The Miracle Strip (19 page)

“Sierra,” Al said, “cops ask whatever they feel is pertinent. Tony, being part of your past, and being a shaky part at best, is pertinent. And I'll tell you one other thing, John seemed to feel you were in a lot more trouble than you're saying.”

“John? What's with you calling the guy by his first name?”

“Don't get wise with me, Sierra.” Al was forgetting that he was my younger brother and was starting to sound like Pop. “I'm sayin' this: I'm callin' John in two days, and if you're still in this mess, then I got no recourse but to tell Pop. It's wrong, me not telling him now, but 'cause you're my sister, I'm giving you two days' head start.”

“Aw, Al, don't pull this crap,” I argued. “Pop don't need to know nothing about this.”

“Sierra, I should call Pop now. I'm warning you: Clean it up or I turn it over to the old man, and you know how he feels about trouble. Remember how it went about Tony.”

I remembered, and there weren't going to be any repeats of that fiasco. I moved to Panama City to avoid the very situation that now hung over my head.

“I gotta go, Sierra,” Al said. “I got the Sarge looking at me. He don't like us conducting personal phone calls. I meant what I said, kid, you got two days.”

He was gone before I could argue, leaving me with a dead phone and twenty minutes to shower and make it to work. No matter how I cut it, I was going to be late and Vincent Gambuzzo wasn't going to be happy, just what I needed. The way I saw it, it was all John Nailor's fault.

*   *   *

I drove the Camaro like a drop of water streaking across a griddle, hot and fast. I didn't give a wet rat's ass if Detective Donlevy kept up or not. I was late and I was angry. I held imaginary conversations with John Nailor all the way to the Tiffany. When Vincent Gambuzzo attempted to read me the riot act for being half an hour late, I blasted him back. If it was gonna be a bad night, let it be the worst.

I flew into the dressing room, looking for my outfit and attempting to regain my composure. One thing I could do, one area of my life that I could keep under my control, was my dancing. In order to knock their eyes out, I had to focus. I needed to sit out on the fire escape and meditate, center myself with my inner child, but tonight there wasn't time. I had to close my eyes, take five cleansing breaths, and hope that did the trick.

Rusty stuck his head in the door, trying not to stare at my naked ass and failing as usual.

“Five minutes, Sierra,” he said and quickly withdrew.

I settled for elegance, pulling on the long black velvet sheath and pinning my hair up into a twist. Tonight I would be cool and unattainable. I would stand before them and wait until every man in the house had to beg. I would be their mistress, their trembling virgin, and their unfulfilled fantasies, all wrapped into one streamlined package. I would titillate and hurt them, just because I could.

I walked backstage wrapped in my professional persona, untouchable. Right before I walked on, I saw Vincent signal me, probably wanting the last word, but I ignored him and strode out onto the stage. Whatever he had to say could wait. I had a job to do and money to collect.

The fog machine softly thrust mist across the stage, spilling around me and caressing my body. The music started, a slow throb that pushed its rhythmic beat deep into the souls of the men who waited. I stepped forward and surveyed the audience, looking for the big spenders, the ones I would play to solely because of the depth of their pockets. In the second row, his now-familiar drink resting in front of him, sat John Nailor.

For a moment my brain refused to accept his presence, thinking instead that in my anger I'd imagined him. When I realized that he was indeed in the house and watching me, I froze for an instant and just as quickly resumed my act with a vengeance.

The strobe lights flashed across the stage as I edged closer to the audience, my eyes fixed on John Nailor's face. The music pulsated as I pulled off one black satin elbow-length glove and tossed it in Detective Nailor's lap. His features flickered briefly but then went back to their smoldering appraisal. He had decided that if I could dish it out, he could give it right back. I loved the challenge.

Some women like to say that you should strip for yourself in order to more fully appreciate your body. In my experience, that's never been what turned me on to my own body and power. It's the look in a man's eye when you finally hook him, that moment when he gives over to wanting you and loses sight of himself. I was stripping for John Nailor, waiting for that one moment when he lost control.

He sat there at the table, his hand tightening around his glass, his skin dark against his crisp white shirt. I reached up behind my back and undid the zipper of my gown with one slow fluid movement, letting the dress slip over my breasts and past my hips, descending like a velvet waterfall to the floor.

I lifted one leg out of the puddle of material and stood spread-legged in front of the crowd, towering over them in my stiletto heels. Bruno, sensing the heat in the room, moved protectively forward. I sought out John Nailor, locking eyes with him, daring him to follow me deeper. I brought my hands up, sliding them along my waist, caressing my breasts, gliding them along my neck, until I felt the lone pin keeping my hair in its tight coil. I let my gaze wander across the room, then back to Nailor. With a quick motion, I pulled the pin and let my hair cascade down over my shoulders.

Nailor didn't flinch. He casually lifted the glass to his lips and drank, his eyes never breaking contact with mine. I began unhooking my bra. As it unfastened I reached around and held it in place, taking a step forward so I could be seen clearly, standing where the men could stick money in my garter. Again I let my eyes slowly slide around the room, trying to make contact with every man who watched, then letting my eyes fasten back on John Nailor.

“Do you want me?” I asked.

There was a chorus of shouts as men tumbled over themselves to stick money in my garter. Bruno moved closer still, with Big Ed bringing up the rear.

“Take it off!” they yelled.

“Do you really want me?” I cooed. I looked at Nailor. His face was tightly controlled, his eyebrow casually lifted as if I amused him, but was that a thin sheen of sweat I saw dampening his brow?

I let my hands slowly drop, and the bra fell to the floor, revealing my 38DDs and my black sequined pasties, the smallest made in the business. It was time to move in for the kill.

Men stood crowded around the base of the runway, their faces blurred by the fog machine and the glare of the twinkle lights that edged the stage. I knelt before them, cupping my breasts, then reaching my arms back to support myself as I slowly arched my back.

For a moment, I let myself go, envisioning myself walking slowly toward John Nailor, letting him reach for me. That was enough. It was as if a current surged through my body, disorienting me, and filling me with feelings I didn't want to acknowledge.

With one fluid movement I rose to my feet. I sought out John Nailor's eyes and saw that there had been a change. There was one brief instant when the veil of suspicion and professionalism dropped, and in that moment a promise was extracted and sealed away for another time.

My heart was pounding. I slid my hand behind my neck, scooped up my hair, and pulled it high on top of my head. The music rose to a crescendo, pulsing with energy and intensity. The lights wove across the stage, crisscrossing the audience and returning to focus on me. I glanced at Rusty and he gave me the nod. It was time.

I let my head fall slightly back, ran my tongue slowly across my lips, and moaned. The men surged forward as one, and Rusty flooded the stage with a gigantic cloud of fog. When it cleared, I had vanished. Bruno and Big Ed did crowd control as I slipped into my purple kimono and headed for the dressing room, weak with the effort I'd made to break John Nailor.

Vincent Gambuzzo waited outside in the hallway, his dark glasses quivering against the sides of his head as his jaw twitched violently.

“What in the hell did you do that for?” he asked. An unlit cigar dangled from his pudgy hand.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, and attempted to push past him. He grabbed my sleeve, twisting me around to face him.

“You and that cop,” he said. “What was with you playing to him? Have you lost it completely? He could've busted us. All's he would have to do is cite lewd and indecent, and we'd be shut down. That's all I need,” he fumed.

“Vincent, calm yourself,” I said. “Do you see him back here issuing a citation?” Vincent didn't answer. “No, you don't, and you know why? It's 'cause I know men. It's my job and you gotta trust that.” The twitching was slowing but not gone. “You think I wanna be out of a job? What you saw tonight was me letting that guy know I got limits and I don't scare.”

Vincent shifted from one foot to the other, moving his three-hundred-pound body from side to side.

“I don't know what's going on, Sierra,” he said, “but I don't like it. You got two more days to get them guys off your back and away from my club, you hear me? Two days.”

I pushed past him into the dressing room. Nobody had to remind me that the clock was ticking. I could hear it pounding in my head, louder and louder.

Twenty-four

To his credit, John Nailor was not a runner. He was still waiting when I walked out into the house. I made my way to his table, walked around to his side, and stood so close that it would have taken almost no effort on his part to reach out and sample the merchandise.

“Did you like what you saw, Detective?” I asked.

He ran his eyes over my body, slowly, so I should know that he was back in charge.

“I told you I'd get back to you,” he said.

“So you did,” I said. “I like a man who keeps his word.”

For a short time, onstage, I'd forgotten how angry I was with him. Now it flooded back, overwhelming me with helpless fury. If he sensed the change, he didn't acknowledge it.

“I've decided to take you off surveillance,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, almost choking on the bitterness that threatened to spill over, “is that what my brother Al said you should do?”

Nailor didn't flinch. “Sierra, I was doing my job—maybe even less of my job, because I should've interviewed your parents. I decided I could get the information I needed from your brother.”

“Oh, I am so lucky,” I said. “Do you not think that it'll be all over that you were up asking the nuns about me? I mean, I can see you checking my work record, but school?”

“I told them it was a background check. Your brother's the only one who knew any different.”

“And what about Tony?” I asked. “Was that necessary?”

Nailor regarded me cautiously. “Why don't you tell me, Sierra? The man was a felon. You could've been involved in his illegal activities. I say that's relevant to my investigation. Your past history and relationships follow you wherever you go.”

I looked up and saw Vincent hovering near the bar. This was no discussion to continue in the Tiffany.

“You know I was cleared of any involvement,” I said. “You wouldn't be calling off the watchdogs if you thought I was dirty.” I looked over at Vincent and back at John Nailor. “The boss don't like you dogging me at my place of employment. I could lose my job.”

Nailor stood up and smiled. “Now, that would be a loss,” he said. “I'll be in touch.”

“Do that,” I answered, but he was already walking away, nodding casually to Vincent Gambuzzo as he pushed through the door and out into the night.

*   *   *

Lyle ignored me. All I could figure was his feelings were hurt because I hadn't made time for him to explain his aversion to law-enforcement officials. When I wandered up to the bar, he turned away, making like Rambo, who was sitting in front of him, was saying the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

“Hey,” I called, “what's a girl gotta do to get some service around here?”

Every head at the bar swiveled. The customers smiled and some started asking what kind of service I was looking for, but not Lyle. He was too cool to make a scene, so he walked slowly to my end of the bar, but he wasn't going to make like everything was okay, either.

“What can I get for you, ma'am?” he asked, his voice stiff with insincere civility.

“Aren't you being a little formal, considering as how I'm standing here in a G-string and a silk kimono?”

Lyle pretended not to hear me and waited for my drink order.

“A Coke with a twist of lime,” I said finally. If he wanted to be a prickly cactus, so be it.

He fixed the drink and brought it over, extending his arm to hand it to me while standing as far away as possible. This was ridiculous.

“Lyle,” I began, “look, I wasn't up for talking last night. I got the message you left on my machine and that's why I came over here. I wanted to set a time for us to talk.”

Lyle looked like he could be considering it. He swiped at the bar with a once-white cloth, his brows furrowed with cowboy angst. After a few moments he looked over at me.

“Well, when, then?” he asked. I was forgiven.

“How about tonight, after work? Do you have to close?”

Lyle looked down the length of the bar at his bar back. “No,” he said in his cowboy drawl. “Harv'll do it. He owes me from last week.”

“Good,” I said. “We'll go somewhere and grab a bite to eat.” Lyle relaxed enough for a slight smile. “Meet me out in the lot when you're done, I got a little something to show you.” I meant the Z28, but Lyle and the rest of the bar thought otherwise. It don't cost nothing to dream, I guess, but they would only be dreaming. For now, Lyle was on my personal back burner.

I'd have to say I drifted through the rest of the night. I'd reached my personal best and used up most of my energy on Nailor. I pulled out my Little Bo Peep routine for the second set and used Goldilocks for the closer. The tips were great as usual, but I could've worked the crowd for more. The problem was my heart wasn't in it.