Film Strip (13 page)

Eighteen

Alonzo Barboni called at noon. I was finally sleeping, the deep kind where, if you wake up, you don't remember any of your current life, only the faraway past. I rolled over, pulled the phone into bed with me, and muttered, “Hello?”

“Ah,” he murmured, “you're in bed. I hear the sleep in your voice and I am sorry to have awakened you.”

For a moment I didn't place him, and then it rushed back to me. “Oh, it's you. Thanks for calling. I needed to get up anyway.”

“I wanted to reach you early,” he said. “I want to see you.”

My stomach started to churn. “Good,” I said. “I want to see you, too.”

Alonzo practically purred with satisfaction. “Do you work tonight?”

I stretched, trying to wake up enough to think straight. God, he had a sexy voice. “No, I'm off tonight.”

“Good, I have a dinner reservation in Grayton Beach at Michael's. I'll pick you up at seven.”

Alarm bells went off. No, not my place. I didn't want him coming to the trailer.

“Wait,” I said, “that's way too far out of your way. I'll come into town.” Grayton Beach lies twenty-six miles to the west of Panama City, a long, isolated drive. The town is a tiny beach community, frozen in the fifties, but not undiscovered, just too expensive for all but the most wealthy to own property. It is the Martha's Vineyard of the Panhandle. How had he heard about it? Why there? Why not in town, around people, on my turf?

“I don't mind coming to get you,” he said, his voice a little more forceful.

“Well, thanks, but my roommate will be here and the place is a mess.” I looked over at my roommate, peacefully sleeping all curled up on my other pillow. It did the trick for me, though.

“All right,” he said. “I'm in the Moongazer, room fourteen-fifteen.”

“I bet you have a lovely view,” I murmured. “I'll meet you in the bar downstairs at seven.” Before he could say anything else, I hung up.

I stretched and lay in bed thinking. Alonzo Barboni was gonna give it all up to Sierra Lavotini. The trick would be in escaping before I had to give any of Sierra Lavotini up to him. If he was mob, then I had an entirely different set of rules to play by. I had to leave him smiling … or else. But I also had to find out where he'd been when the murders took place, and why Marla had seen him backstage in the moments before Venus Lovemotion's death.

The phone rang again, but I ignored it, waiting for the machine to pick up. On the fourth ring the message began to play, then the tone, and finally a voice, muffled and indistinct: “I'll take care of you,” the voice murmured. “Don't try and stop me.”

Fluffy growled low in her throat. I reached out for the receiver, but the connection had been lost. The caller was gone. I hung up and almost instantly, the phone shrilled again.

“Who are you?” I demanded, the adrenaline controlling my reactions, every nerve on fire.

“Sierra?” It was Ma. “Sierra, that is no way to answer a phone. Where are your manners?”

“Ma,” I breathed, my heart racing up into my throat. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Humph!” she said sniffing. “Is that how you talked to Francis last night? Is that why he was so upset?”

I sighed and stared up at the ceiling fan, silently counting the revolutions as it slowly whirred around.

“No, Ma. It was just a bad night, that's all.”

Ma's tone softened. “You want to tell me about it, sweetie?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Nah, Ma, it's just my love life. It stinks.”

“No! Sierra, what's with you and that boy? He's a good boy, Sierra. He eats good when I feed him. You cook for him and he'll plump right up. He's not sick, is he?”

I laughed softly. “No, Ma, he ain't sick, he's just a little … controlling, I guess. He's gotta have it his way or no way.”

Ma cackled. “I knew it! I knew it! The hens have come home to roost. You finally got ahold of one you can't wrap around your little finger! Praise the saints, Mother Mary, and the heavenly Host. I was about given up on you.”

“Ma, that's not it at all.”

“Oh, I think it is,” she said, smug now. “I watched him when I came down there. He's right on the money.” I started to argue with her, but she cut in. “Oh, dear, I guess I should've discouraged him, but I was so worried.”

“Discouraged who, Ma? Nailor?” What had she done now? If she'd sent Pa or Al down …

“No, Sierra. Don't be silly!” Ma paused, obviously deciding how to phrase the bad news. “Like I told you, Francis was worried to death. So when he asked what did I think, I said by all means.”

“By all means what, Ma?”

“That he should go. He left early this morning, before Pa could go wake him.

“He's coming here? Ma, tell me Francis isn't coming here!”

She snorted. Obviously I'd pissed her off. “Sierra, must you always think about yourself? He's concerned. That is a good thing. He cares about you, Sierra, no matter what he says or how he acts, he cares.”

“Ma, Francis thinks everything I do is wrong.”

Ma ignored this. “He needs to get away, Sierra. You should see him. He's pale. He ain't had a vacation from the fire department in four years, and if it takes him coming down to see about you to get him to relax, well, I think it's mighty selfish of you to be resentful. What am I always saying, eh?”

“I know, I know, Ma. Blood is thicker than water. If you ain't got family, you got nothing.”

“Exactly! Now you should be about making up the guest bed for him. And while you're at it, make sure he eats good. In fact, you should invite John over. They're two peas in a pod. This could be very good, Sierra.” Ma sighed with satisfaction. Her job was done. Both kids were seen to, and she was once again in charge.

“All right, Ma. Thanks for warning me.”

“When your own brother drives for twenty hours to see you, I would not expect you to be thinking you needed warning. Honestly, Sierra! It's for your own good!”

Ma hung up and I rolled over and closed my eyes. This was all I needed. Francis. If there was a man alive more opinionated and uptight than him, I had yet to meet him. Damn.

Fluffy opened one eye and watched me, never moving from her spot on the pillow.

“If he left at six,” I said, “he'll be in sometime late tonight. Maybe early tomorrow morning.” Fluffy stretched one paw until it touched the tip of my shoulder. She'd never met my brother, but I could tell she was feeling anxious. “Of course, that's if he drives straight through. He might not. He might stop somewhere.”

No, Francis wouldn't stop. He might pull over for an hour or two, but if he smelled a way to tell me “I told you so,” he'd keep plowing on through until he reached me.

I lay there a little while longer. I wasn't being fair. Francis loved me, but like a brother eight years older. Ma was right. He needed to relax, have a good time, and still feel useful. The tiniest seed of an idea began to germinate in my head. It would mean getting Francis to play along, but what the hell? He'd be helping his baby sister out of a jam.

I lay there for another moment and the voice on the phone flooded back into my awareness. Francis and Ma had been a distraction.
I'll take care of you. Don't try and stop me.
Barboni first, the voice second. I tried to compare the two voices. Could the second caller have been him? I didn't think so, but it was hard to say. It had sounded so muffled. It could've been anyone, male or female, young or old.

Fluffy jumped off the bed and ran out of the room. She clicked away, running down the hallway, slipping through the doggie door and into the outside world. She had it easy. You didn't see her family coming to visit her. Easy come. Easy go. I should've been born a dog. I rolled over onto my stomach and clutched my pillow! As I lay there, thoughts of Nailor crept into my head, just images of him, flashing through my memory banks in a slideshow.

I closed my eyes so I could see him better and gripped my pillow. He was such a sexy, hardheaded man. Then I remembered how he doubted me, hadn't trusted my motives, hadn't wanted to let me work the case with him. That doused the flames. I rolled over and sat up. No more sleeping. No more lying around waiting for the world to come to me.

Fluffy came running back in through her doggie door, scampering down the hallway. I started the shower and turned back around. She stood at the edge of the bathroom, too cautious to approach in case the shower was for her. In her sharp little teeth she held a rolled-up slip of paper.

“That would be for me?” I asked. Fluffy dropped the note at the edge of the tiled floor and ran. She was not taking any chances.

“Pat made cinnamon rolls and I got the coffee. Get yourself over here asap.”
It was signed,
“The War Council.”
In other words, Raydean's Prolixin had kicked in and she was ready to ride.

“Tell her I said fine,” I called out to Fluff, and stepped into the stall.

There is nothing like a hot steamy shower to stimulate the thought processes. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back into the spray, and began to line it all out: suspects, motives, and plans. Venus and Frosty were circuit girls using Barry Sanduski as an agent; that was the only connection between the two. And they'd both fooled around with Little Ricky, but that was just a measure of their collective low IQ. It wasn't a murder motive. No, Barboni was the man voted most likely to be in town on an enforcement mission. I just needed to link him up.

I lathered up and shaved my legs, standing under the water until it began to run cool, then cold. That's one thing about trailers: they've got tiny hot-water tanks. A girl can't solve every problem in the world without freezing her ass off. I was wrapping myself in a thick Egyptian cotton towel when someone started pounding on the door. Fluffy barked and I headed for the back door.

“Hold on! Hold on! I'm coming!” I was swearing to myself that Raydean had the smart idea when she booby-trapped her yard. No pounding doors, no intruders.

I looked through the peephole and froze. Flowers, masses of flowers. I couldn't make out a face, but if it was the same delivery boy, we were going to have a talk.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Sierra?” a male voice asked.

I looked around for a weapon and as usual, came up short. I'm just not a weapon girl. I grabbed up a knife from the counter, hid it behind my back, and prepared to do business.

I opened the door slowly and said: “For me? How lovely.” The man thrust the flowers forward, and I pulled the knife. With one hand I grabbed his wrist, and with the other I stuck the knife up against his side.

“Don't move, wiseass, or I'll cut your heart out and stuff it in your mouth!”

The man froze. The flowers started to tremble as he panicked, and then dropped as his arms became weak with fear. At least, that's how I chose to view it.

We were face-to-face, me and … Gordon.

“Gordon, what are you doing here?” I pulled the knife back and stepped aside to let him in. He didn't move, just stood on the doorstep, staring.

“Me and the guys, well, we all figured you were having a tough time and um, well.… Here.” He picked up the flowers and shoved them into my arms, then turned to leave.

“Gordon, wait.” I felt like a total heel now. Gordon spun around with an expectant puppy-dog look on his face. “Come on in a sec,” I said. “Let me throw something on and I'll get us a cup of coffee.”

He hesitated, then stepped inside the kitchen, looking from the flowers I held in one hand to the knife in the other.

“I promise, it's safe.” I buried my nose in the bouquet of tulips and roses. “This was so thoughtful,” I murmured. “Guess I'm just a little gun-shy.”

Gordon's features relaxed. “Well, that's understandable, I reckon.”

I shoved the flowers into his arms and walked off down the hallway. “Make yourself at home,” I called back to him. It was beginning to occur to me that Gordon was an untapped source of information. He'd been working the door. He knew what Vincent was paying the guest stars. He knew what money was coming in. And he hadn't taken Barboni's gun away from him when he walked through the door of the club, or alerted Bruno. Now what was that about? One night I could see an oversight, but Barboni had been in night after night.

I threw my robe on and walked back down the hallway. Gordon had made himself at home all right. He'd found a vase and was carefully arranging the flowers.

“You want me to do that?” I asked.

Gordon jumped, not hearing me walk up behind him.

“No, ma'am. I'm used to this. I worked in my sister Lori's flower booth in Atlanta before I moved here.”

I settled onto a stool and watched Gordon work, trying to figure the best way to get to what I wanted.

“You went from arranging flowers to working the door in a strip club? That must be some adjustment.”

Gordon smiled softly. “Not really.” He snapped the end of a stem and stuck it down into the warm water.

“So, Gordon, why'd you let that man, Barboni, into the club with him carrying?” I figured, what the hell, might as well shoot straight. Otherwise I'd be talking flower arranging all night.

Gordon's fingers slipped and the flower he was working with took a direct hit, the stem cracking and petals flying everywhere.

“Like I told Mr. Gambuzzo, I didn't see it.”

I stretched. “Yeah, Gordon, but unlike Gambuzzo, I ain't stupid. What's the real deal? Come on, you can tell me. I won't rat you out. I'm just curious.”

Gordon wouldn't make eye contact, something that would've had the nuns at St. Mary's on him in a flash, rulers at the ready.

“Flowers are really easy to work with,” Gordon said, “but so fragile…”