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“I've gotta go,” he said. “Get some rest. I'll be back later to check on you.” The way he said that last part made me know he hadn't completely missed out on my intentions.

He walked toward me and my heart started hammering. It was always this way. It was his eyes, the way he smelled, the raw, untamed part of his being that reached in and connected with my own wildness. Somehow, there was always something that came between us, stopping us from going full steam ahead. But one day … one day. I sighed and stood perfectly still. He reached me, pulling me into his arms and pressing his lips firmly against mine. His hands pressed the small of my back and began roving. For a few minutes we stayed that way, Venus Lovemotion's killer a million miles from our thoughts.

I was feeling warm and floaty. His hands were doing things to my body that I had only imagined possible. And when he moaned, I knew I had been equally effective.

“I'll be back,” he said, breaking away from me.

“I'll be waiting,” I whispered, my voice stuck somewhere inside my body.

Fluffy picked this moment to throw up her hastily consumed meal. Maybe she felt threatened by the new presence in my life. I am sensitive to her feelings. Dogs are like children. Whatever her inner issue, it broke the spell. Nailor was out the door and I was swiping up doggie retch with a paper towel.

“Girl,” I said, reaching out to scratch Fluffy behind her ears, “it will happen to you someday. That special someone will come along, and you'll be out of your mind, acting like a crazy fool.” Fluffy let out a long belch. Clearly she didn't expect herself to ever lose control.

“Well, mark my words,” I said. I shook out another pain pill and swallowed it with a large swig of my pa's homemade Chianti. Ma says Pa's Chianti thickens the blood. She gives it to us whenever something's wrong, emotional or physical. I figured the way my blood was raging and my derriere was aching, Chianti was my only hope.

It must've done the trick. Within moments my head was heavy on the pillow, Fluffy curled by my side. I fell asleep thinking of all the lovely little surprises I had in store for a certain Panama City homicide detective. I woke up to a living nightmare.

*   *   *

Someone was banging loudly on my door and calling my name. Fluffy was barking her tiny head off, and I seemed to be moving in slow motion, drifting down the hallway toward the back door. Why wouldn't they leave me alone?

I snuck a peek through the curtains in the living room. Vincent Gambuzzo's Porsche sat on my parking pad, dripping black oil onto the clean cement. Behind it was another car that I didn't recognize, a Chevy something or other.

“Sierra!” Vincent called. “Open up!”

“Keep your pants on,” I muttered, fumbling with the lock and trying to peer through my peephole. All I could see was Vincent's black eye staring back at me.

“This is pointless,” a pouty female voice said. “She knows it's me.”

Damn. The door swung open, and before I could slam it shut, Vincent had his foot in the door, a stubborn, determined look on his face. Marla. He'd brought the slut to the trailer, with me suffering; the very woman who might've killed me, given better aim.

“I'm not in the mood,” I said. “Go away.”

Vincent stood there, three hundred pounds of resistance, packaged in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie, wearing his wraparound black sunglasses and scowling with his jaw twitching nervously.

“Sierra, this ain't no freakin' social call.”

“Then bye.” I moved to slam the door, but he muscled his way into my kitchen. Behind him, shielded by his girth, stood Marla and her scuzzball boyfriend, Little Ricky. His name was Rick, but I called him Little Ricky on account of the rumors floating around about his steroid use shrinking up a certain part of his anatomy. Little Ricky aspired to a career as a pro wrestler, the kind you see on TV. A fake. He was a mass of muscles with very little brainpower to support it.

Ricky smiled at me, the flirt, and reached his hand up to smooth his thick brown hair. He figured to be God's gift to underprivileged women. I figured him to be garbage looking for a dump site.

“Sierra, listen to me. This is Tiffany business. We got trouble and that means we all gotta pull together. Our livelihoods are on the line here, Sierra. Now quit fooling around.”

Why me? Why do they always pick on me? Do I look like a troublemaker? Do I have “Will Give You a Hard Time” stamped on my forehead? Did someone tape “Kick Me” to my ass?

“Make coffee,” I said, looking only at Vincent. “You got five minutes and then I'm heading back to bed.” Little Ricky looked interested. Marla caught him and stamped on his foot. Usually this would've provoked some smart-assed comment from her, but not now. She was strangely silent.

Vincent rummaged around my cabinets, grabbing a filter and the coffee, then making his way to the sink to fill the coffeepot with water.

“Sierra,” Vincent said, “sit down. Take a load off.” His tone had changed dangerously. He was acting nice, a sure sign of big trouble.

“I'll lean,” I said, taking a position against the counter. Little Ricky and Marla pulled up barstools and perched at my kitchen table, a round, rejected hightop from a failed nightclub.

Vincent measured the coffee, poured the water, and hit the switch on the coffeemaker. He turned his attention back to me.

“As you know,” he began, “Venus Lovemotion got herself whacked in our parking lot. We invited her, so we are responsible.” He stressed the word “we” like he was really meaning “you, Sierra.”

“Now, in the interest of justice, and because we cannot let this savage attack go unpunished, I feel we must supplement the efforts of our loyal but upon occasion unprepared police department.”

That got my back up. “Hey, them guys are doing the best they can, given the situation. John Nailor is working the case personally. He'll get to the bottom of it.”

Vincent Gambuzzo hated John Nailor. He hated the way Nailor gave him no respect. He hated the effect Nailor had on the club. And he particularly hated the effect Nailor had on me. But to my amazement, he said nothing about Nailor.

“Be that as it may,” he continued, “the police department has obviously received some erroneous information and is proceeding in a fruitless direction with their investigation.”

The coffeepot hissed loudly. Marla and Little Ricky were avoiding making eye contact with me, preferring instead to focus only on Vincent, as if he were some kind of a prophet.

Even in my dazed state of consciousness, I could tell I was being had.

“Vincent,” I said, “leave us cut to the chase.” My backside was beginning to favor me with a dull, unrelenting ache. I wanted to drink another glass of Pa's Chianti and go back to bed.

Vincent busied himself pouring me a cup of coffee. He was figuring the best approach and coming up short. Finally he sighed, handed me a steaming mug, and looked over at Marla.

“Sierra, I know you and Marla ain't on the best of terms.”

Best of terms? I thought back over the countless times Marla had tried to sabotage one of my acts, or to flat out manipulate me into giving up my status as club headliner, or talked trash about me to the other girls. “Not on the best of terms” didn't begin to describe my feelings for Marla.

“You could say that,” I answered.

“I did say that,” Vincent puffed. “But blood is thicker than water, Sierra. And here at the Tiffany, we're all one big family.”

“Bottom-line it, Vincent.”

He looked at me, his jaw twitching double-time. “The cops are trying to frame Marla for Venus's murder. It ain't right. It's up to us to catch the bastard what done Venus and you, and get the heat out of our house.”

Vincent straightened up so maybe he looked taller than his natural five feet seven inches. He wore lifts, but I didn't feel the need to let the rest of the world know.

“So,” I said, letting my gaze run over Marla and Little Ricky, “how is that a problem for me? Guilty or innocent, we get rid of the prima donna and life is golden for me. I say, let her fry!”

Marla squeaked but otherwise stayed silent. She was chaffing. On a normal day, we'd have taken this little dispute outside, but not now. Marla was scared stiff. She was grasping at straws. She needed me.

When this realization hit, I stopped and savored it. Marla needed me. Well, well, well. The worm was turning.

“Sierra!” Vincent's voice cut into my pleasant reverie. “Put your personal feelings aside and think of the higher good.”

“I am,” I answered.

“Sierra, let me see you in the living room.” Vincent brushed past me and I didn't move. “Please?”

Vincent had to be just as desperate as Marla, a fact I found amusing. Nonetheless, I followed him.

He walked a few feet away from the kitchen, into my living room, and began pacing across the bare wooden floor, his reflection echoed in the mirrors that lined the back wall. It made me angry. He was invading my practice space.

“Sierra,” he said, his voice lowered in an attempt to keep Marla from overhearing him, “we can't all be you. Marla's not the brightest light on the Christmas tree, but you gotta admit she brings in her share of the business.” I was obviously unimpressed. “Sierra, she ain't got nobody but us.”

He stopped and stared at me. He knew that would do the trick. Inside, I felt a small twinge knock on the door of my conscience. Nobody? That figured. But still, a girl alone in the world.

“She's got Little Ricky,” I sputtered.

“Oh, Sierra, come on. That half-wit? He's about as loyal to her as a snake. Little Ricky runs through women like butter through hot pasta. He can't keep his zipper up long enough to have a relationship.”

I glanced back toward the kitchen. Little Ricky caught my eye and smiled. Marla pinched him. I looked back at Vincent.

“Sierra, the club would take a major hit if we lost her right now.” Vincent was actually sweating. “We can't afford to lose the business.”

An eerie feeling started squeezing my gut. There was more to it than Marla and the club's not-so-sterling reputation.

“Ante up, Vincent. What's really going on?”

Vincent's face paled around his dark glasses. “I'm into some guys for twenty big ones, Sierra. If I don't pay up by the fifteenth, I'm toast.”

“You're into the mob? Vincent, how could you! You know what they'll do to you!”

“Sierra, calm yourself. It's worse than that, actually. I, um, underestimated the club profits. The IRS wants the money by the fifteenth. I'm pretty sure I can pull it off, but you gotta help us. If I lose Marla, I won't make it. Please, Sierra.”

What a pretty picture this was. Vincent into legit organized crime and Marla about to do twenty-five to life. All my troubles could be effectively wiped out, but unfortunately my livelihood would go with it.

While I might make noise like I didn't care, and on occasion actually quit my job publicly, there was no other club where I'd work. The Tiffany was a class joint. Furthermore, we were family. Good or bad, we dancers had to stick together. After all, people tended to view us with little respect. If we didn't cling together, we'd sink like rats. I knew what was coming. I could feel it rise up inside myself like bile.

“All right, Vincent,” I said, “but let me have my fun first.”

Before he could answer, I whirled around and walked back into the kitchen.

“So,” I said, standing right in front of Marla and staring her down, “you got a problem, and you need my help.”

Marla tossed her long black hair like maybe she was looking to debate the point, but fear won out. “Yes,” she said, and swallowed hard. “I really need help.”

Seeing the pitiful way she knuckled under took all the fun out of toying with her. Shit. She was family.

“All right,” I said. “Suppose you tell me all about it.”

Marla looked at me then, her eyes filling with tears. This was pathetic. If we weren't careful, she was going to end up saying stuff we both would regret later when we were back on a level playing field.

“Marla, try and rub two brain cells together and come up with a statement, all right?”

The angry flash was back in her eyes, replacing the sappy gratitude that had threatened to overwhelm her.

“That bully detective of yours thinks I killed Venus Lovemotion,” she said.

“Why?”

Marla looked away from me, glancing nervously at Little Ricky. “Sierra, can we do this in private?”

Little Ricky didn't pick up on her tone, that it was somehow about him. No, he was trying to peak through the gaps between the ribbons of my gown, looking for an unobstructed view. Considering he spent every night of his sorry little rodent life sitting in the club, viewing all of us naked, I failed to see why he felt compelled to ogle now, in this time of crisis.

“Sure, Marla,” I said, grabbing my coffee mug. “Let's go sit outside on the steps.”

The sunlight was blinding. Somehow early morning had slipped away and become mid-afternoon. I grabbed my sunglasses on my way out the door and gingerly lowered my aching body down onto the top stoop. It was almost tolerable if I leaned to the right.

“Okay,” Marla sighed. “It's like this: Rick, he's basically a good guy and all, but he can't help himself; he likes women.” That was one way of looking at it, I supposed. “Most of the time, I can handle it. I mean, the other girls all know he's kidding. They wouldn't take him seriously.” No, Marla, I thought, the other girls know he's a lowlife snake in the grass. “But Venus, I don't think she knew.”

Marla looked sideways at me, to see if I was going to defend Venus. I kept my face neutral.

“Anyway, I caught her and Ricky out on the back stairs. She was all over him! I had to set her straight. I sent Ricky inside so she and I could have a little heart-to-heart.” Marla's face fell. “I guess someone overheard us and took it wrong.”