Film Strip (27 page)

My crew of misfits sat under the pin oak, leaning against its broad base. Pat looked worn-out and Francis looked worse.

“How about you guys drop me at my car and go on home?” I said. “I can call you if I need you. You look beat. No pun intended, Francis.”

Pat struggled up to her feet and limped a few steps toward the pickup. “Well, if there's nothing for us to do, and if you don't need help, I might just take you up on that. I could use a nap and your brother could use a trip to the hospital to get his nose set. I could drop him off.”

Francis stood up. “Where's your friend?”

“Ernie thinks she took off with Little Ricky.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but what do you think?”

I looked around the parking lot, hesitating, then turned back to him. “I think she's in trouble and I need to find her.”

He nodded and started walking toward the truck. “I think I'll come with you.”

He opened the door and swung up into the front seat.

“I think you should see a doctor,” I said. “Pat can drop you at the medical center and I can come get you after I run out to Little Ricky's house.”

Francis stared back at me, stony and determined. “No,” he said. “I
feel
like going with you.” Then he smiled a little and winced when it hurt.

Raydean and Fluffy filed back into the truck and Pat cranked the engine. “You coming?” Raydean asked. She patted Francis's knee. “He's a big boy, Sierra. Let him go with his feelings.”

There was no point in trying to get anybody to do anything. They were going to do exactly as they pleased and I could like it or lump it. It made no never mind to them.

“My car's in the Days Inn parking lot off Middle Beach Road,” I said. Pat nodded and took off. The clock was ticking. I was due at the Tiffany in two hours and a killer was out there somewhere, looking for Marla—that is, if he hadn't already found her.

Raydean was humming to herself, a mindless tune that ceased abruptly when we pulled into the Days Inn parking lot and saw my car.

“Sierra, when did you get a valet service?” she breathed.

Packy Cozzone's white oversized sedan sat next to the Camaro. The back door was open and Packy's legs protruded from the backseat, tapping their familiar rapid staccato on the asphalt. His two hoods were leaning over the hood of my car, polishing it.

Pat drew her breath in sharply and veered toward the left, but Packy had spotted us. He jumped up, his head appearing over the door, his arms waving wildly as he tried to get our attention.

“I'll kill the little punk bastard now,” Francis growled.

“With what, Francis, your looks? We don't carry. They've got three guns and probably two of them are trained on the truck right now.” I looked over at the three crazy men and saw that they seemed to show no intention of reaching for their weapons. “I think we should go over there,” I said. “If we don't, we come off looking scared. Do you think Big Moose would want to hear that his son ran scared?”

Francis shook his head and looked over at me. “Sierra, I'm not Big Moose Lavotini's son, remember? You made that up.”

“Well, it's too late to go back on that now. We gotta play it out. Pat, you guys wait here. If they shoot us or something, take off and call the police. That's Packy Cozzone, out of New York City.”

Fluffy started to growl and bark, and Raydean held her back when Francis and I jumped out of the car. Packy came out from behind the car door, both hands held out in front of him, like he was trying to show us he meant no harm. The goons kept right on polishing my car. One of them held a squirt bottle and was cleaning the wheel rims on each of my tires. All in all, it made a very strange picture.

“Mr. Moose,” Packy said, when Francis got within earshot, “I owe you the very deepest of apologies.”

“You're damn right you do,” Francis said, “and that may not be enough to save your sorry ass.”

Packy looked very contrite. “I would hope that you wouldn't do that,” he said. “I'm in enough trouble already.” He lifted his head and looked at me. “You see, I got the full story. I am very sorry. I had no way of knowing. I just thought you guys were fucking with me.”

I shrugged. “Well, sometimes you can't be too careful,” I said.

“Dickie called me back. Someone in our organization spoke to someone in your family, and well, it eventually got to Big Moose.” Packy looked at the ground again. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn't know Big Moose was looking to make an investment down here, totally unrelated to our piece of the pie. It was a case of poor communications. Big Moose sent the word out directly that we were to cooperate fully with you and to help in any way possible.”

“He did?” Francis and I said. What was going on?

Packy nodded. “He in particular said to send his regards to you, Miss Lavotini. He said he always loves to hear news of his relative in Florida. But he said he don't always know himself what Little Moose is up to.” Packy cut a sly look in Francis's direction. “So what are you up to?” he asked.

Francis shook his head and waved Packy off. “I'm not discussing it with anyone, not until it's a done deal. It's a present for my father. I just want it to go smoothly.” That Francis, he had balls the size of Boston. Didn't he get that Big Moose Lavotini was on to us?

Packy shook his head, like maybe he'd been an idiot. “I am truly sorry. My men and I are at your disposal.”

“Don't worry about it,” Francis said. “You guys go on about your business and if I need you, I'll call you.”

This brought an unexpected response from Packy and his men. They straightened up, closed ranks, and took a step forward.

“You don't understand,” Packy said, the smile still in place, but his face hardening to stone. “Big Moose, he said to stick by you like glue. He said he wants to make sure his family in Panama City is protected. Each and every day I am to report back to his office directly what I have done to ensure your safety. He wants to know every move you make, and in what way I made things go smoothly. If we don't take care of you,” Packy said, twitching nervously, “he'll take care of us. Now, we wouldn't want that, would you?”

This was all we needed. It was too much to believe that Little Moose Lavotini was actually in Panama City. No, we'd been brought to the attention of the real Lavotini Syndicate, and now Big Moose was curious and watching our every move. We were dead.

I felt Francis sigh softly. “All right,” he said. “You follow us. You stay back, out of the way, unless I signal you.”

“What's the signal?” Packy said.

“Oh, you'll know,” Francis said. “If I give you a signal, you'll definitely know.”

“Good enough for me, boss,” Packy said. “We'll follow you.”

Francis looked over at me, then back at Pat. “Well, let's go,” he said. I dug my keys out of my pants pocket and walked over to the gleaming Camaro. I looked back at Pat and saw her jaw stiffen. She wasn't about to go anywhere, either. When I pulled out into traffic it would be with an entourage.

“You wanna tell me how you feel,” Francis asked, as I settled into the driver's seat and cranked the engine.

“Hey, Francis,” I said, not even looking at him, “fuck you and your feelings.”

He laughed and we tore off out of the lot, chirping the tires and jumping the curb. I heard Packy scream out a war whoop and saw the sedan jump the curb. Pat chose to drive in a more restrained manner, bringing up the rear, with Fluffy's little head hanging out the passenger-side window.

Francis rooted through my cassettes and chose Bruce Springsteen. I had to put Big Moose out of my mind. We had larger fish to fry. Moose could wait. We were on our way to the Tiffany. Little Ricky and Marla had disappeared. Little Ricky. Why hadn't I thought about him before? Why hadn't I picked up on the signals? Why didn't I get it? He'd been with each of those dancers before they'd died. He'd made countless passes at me. He'd supplied me with all the information on Marla, information that was supposed to help her and only implicated her further. Little Ricky, the same guy who'd seen me snub him in order to talk to Barboni. The same guy who'd had access to Marla's gun.

I punched the accelerator and started weaving in and out of the five-thirty traffic. What if he'd killed her? What if I'd been too slow in figuring the whole deal out?

“Sierra, do you want to get us all killed?” Francis cried.

I kept on driving, the others following behind me as best they could. Packy was flashing his headlights off and on and honking his horn. I paid no attention and kept on speeding toward the club. An image came to me of Marla, zooming out over the club runway, hooked up to guy wires and pullies, dressed in her now infamous B-52 bomber costume, all silver sequins and glitter. She was smiling, her lips painted a brilliant red, her eyes thick with navy-blue mascara. Despite her petty manner and simpering ways, there was a lonely little girl inside Marla. She just had no awareness of her real potential, and now maybe she never would.

I ran the red light out onto the main beach drag and made a ninety-degree turn into the Tiffany parking lot. The after-work crowd was skimpy, with only a few of the regular cars in the lot. I stopped right in front of the door and charged inside. Behind me I could hear the opening and closing of car doors as my entourage arrived.

Vincent was behind the bar, an apron around his ample waist and a cocktail shaker in his pudgy hands. He was not a happy camper.

“Have you seen Marla?” I asked.

He looked surprised. “No, why? She ain't due in here for another two hours.”

“Where does Little Ricky live?”

Vincent put the cocktail shaker down and leaned on the bar. “Sierra, what the hell is going on? Why're you looking for that scumbag? Why don't you know where Marla is?” Worry etched its way across his face.

“He's gonna hurt her, Vincent. Little Ricky, he took Marla.”

Vincent frowned. “No, he didn't.” He looked behind me, over my shoulder. “Who are those guys?” he asked, nodding toward Packy Cozzone and his colleagues.

“My associates,” I said, “from New York.” Francis shook his head.

“Do you know where Little Ricky lives?” I asked Vincent again. “Does anybody here know where Little Ricky lives?” I called out to the bar in general.

Panic gripped me when no one answered. Did they not get the seriousness of the situation?

“Come on! Think! One of you has to know where Little Ricky lives!”

The men's room door banged open and a familiar voice rang out: “Hell, I can answer that question. Do I get a prize?”

The entire bar turned around and stared. “I live at 1604-A Twenty-ninth Street. Now what do I win, darlin'? You?” Little Ricky started walking toward me, still zipping his pants. He was drunk, snot-nosed, drooling drunk.

“Don't worry,” Vincent said softly. “I took his car keys.”

“Where is Marla, Ricky?”

At the mention of her name, Little Ricky's face fell. “I don't know,” he moaned. “She left me.”

“I don't believe you,” I said. “I think you killed her and the others. Now where is she?”

Packy Cozzone didn't like the sound of things and lifted his chin ever so slightly to the goons. All three of them dipped their hands into their pockets and came out with weapons, the same nasty guns that had been pointed at my heart only hours before.

“Jesus!” Vincent swore. “Sierra, we don't allow guns in here.”

“Those aren't guns, Vincent,” I said. “Those are reminders, reminders of who is in charge, and right now,” I said, turning back to stare at Little Ricky, “that would be me. Where is Marla?”

“I don't know, I tell you! I haven't seen her since they took her off to jail! I was planning on going to the arraignment, but my agent called with a job.”

“What agent, Ricky? Cut the crap. You don't have an agent!”

Ricky squared his big shoulders and glared at me. “I do, too!” he insisted, his voice slurring slightly with the effort it cost him to think and talk. “Got him day before yesterday. He called me, as a matter of fact. Said he'd seen me fight one time and wanted to represent me. He's the one sent me on the job.”

I had a sinking feeling and looked over at my brother. He was looking at Ricky like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“But you got to the job and no one was there, right? And nobody had ever heard of your agent, right?”

Little Ricky's eyes widened. “Damn, you're clairvoyant, too?”

“No, Ricky, it's just common sense.”

Packy Cozzone stepped closer. “Sierra, you want we should slam him? We do that real good.”

“No, I do not want you should slam him, Packy. I'll slam him if I need to.”

Packy shrugged. “All right,” he said, “but he's a little big for you to be slamming.”

That's when I began to think I knew who killed the girls and Alonzo Barboni.

“Packy, you got your phone on you?” He reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out the little black phone, and passed it over.

“Don't worry about how long you stay on,” he said. “I got unlimited minutes.”

“Shut up!” Francis barked.

I dialed Ernie's office and waited for him to pick up.

“Ernie Schwartz,” he said. He sounded beat.

“Ernie, the guy who picked up Marla, what did he look like?”

“Scrawny kid. You know, little, as in Little Ricky, just like you said. Had a goatee.”

I snapped the phone shut without saying good-bye and turned to Vincent. “All right, I know you know this: Where does Gordon live?”

“Out off of Ponce De Leon on Deco Street,” he said. “You won't miss it. I took him home the other week when his car wasn't working. It's nothing more than a shack, white peeling paint and a blue-gray railing around the roof. It's about six blocks back off Front Beach Road.”