as we jumped the curb. Roy Dell was carrying more than a gun. A fifth of Jim Beam rolled across the floor on the passenger side. Roy Dell was drunk, and that made him a loose cannon. I didn't know what he'd do.

“Head for the bridge,” he commanded. “I wanna go to the Oyster Bar.”

“No, you don't,” I said, before I could stop myself. “You're a wanted man. That'd be piss-poor planning on your part.”

Roy Dell seemed to be thinking. “Just drive,” he said, sighing. “I got the world on my mind! And don't try anything smart. I get to feeling mean when I drink. A girl like you don't need to make me angry.”