The Miracle Strip (28 page)

Ruby's eyes were silver dollars. “Yeah,” she said, sighing,“that's it exactly. That's what I want.”

From that moment on, Ruby attached herself to me like a young puppy. When I came to the club to practice, she was there. When she worked out her first routine, I helped her. A lot of the girls ignored her, or worse, snubbed her. But that's life when you work this business. There's a lot of jealousy. I figure it this way: If you can dance, if you've got it, can't nobody take it away, and can't nobody ruin your stuff. The no-talents will move on or be moved out, so there's no sense in sweating it if they take an attitude. It's the real dancers who look out for each other. We're a family of loners and outcasts. We have to stick together to survive.

Ruby was good, but she was young and inexperienced. What I knew took years to learn; not that I'm old, but twenty-eight is light-years ahead of nineteen. I could do the vulnerable virgin for days, but I could do Aphrodite's night of a thousand pleasures, too. You don't learn that stuff at nineteen.

When Mickey Rhodes picked Ruby Diamond to appear at the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway along with me, I couldn't have been happier. My protégée was going to make her first publicity appearance. She didn't know enough to realize how fast those things can get old.

“Why did he pick me?” she kept asking. “Why not Marla, or Yvonne? They're bigger acts than me.” We were lying on the floor of my living room, exhausted from working on a new routine, when I decided to finally answer her.

“Ruby, Vincent and Mickey Rhodes are looking to do a business deal. The Tiffany sponsors the opening race and one of the drivers. In return for Vincent laying out a small amount of cash, the Tiffany gets a lot of publicity. You and me are just the pawns in this little game. It's not an honor or a privilege to get picked out by Mr. Rhodes. It is more or less a pain in the ass compounded by the fact that we ain't making enough extra jack for submitting ourselves to God knows what kind of physical and mental harassment by redneck racetrack fans.”

There was a moment of silence while Ruby considered this. Then she laughed. “Oh, go on,” she said. “Sierra, don't you know nothing about racing? Mr. Gambuzzo is sponsoring Roy Dell Parks. I went to high school with his little brother. Roy Dell Parks is gonna be the next Richard Petty.”

She was serious. I turned and looked out the bay window, biting the inside of my lip so I wouldn't laugh and hurt her feelings. Ruby Diamond actually thought some three-quarter-mile dirt track driver was a threat to the Indy 500. I didn't know anything about racing, but I sure as heck knew one thing: The big racers didn't come out of little bitty racetracks in North Florida.

Ruby rolled over and sat up, looking at me with her big brown eyes. I suddenly had the feeling we were on dangerous territory.

“Sierra, I grew up in Wewa. Those people out at the race-track, I went to school with them. A lot of them talked bad about me behind my back, and you know why?” Ruby wasn't waiting for an answer. “Because I was adopted out of foster care when I was three. That was the only reason. Well, that and because I used to make believe I was reincarnated.”

“Reincarnated?”

“Yeah,” she said, her tone a bit defensive. “Reincarnated. You know, like I had a past life as somebody else. Madame Jeanette thinks I was Mata Hari.”

I was biting the inside of my lip hard now, and I would've laughed if my hairless chihuahua, Fluffy, hadn't picked that moment to come into the room and distract us. Fluffy skidded into the room, sliding to a halt on the wooden floor by Ruby's side. It was a credit to Ruby that Fluffy accepted and liked her. Fluffy doesn't like just anyone. In fact, I have considered myself such a bad judge of character, particularly men, that I usually subject them to the Fluffy Test. If Fluffy doesn't like you, I don't date you.

I'd only seen Fluffy make an error once; that was when she took to John Nailor right off. Even I could've told her that was a mistake. Of course, Fluffy didn't see John Nailor plant one on that bimbo at the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway.

*   *   *

Most folks consider Panama City to be a small town, despite its reputation as the Redneck Riviera. We get people flying in here all the time from L.A., but around here, that just means Lower Alabama. We are a village made famous by a strip of white sand beach and MTV. Most people drive right past the real town in their rush to stake a claim on the sugary sands, and that suits the locals just fine. Better the tourists should not know about the huge Victorians that line St. Andrews Bay. Better they should stay away from Uncle Ernie's or Joe's. Leave the good living to those of us who can appreciate it.

I don't think the people of Wewahitchka feel like that about their town. When your biggest local attraction is a three-quarter-mile dirt track, you've got problems from a Chamber of Commerce perspective. Having dancers from the big metropolis of Panama City was not their cup of tea either. I could tell we were unwanted right away. When I pulled up to the pit gate in my '88 black Camaro, there was a small crowd already waiting. Their signs read: Nudity is Everyone's Problem, and God So Loved the World That He Clothed Adam and Eve.

They were blue-hairs, mainly, who carried the placards, but there was a sprinkling of dark-haired, fresh-scrubbed Christian righters. The younger ones looked mean, in particular a man with a bull horn and black-rimmed glasses. I'd heard about protests, but usually they happened outside of clubs. Surely they didn't think Ruby and I were going to get naked here? Ruby sank down in the passenger seat as we approached the gate.

“Oh Gawd,” she moaned softly, “that's Brother Everitt, from my Mama's church.”

I looked over at her. She sat slouched down in the seat, a scarf around her head and huge dark glasses covering the top half of her face.

“Didn't you figure this might happen?” I asked. I stared out the window at the tiny crowd of protesters. The women were wearing pastel polyester, their eyes focused rigidly in front of them, ignoring the cars backed up behind us in line, seemingly oblivious to the incredibly loud sound of engines being pushed to their limits.

“Well, I'd hoped not. I mean, Brother Everitt is bad to do stuff like this, but I just thought with the racetrack being technically outside the Wewa city limits, and closer to Panama City than anywhere, he wouldn't come.” She sighed again, and her hand went nervously up to touch her hair. She was wearing a Dolly Parton blond wig.

“So that's why you wore a wig?”

A small grin played across her face. “Yep. Pretty slick, huh?”

No, not really, I thought. “Yeah, kid, slick,” I answered.“Now put them idiots out of your head and get ready to work your ass off. These gigs aren't for your lightweight.”

Ruby straightened up in her seat and took a deep, cleansing breath, just like I taught her.

“Feel your inner child,” I said as we pulled into the pit entrance. “Be at peace with yourself.” It might have worked had we not come face-to-face with Roy Dell Parks, the self-proclaimed King of Dirt.

I had gunned the accelerator of my Camaro and was just starting to cross the track to get to the pit area, when out of nowhere a dusty yellow Vega, vintage 1972, appeared, barreling across the straightaway, seemingly out of control.

“Sierra, look out!” Ruby screamed. “Oh Gawd, Roy Dell's spun out!”

There was no time to slam the Camaro into reverse. Instead I braced myself, anticipating the shuddering thud that would jar every bone in my body. At the last second before impact, I saw a wild-eyed man with a bushy red beard and hair frantically fighting to turn the wheel of his battered yellow Vega. It was no use. Roy Dell Parks careened off the front right side of my car, throwing us backward into the line of waiting vehicles.

For a moment I was too stunned to move. The impact had shaken me, but other than that, the only damage seemed to have affected my precious '88 Iroc Camaro. Once I realized that a piece-of-shit Vega had demolished the front right side of my car, I was out of the door, heading for Roy Dell Parks and vengeance.

Roy Dell had managed to extricate himself from his car, which to my amazement seemed to have suffered no damage, and was directing his pit crew and the others who'd raced onto the track to offer assistance.

He saw me coming and headed toward me, his hand outstretched as if to shake mine.

“Roy Dell Parks, ma'am,” he said. “That Vega'll run like a scalded dog, won't she?”

That's when I decked him. I pulled my arm back as far as I could and sent it steaming forward, hoping to punch right through his solicitous face and into the middle of the track.

It was pure pleasure to connect with his big fat lips. Roy Dell Parks was a bleeder. His mouth gushed blood, his eyes rolled up backward in his head, and ever so slowly he pitched forward as his knees buckled under him.

This brought about an instant reaction from his supporters. Half of them rushed to Roy Dell where he lay on the dirt track, and half just watched, trading looks of amazement for grins of admiration. I guess they didn't see many women punch men in their neighborhood. Where I come from in North Philly, growing up with four brothers, learning to deliver a punch was as much a way of life as going to Catholic school. I just happened to have paid more attention during the defense part of my education.

Ruby was standing by my side, her Dolly Parton wig slightly askew and her eyes wide.

“Good God Almighty,” she said, “they're gonna kill us.”

“Kill us?” I said. “Because some self-proclaimed king of racing hit my car?”

As if on cue, a scrawny man with thick muscled forearms and a wealth of tattoos stood up and headed in my direction. In the distance I could see two sheriff's deputies walking quickly toward us.

“What in the hell kind of thing to do was that?” the scrawny man asked. Others were falling in behind him, and the mood seemed to be heading toward a good old-fashioned lynching. Ruby jumped behind me, and I was thinking about how fast I could make it back to the car and grab my tire iron, when Roy Dell Parks rejoined the living.

“Now, Frank,” he said weakly, “let me handle this. Can't you see the little lady was acting out of shock?” He chuckled as he stood up and swayed ever so slightly. “And a hell of a shock it must've been, too, if that punch was any judge.”

Frank looked at me and snarled, just like Fluffy does when she disapproves of someone. Roy Dell walked slowly in between the two of us and once again stuck out his hand.

“Roy Dell Parks, ma'am, King of Dirt.”

I looked at his outstretched hand for a second, then ignored it.

“Sierra Lavotini,” I said, “the Queen of I Really Don't Give a Shit.”

Roy Dell laughed, then winced and touched his lip.

“Don't be mad, ma'am,” he said. “It really wasn't nothing I could control. One of my boys must've left a bolt off the steering column.” He held up a hand as if to forestall any further comments from me. “I know, you're worried about your vehicle, but ma'am, honest, ain't nothing to it. Hell, the boys here'll take that car over to the pit and have it right as rain before the night's out.”

Despite myself, I could feel my anger easing.

“Thanks, Roy Dell,” Ruby said, taking over. “I know Sierra'd feel a lot better if you took care of her car. You know, Sierra's car means the world to her.”

Roy Dell seemed to see Ruby for the first time. His eyes widened and he wiped his beefy hand on the front of his coveralls before extending it toward her.

“And who might you be, darlin'?”

Ruby blushed and placed her hand in his. “Ruby Lee Diamond,” she murmured softly. “It sure is a pleasure to meet you.”

I was gonna be sick. There was enough love juice and chemistry oozing out between the two of them to gag any self-respecting person. Roy Dell still hadn't let go of Ruby's hand, and she hadn't taken her eyes off of him. If Mickey Rhodes and his entourage hadn't joined us, accompanied by the sheriff's deputies, we might have stood there all night waiting for the blessed consummation of Roy Dell and Ruby's newfound romance.

“Ladies,” said Mickey, “I am so sorry for this mishap.” His pudgy little face was wrinkled with concern. “Of course, the track will absorb any cost incurred by Mr. Parks's negligence.”

This snapped Roy Dell Parks back into the here and now. He whirled around to face the track owner, his face turning scarlet.

“Let's us just get one thing clear,” he said, his voice dropping by two octaves and assuming a menace I hadn't thought possible. “This was an unavoidable accident. Weren't nothing to it but a loose bolt, and Miss Sierra and Miss Ruby know that. I'll be fixing this Camaro up better than new, and ain't none of your money needed.”

Mickey puffed up like a rooster, and I was thinking that Roy Dell could fix my car for me, but there was no call to be turning down the track's money. After all, I could be the victim of delayed whiplash. One could never be too careful.

“Ouch,” I moaned, grabbing the back of my neck.

“Sierra, what is it?” Ruby asked, rushing to my side. The little crowd had fallen silent, their total attention turned to me.

“Ow, I don't know,” I said, massaging the back of my neck tenderly. “I just felt this sharp pain.”

Mickey Rhodes's face paled as he smelled his liability burning. “Hey, Meatloaf, call them ambulance attendants over here. Looks like we might have a casualty.”

A thick, tall man broke loose from the crowd and moved off at a trot toward the pit, and I stared off after him. From where we stood, at the top of the slanted dirt track, I could look down on the pit area and up over at the grandstands. Even though no cars were on the track, the sound coming from the pit where crews revved car engines was strong enough to feel as if it hit me square in the chest, pounding away like a bass drum.