Film Strip (6 page)

“Didn't tip me tonight, either!” she huffed. “Just sat there, nursing a B&B, and making notes on little index cards. I'd think he was ATF, but they tip.”

“When did he leave?”

Charlotte shifted her tray to one hip. “Right after you finished. He didn't look happy, but then, I have yet to see that guy crack a smile.”

Vincent came up and stood right behind her, like he was applying pressure on account of her not doing her job. Charlotte saw him, sniffed, and walked away, her nose in the air and a definite attitude brewing. I felt sorry for Bruno.

“Sierra,” Vincent groused, “I'm personally grateful that you took it into your head to show up and perform, but really, you shouldn't have worried. Barry Sanduski's sending in another girl tomorrow to help out, another one of the circuit girls. You know, that was a brilliant idea of yours, having them visiting artists. I got Gordon outside right now, sticking her name up on the marquee.”

We wandered outside the front door and looked up. Sure enough, there was Gordon, a panicked look on his face, teetering on Vincent's old wooden ladder and sticking up big black letters:
COMING TOMORROW NIGHT—FROSTY LICKS.

I looked from Gordon to Vincent and frowned. “Hey, I don't need no replacement. Venus was fine for a night. On occasion, a visiting artist has a place at the Tiffany, but don't go getting ideas that it should be a regular occurrence.”

Gordon looked down at us, a huge letter K slipping from his grasp. “Yeah, Sierra's the queen of the Tiffany. One doesn't send in a scullery maid to be queen for a day.” Gordon clearly missed his calling as a third-rate Shakespearean actor.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Vincent grumbled. Turning back to me, he started with his minor-league charm act. “Sierra, honey, sweetie, baby, it ain't nothin' to do with you. We need to pull them Atlanta tourists in here. They'll come when they see a name they recognize. And the locals will get to see the big-town movie-star talent. See, babe, it's pure financials.”

“Vincent,” I said, “bite me. I know financials and I know when I'm getting squeezed. You go pulling porn stars in here to do what trained dancers do, and the quality of your life here at the Tiffany will disintegrate. Your dancers are what make the Tiffany. Circuit girls are all right every now and then, but they got no class and no talent. They're a novelty act, like looking at a two-headed chicken. Your dancers—now, they're your center-ring attraction.”

Vincent's jaw was twitching. Behind us, out on the strip, cars drove by, slowing down when they saw me in my French maid outfit and honking their horns.

“See what I mean, Vincent? Quality. You mess with talent and it'll bite you in the ass every time.”

I spun around and limped off, fuming. Venus Lovemotion was one thing, but a parade of B-grade bubble brains was quite another. Vincent was bucking for trouble, I could just feel it.

Eight

I can never seem to get enough sleep. I got home, fell into bed, slept for what felt like seconds, and look what happened. Someone was pounding on my door again. I woke up to Fluffy's shrill yapping. She was standing at the edge of the bed, doing her very best to ward off intruders. What was it with people? Did they not get it that I work nights? Why did all my visitors seem to invade my sanctuary in broad daylight? To further complicate matters, the phone started ringing.

I grabbed it and my robe, forgetting about my impairment as I jumped out of bed and felt a sharp stab run up my leg.

“Hello—ouch!”

“Sierra.” Raydean's hushed voice rasped over the phone line. “You got company and it don't look like it appears.”

“What?”

Usually the Prolixin shot kicked in as soon as they gave it to her, but it didn't sound like Raydean was too firmly grounded this morning.

“Approach cautiously. Examine for bugs or other alien subterfuge. It don't look right to me. Maybe it's a bomb!” The line went dead as the pounding continued at the kitchen door.

I peered out cautiously through the peephole and saw roses. I unlocked the door, swung it open, and came face-to-face with a delivery boy holding a mass of bloodred roses. Not my favorite color, but then, one mustn't look a gift horse in the proverbial mouth.

“Sierra Lavotini?” the pimple-faced teen squeaked.

“You don't know? I guess at your age, you don't know. Yeah, that's me.”

“Okay.” He shoved the vase of flowers into my arms and took off. Before I could do or say anything, he was driving off, the heavy thump of the bass line to his music vibrating through the neighborhood.

I peered over the roses to Raydean's trailer. The door slowly opened and she appeared, shotgun not quite hidden behind her back.

“See? What I tell you? Damn roses! Oldest trick in the book. Gain entry, subdue victim with charm, and take over the world.”

“Raydean, these are harmless. Come on over here and see.” Raydean was undecided for a moment, then started out of the trailer. “Leave the gun at your house, please.”

She scowled but left it behind. She approached cautiously. “I'm telling you, there's something not right about receiving flowers from a stranger.”

“Come on, I'll make coffee. Besides, Raydean, what makes you think they're from a stranger?” I knew who needed to be sending flowers. It was a lovely way to apologize, even if yellow or pink roses were the better choice.

Raydean walked behind me into the kitchen, still keeping her distance. “What does the card say?” she asked.

I reached into the bouquet and extracted the tiny florist's envelope, opened the flap, and pulled out the card.
“Hope you stay as lovely as you are. Stick with what you know. I'll take care of you.”

Well, if he'd wanted to apologize, John Nailor'd missed the mark. Raydean snatched the card from my fingers and read it, holding it out at arm's length because she'd forgotten her glasses.

“Aha!” she cried. “Alien death threats!”

I set the vase on the counter and started to make the coffee. My hands shook slightly and I watched them as if they belonged to someone else. No, it wasn't a threat. John just wasn't good with words. I poured water in the machine, measured the coffee carefully into the filter basket, and turned back to look at Raydean and Fluffy.

“I'll just call him and say thank you,” I said softly, but I wasn't fooling anyone. It just wasn't Nailor's style to send flowers, to back down from an argument.

“Denial's a river in Egypt,” Raydean said, her eyes soft with understanding.

I dialed the police department, holding the phone close to my ear, waiting for the call to go through.

“Criminal Investigations, Nailor.” His voice was strong and familiar, and for a second that was enough.

“Hey,” I said. “Thanks for the flowers and the card. They're lovely.”

There was a long moment of silence, then the words I didn't want to hear.

“They weren't from me, but I guess that happens all the time.” Now he was pissed.

“Not from you? But the card referred back to yesterday's misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you got another guy misunderstanding you,” he growled. “I figure that's right common, too.”

I bit my tongue. “So you didn't send me a dozen roses with a card saying to stick with what. I know and you'd take care of me?”

More silence. “I'll be right over,” he said, and severed the connection.

“Called out the reinforcements, did you?” Raydean asked.

“No, but it seems they're coming anyway.”

We were headed for disaster, that much I knew. Two steel-headed opponents, steering through a collision course. I knew what he'd want, what he'd say, and I wasn't coming down on the same side of the matter. The only thing a threat meant was that I was on the right track. Someone was afraid of what I'd uncover. To me, that meant I was the only person close enough to the murder to solve it. Nailor wasn't going to like it, but then, that was his problem, not mine.

Nine

Raydean and I stared at each other. Behind us the coffeemaker hissed to a stop, but neither of us moved to pour the coffee.

“Looks like we got us another kettle of fish to fry,” she said. “Mayhaps the aliens want you, mayhaps the guy what done killed that pretty girl wants you 'cause you're on to him. Either way, you'd better CYA. In fact, your ass has already taken a good hit, I'd cover it extra special if I were you.”

Raydean went and peered out the bay window. “Reckon that feller'll be screaming down the highway to save you.” She and I snorted at the same time. “Way I recollect, you saved his bacon last time. I figure he'll be looking to repay the favor.”

As if on cue, John Nailor's Taurus turned into the trailer park.

Raydean sighed. “Love, it's a turrible thing.” She looked from the window back to me. “I think I'll clear a path and let you young kids have a shot at bliss. Nothing like the fear of mortality to bring two people closer.”

Fluffy, sensing or perhaps hearing Nailor's car, flew into the room, skidded on the floor, and bounced off the window ledge. She yipped, shook her head, and kept right on going, out the doggie door and down the steps.

“See what I mean?” Raydean said, and opened the door.

Nailor looked up through his windshield, took in Raydean standing like a specter at the top of my stoop, and instinctively reached under his armpit for his holster. Just as quickly, he let his hand drop and moved swiftly out of the car, standing with the door as a buffer between him and Raydean.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I ain't armed and you ain't man enough to take me anyway.”

Nailor smiled. “No doubt, ma'am,” he said softly.

Raydean sailed down the steps and out into the road, passing Nailor as if she were the queen and he a loyal subject. When she had crossed her yard and reached the top of her own steps, she turned to face us.

“You have my blessings,” she said, and walked inside her trailer, the door slamming behind her.

Nailor shook his head and climbed the steps to stand beside me.

“You all right?”

“Never better,” I answered. “You didn't need to come out here, you know.”

“I know.” His eyes melted into mine. He wasn't thinking about danger, and a moment later, neither was I.

“We got off on the wrong foot yesterday,” he said. He reached out with one hand and touched my cheek.

“Hell, Nailor, we got off on the wrong foot just a few minutes ago.”

He frowned. “Let me see the card.”

I handed him the florist's card and he studied it and the tiny envelope, turning them over and over in his hands. Fluffy came back into the kitchen and stood next to him, panting.

“I'm with you, girl,” I muttered.

“Which florist was it?” he asked.

“I don't know. What does the envelope say?”

Nailor held the envelope out for me to see. It was pure snow white, no florist's imprint. “Did you see the delivery van?”

“It was a kid in a car.”

“Shit.” We both spoke at the same time. I turned away and went to the coffeemaker, pouring us both mugs of steaming liquid, black, the way we both liked it, undiluted and strong.

“I figure someone thinks my nosing around might uncover something.”

Nailor took a sip of his coffee and eyed me over the rim of the cup. “You aren't going away, are you?” he asked.

“Are you?”

We studied each other, the conversation hitting on two levels. “I have to be involved,” he said.

“And so do I. I just don't get a badge and a gun to work with.”

Nailor stepped closer to me. “This time you ought to know something about self-defense.”

He smelled too good to resist.

“I think I can handle myself,” I said softly. A moment later I felt my body falling, landing hard on the kitchen floor, pain shooting from the good side of my ass to the bad. He was on me, his hands pinning my shoulders to the ground, a determined look on his face.

“If you could handle yourself,” he said, “I wouldn't be able to do this.”

Fluffy went wild. She lunged at Nailor and bit him right in the meaty part of his forearm.

“Ouch!”

“Fluffy, no! It's all right, girl.”

A thin trickle of blood ran down Nailor's arm. Fluffy stood back, snarling, ready to further defend me.

“Well,” I said, Nailor still sitting on top of me, “guess I can handle myself. Guess if I really wanted you off of me, you'd be gone, or maimed by a killer chihuahua. Next time I might not call her off. I might let her chew a while longer.”

Nailor shot Fluffy a nasty look. Fluffy smiled, but it wasn't her friendly smile. Her hero had suddenly gone south on her.

“Fluffy doesn't travel with you in a murder investigation, Sierra. You know what I'm saying. Now, let me show you a couple of things.”

Pain was radiating through my backside. I wasn't in the mood. “Let me up.”

“No,” he said. “Make me.”

I was getting angrier by the second, feeling the white-hot Lavotini temper well up inside me. Nailor didn't know what he was asking for.

He leaned forward and pressed his hands down on my shoulders. “I said, make me.”

That was all it took. I tried bucking like a horse, tried to move my arms to gouge his eyes out, tried to kick, but he had me pinned.

“Want me to show you what to do?” He was grinning, enjoying himself.

“Fuck you, Nailor.”

“That too, but not now. You want me to show you how to get out of this?”

I sighed. Men were such children. “Sure, show me. Knock yourself out.”

“All right. Here, pull your leg up, outside mine, like that.” He reached back and positioned my left leg. “Now, bring your arms up, inside mine, and hit here.” He showed me a spot inside his forearm. “Hit hard, it's a pressure point. It hurts when you do that.”