Drag Strip (25 page)

Nailor laughed softly. “Just need you to cook it for me,” he sighed, and his eyes closed. Ma smiled, reached out, and grabbed the washcloth off the bedstand. Gently, she began wiping the soot and dried blood off his face and neck.

“You're a mess, son,” she said softly.

I sat down next to Ma and waited until she was finished. “You want him to have this?” I said, pointing to the tumbler of Chianti I'd brought into the room.

“Al,” Ma said, “we gotta prop him up a little.”

It took the three of us to get him positioned, but finally Ma was satisfied. “That's good. Sierra, just give him a little sip at a time.”

“You with us, here?” I said, a little louder than normal.

His eyes fluttered open.

“This is gonna help. You've had it before, but I didn't tell you it was good for you.”

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Chianti. Thickens the blood.” Al sighed and Ma reached out to swat him.

“Mr. Wiseguy,” she huffed.

Nailor took a sip and choked, then another. “How much, Ma?” I asked.

She looked at Nailor and the tumbler I held in my hand, as if maybe she was actually calculating a dose. “At least half the glass,” she pronounced. “We got a lot of blood needs thickening.”

Nailor's eyes weren't opening, but he drank. Al was sitting next to him in the bed, keeping Nailor's arm elevated and pressure applied to the wound. I saw him lean closer to John and lift the towel. His eyes met Ma's.

“It might be slowing down,” he said.

Ma nodded. “Thank your father for that, Mr. Know-It-All!” She looked at the clock and then back at me. “Sierra, don't you gotta be at work in an hour?”

“I'm not going to work with him hurt like this.” Nailor appeared to be sleeping, his head slumped back against the pillows.

“Oh?” Al said. “And so you'd be telling your boss what? That your cop boyfriend got hurt and you can't come in? You wanna draw attention that something's not right?”

“No, Al, I'll tell him I'm sick.”

“Oh,” he scoffed, “that's real smooth. Were you sick yesterday? You think him and anybody else who's wondering won't know that's bogus?”

I hadn't thought about it that way.

“Sierra, you're in the middle of some deep shit, or haven't you noticed? Have you caught on yet that every time you do anything connected with finding out who killed your friend Ruby, that you or somebody else gets hurt?”

Or killed, I thought, remembering Wannamaker Lewis.

“This is dangerous, Sierra. We gotta play this one safe. Go to work. We don't want anyone coming around here asking questions, especially if we're gonna hide a cop with a gunshot wound.”

“All right, all right! I'll go. You done with the sermon?”

“All's I'm asking is for you to use your brain. You kicked over a big can of worms, Sierra, and somebody out there don't like it.”

*   *   *

Before I left, I walked back into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. He was sleeping, a lock of straight brown hair falling across his forehead. I leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek. His eyes popped open and he smiled slightly.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered.

I was Sierra, Queen of the Night, my blond hair curled to fall across my shoulders, all powdered and scented, with gold glitter lotion perfuming my body.

With his good arm, he reached out and touched my cheek, his fingers trailing down my neck and across my shoulders.

“You know why I did it?” he said.

“Did what?” I had to lean closer to hear him.

“Kissed her.”

“Yeah, why did you do that, you snake!” I was kidding, a little.

“I wanted to make you mad.”

“Good job, sport! It worked.”

He smiled. The bastard was actually smiling. “I know.” Then the frown came. “If you hadn't been mad, somebody might've killed me. If you'd blown my cover…” His eyes closed. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Anytime, big man.” I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. I'm a sucker for a pitiful man. “Go back to sleep. I'll be home as soon as I can.” I couldn't tell if he heard me. He looked to be asleep again. “I'll crawl in bed next to you,” I added. There was no reaction for a moment, so I started to leave. The sound of his voice surprised me.

“Naked, I hope.”

“You just keep dreaming, sport. I'm more woman than you'll ever handle.”

“Try me,” he whispered.

I figured my detective was on the road to recovery.

Twenty-eight

Vincent Gambuzzo wasn't happy. That was nothing new for Vincent, nor was the object of his displeasure—me—a surprise. I managed to piss off Vincent almost every time he saw me. It didn't bother me, but it bugged the hell out of him.

“Listen,” he said, “Dead Lakes Motor Speedway is a big account. I'm looking to maintain a relationship and you ain't helping.”

We were standing outside his office, just around the corner from the front door. People were walking past like it was Grand Central Station, and I could've cared less, but Vincent was doubly ticked on account of not liking his business known among the staff and public.

I stamped my black stilettoed heel, setting all the beads and bangles on my tigress outfit to jumping. “I don't give a good rat's ass what you think,” I said. “There ain't money enough to make me go back out to that racetrack!”

Vincent's jaw was twitching, and behind the wrap-around sunglasses his entire face glowed a coronary red.

“Mickey Rhodes requested you,” he said. “He wants to do a tribute to Ruby, sort of as a way to let the fans know that it's all right to come to the Speedway, that people are safe there. He thinks if you're there, it'll spread that message.”

“Ain't my problem, Gambuzzo.”

“You want it on the line, Lavotini?” he sputtered. “All right, here's the line: If your ass isn't up to that racetrack next Wednesday night, I'll…” He paused for a moment, long enough for me to open my big mouth.

“You'll what, Gambuzzo, fire me?”

“You're damn right!” he thundered.

“Oh, well, ain't that a fine business decision,” I said with a sneer. “Fire your headliner on account of she won't go back to the place where another one of your dancers was murdered. How's that gonna look? Eh? Who you gonna find to work for you then, Vincent? A club owner who thinks no more of his dancers than to send them into harm's way!”

We were drawing a crowd. Tonya the Barbarian stood just behind me, her cavegirl club clutched in her hand like she might have call to use it. Marla had wandered up and clearly taken Vincent's side, but when Tonya snarled at her, she jumped back a good three feet.

“They know who killed Ruby,” Vincent said. “And Roy Dell's a wanted man. He would no more show his face at the Speedway than in church. Dead Lakes is safe, Sierra. You're just showboating and I won't have it! Your ass'll be up there Wednesday night with a smile on your pretty little face, or you won't have a job to come back to. You work for me, Sierra, and this ain't Disneyland.”

I could feel it welling up. I couldn't have stopped it if I'd wanted to. I had my pride. Sierra Lavotini didn't eat shit for nobody.

“You don't own me, Gambuzzo,” I shouted. “And you can kiss my smooth ass, 'cause I quit!”

I couldn't believe it! I couldn't believe the words had come out of my mouth, but it didn't matter, 'cause I'd said 'em, and now I had to live by them. I spun around and stalked off to the dressing room amid cheers from my supporters and Vincent's voice calling over the top of them.

“Come back here, Lavotini! You can't quit! You're fired!”

I didn't look back. I just held my head high, walked into the dressing room, and started packing. Two years I'd given that man, and now I was done. I didn't need him. I could find a job tomorrow. Show-N-Tails had been after me for over a year to come work for them, and every other club in the country would be the same. I didn't need him!

I threw my costumes into my bag and started cleaning out my small portion of the makeup bar. I was cussing and talking to myself to beat the band. I wasn't even aware that anyone else had come into the room until I looked up and saw Ralph the stagehand standing behind me, his eyes the size of saucers, terrified.

“Well, what are you looking at?” I snapped, instantly sorry.

“Sierra,” he said, his voice squeaky with trepidation, “please don't go.”

I looked at him standing there, his red hair and freckles making him look like Opie Taylor from Mayberry, and my heart melted.

“I can't stay, Ralphie. I have to go. It's a matter of principle.”

He gulped, looked me right in the eye, and said, “It's pride's what it is. You and Mr. Gambuzzo are always like this. Why're you going now?”

“'Cause I said I would” sounded like a lame reason, and we both knew it. The other dancers were slowly filing into the room, standing behind Ralph and staring at me the same way he was. I was leaving them. Their mom was leaving.

“I'm sorry, guys,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I can't let him talk to me like that. I've gotta draw the line somewhere.” I walked through them, out into the hallway, and out the back exit door. I left to the sound of complete silence, a first for the Tiffany Gentleman's Club.

“Keep walking,” I said to myself. “Don't look back.” My bag of makeup and costumes felt heavier with each step I took. The trip across the parking lot was endless. I threw my bag into the backseat, jumped into the driver's seat, and took off, spinning my tires the entire way out of the parking lot and onto Thomas Drive. Behind me, another car pulled out of the parking lot and in behind me. An unmarked sedan, black. Wheeling.

“Screw him!” I said into the wind. “Screw everybody! Screw the whole situation!”

I drove down the Miracle Strip, the stretch of Panama City Beach that hosts mega-hotels sandwiched in between mom-and-pop motels, go-cart tracks, and bars. Boys, standing alongside the road on the lookout for trouble, yelled out, but they barely even registered on my radar. I needed quiet and a place to think. I needed the beach.

I pushed on past the Strip, letting my foot rest heavy on the accelerator as I zoomed toward Laguna Beach. Wheeling was right behind me, following at a discreet distance.

“All right for you, then. See if you can do this…”

I swung down one of the side roads and picked up speed, zooming from corner to corner. I knew a few turns that Wheeling obviously hadn't anticipated. You don't grow up in Philly, with them tiny alleys and one-way streets, to be defeated by Panama City's little grid. I pushed ahead of him and abruptly swung into the Lotus, one of the beach's largest and most exclusive complexes.

My advantage was in having an owner's gate card, courtesy of a grateful patron who didn't mind letting a dancer have free parking right in front of the beach. Wheeling was just far enough behind me that he couldn't catch the rocker arm of the gate. He was momentarily stumped, but only momentarily. Just long enough for me to wind my way into the parking garage, ditch the car and run out onto the beach.

It wasn't forever. I knew he'd find me. But I wasn't going to make it easy. I kicked off my shoes and started running, away from the lights that pointed out the strip and out toward darker Laguna Beach. In the dark, my Tigress outfit probably looked like a swim suit. But the tiny bells and beads clanked together to make me sound like a herd of housecats.

I ran and ran, not looking back to see if he followed me, not really caring, until I felt myself giving out, the rage seeping away for the moment. I sank down by the edge of the water, winded and panting. Then I glanced back. Nothing. If he was out there, I was as invisible to him as he was to me.

I looked out at the water. The crest of the waves glowed an eerie white in the light of the almost full moon. What was I gonna do now? I had a lap full of questions and not too many answers. Why did Roy Dell run off and where was he? Did he burn Wannamaker's house down? Did he shoot John? Did Roy Dell shoot Wannamaker? Why was there cocaine in Wannamaker's attic? Was that why John was nosing around Wannamaker's house and the racetrack? Was there some connection? I leaned back on my arms and tried to think.

I heard Wannamaker's voice in my head. “My Son of Satan wanted to take me first, but no, He had to take her.” What if he hadn't been just babbling? What if Wannamaker was talking about
his
son, Ruby's brother, the missing Michael? Who was he, anyway? Where was he?

It had been stupid to tell Vincent I wouldn't go back to the racetrack. I had to go back out to that track. Everything stemmed from there.

I was so wrapped up in planning that I almost didn't see Wheeling trudging down the beach, a flashlight in his hand, following my tracks. He swung the light up as he got closer, hitting me full in the face with the bright light.

“Turn that off!” I yelled. “You know it's me!”

The light went out, and he sank down beside me, resting on his haunches. He did not look like a happy camper.

“You could've made this easier,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, like I didn't already have enough of a pain in my ass by quitting my job, I should slow down and let you be that extra hemorrhoid. I think not!”

“So you quit, huh? Why?”

Why indeed. “It was a slow night.”

Wheeling relaxed a little. Behind his thick mustache, he actually seemed to crack a smile.

“You're a pistol, Lavotini.”

“You come all the way out here to tell me that?” I threw a shell out at the water.

“No, I came all the way out here to find out what you did with Roy Dell Parks.”

“And I'm sorry for you, 'cause I haven't done a thing with Roy Dell Parks.” I stood up and started brushing sand off my ass, taking it as an extra benefit that some of it was flying all over the detective.