Film Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

  I watched him for a moment, then checked out the parking lot. Maybe Nailor hadn’t left. Maybe he was sitting in his car, watching the action. I scanned carefully, hoping, but there was no Nailor. He was gone.

  Sixteen

  I danced my ass off. I spent the rest of the night pulling out all the stops, ignoring the warning signals my body was sending. It didn’t matter that Alonzo Barboni was watching me, smiling as if we shared a secret. All I wanted was to hurt so bad I would forget about Nailor and Venus Lovemotion and sorry Vincent Gambuzzo’s financial and legal problems. I wanted to be far, far away in a land where I called all the shots.

  It got so bad at one point that I went out to the payphone by the dressing room and tried to call Ma. The phone rang longer than it should have, had she been home, and then clicked over to my parents’ latest attempt at technology, an antiquated answering machine that Pa had picked up at a flea market.

  “Hey,” Pa’s gruff voice barked, “leave your message. We ain’t here.”

  The wait was endless, and then the long, shrill beep sounded. “Ma, it’s Sierra.” I don’t know what took over then. I guess it was the kid in me, ’cause I started to cry. “I just wanted to … oh, shit, Ma. It ain’t no big deal.”

  She was probably down at the Sons of Italy Social Club with Pa. Hell, that’s where they had to be. It was bingo night. Ma would sit next to Pa, their cards in front of them, looking all serious. Pa would keep asking Ma to repeat the numbers on account of he couldn’t hear too well. Years of fire calls and sirens had finally taken its toll on the Chief.

  Ma would act all irritated, but on the sly, she felt needed when he did that. Pa would drink Chianti while Ma actually watched the cards for both of them. She’d allow herself one small glass of wine, and that was only if the band was gonna play afterward and there’d be dancing. Ma loved to dance, but she lacked courage.

  I stood there, holding the receiver and thinking of them dancing. Pa is a real tough guy, but not when he holds Ma in his arms out on the floor. She has a way of nestling her head right in the crook of his shoulder. Pa wraps his big arms around her and holds her in close. She whispers to him when they dance, all her little secrets and thoughts. And I’ve noticed Pa don’t seem to have any trouble hearing her. He leans in close, his eyes closed, and there’s a soft smile on his face. He’s listening.

  Nobody at the Sons of Italy Social Club bothers Pa when he’s dancing with Ma. It is an unspoken contract between him and his buddies, a bond that transcends all the times they bitch about their wives. Pa’s buddies look the other way when he’s loving Ma, because if they ever acknowledged how good Pa has it, they’d have to examine their own relationships. They’d come up short, and for all their bitching, Pa’s buddies long for a love like he has with my mom.

  I stood there, holding the receiver, tears rolling down my cheeks, so homesick I thought I would die. Then I realized that the machine was still on and recording my nervous breakdown. “It’s just love, Ma. I just … needed to talk I guess.”

  There was a click and then a voice broke in. My oldest brother, Francis, had been sitting there listening.

  “Sierra,” he said, for once sounding gentle and sincere, “is there something wrong, honey, ’cause Ma’s not here.” I knew Francis felt desperate. He was cut from the same cloth as Pa, a fireman, all brawn, no emotion.

  “Hey, Francis,” I said, my voice weak and husky with tears. “I’m all right.” I meant for it to sound definitive, like I was truly sure, but instead I only started crying all over again. “It’s just one of those days, I guess. You know, you want things to go one way and they end up all jammed into a big mess.”

  Francis didn’t know what to do, but he gave it his best shot. “Honey, did someone hurt you? Are you in trouble again?” Again. Francis assumed I lived in a perpetual state of trouble. He hated the fact that I danced. I had tried to explain it to him, but he always felt embarrassed. His sister was a stripper. He couldn’t see that I was a performer working a trade and doing a damn fine job of it.

  “No, Francis, I’m not in trouble. I’m just going through some stuff with a guy, that’s all.”

  “He’d better not be hitting you!”

  “Francis, give me some credit! Do you really think I’d date a lowlife beater?”

  Francis didn’t answer for a minute, because either he didn’t know or he didn’t know what to say.

  “Francis,” I said, “just tell Ma I called. And thanks for the vote of confidence.” I hung up. I know it wasn’t right, but I felt too messed up just then to do anything but escape. I’d call him back and apologize, later.

  “Sierra, you’re on next!” Rusty was standing at the end of the hall, calling me. There was no more time for thinking about home or love or anything other than dancing. After all, what better way to forget about my troubles? Dance, and if that didn’t do it, dance harder. Work the crowd, take control, and make money.

  I ran into the dressing room, grabbed my jungle Jane costume, and threw it on. Then I looked in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and swollen and my face was all red, streaked with tears and smeared makeup.

  “Thank God for pancake and concealer,” I muttered. I coated my face, pinned up my hair, and ran back out just as the deejay cued up my music.

  Rusty grabbed my kimono and looked up at me. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You know, if you’re hurting, Vincent will understand if you don’t go on. You shouldn’t push yourself like this.” He blushed beet red and looked embarrassed, like maybe he’d overstepped the bounds of our working relationship.

  “I’m all right,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Sierra, I’m telling Vincent to let you go home early.”

  I shook my head and walked past him, up the steps and onto the stage. Rusty wasn’t going to tell Vincent Gambuzzo anything. I was the only one in the club who got away with that, and that was only on account of him thinking that I was connected to the “Big Moose” Lavotini arm of the Syndicate.

  I cleared my head of anything but the music, letting the beat lure me out onto center stage. I surveyed my audience, picking out the big wallets and the first-timers. I smiled slowly, like I needed coaxing, and began the routine.

  Alonzo Barboni was still in his booth, but he was angry. Barry Sanduski sat across from him, listening, now and then offering a word or two with his palms raised up as if saying “What could I do?” or “This is all I can offer.” Alonzo was speaking in a low voice, leaning forward, his dark eyes boring into Sanduski. A vein pulsed out on the side of his head. His face was reddening, yet his features appeared calm and impassive. I tried to watch, but I had to dance at the same time, so I missed it when Sanduski left. Alonzo was suddenly alone, leaning back, not even noticing that I was onstage. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone. It was a brief conversation, and when it ended Alonzo Barboni stood up and walked out of the club.

  I had stripped down to my tiger’s head G-string and was following Barboni’s progress by strolling down the runway. I tried to see him walk to his car, but the door swung shut too quickly and Gordon blocked what little I could see of the parking lot.

  By the time I walked offstage, Rusty had actually made good on his promise. Vincent Gambuzzo stood waiting for me, a dark look on his face.

  “I try to do what is in your best interest, Sierra,” he said. “Frosty Licks is here to help, not to take away. Look at you.” Gambuzzo was geared up for a lecture. “You’re obviously hurting. You got concealer on your ass, but even I can see them two little stitches, and you’re bruised. You can’t keep it up like this. You’ll knock yourself out of commission. Go home. Rest. Come back next week.”

  I glared at him. “I take off a week and Frosty Licks will have her name up on the marquee. She’s no good, Vincent. I don’t trust her and I don’t want to leave her alone in my club.”

  Vincent shooed Rusty off and stepped closer to me. “I am trying to run a business here, Sie
rra, and you got a job to do. I will handle Frosty. You got bigger fish to fry.” He looked over his shoulder. “You making any progress?” I shook my head.

  “Then a week off will help the both of us. I’m not askin’, Sierra, I’m telling. Nailor didn’t come in just to say howdy-do to you. He stopped by to see Marla before he came out here and caught you with Mr. Slick. He jacked Marla up and told her he’s closing in on her.”

  “Police technique,” I scoffed. “He ain’t got squat. He just wants to make her nervous.”

  “Yeah,” Gambuzzo said, “well it worked. Between him jacking her up and Little Ricky acting like the fool he is, she’s over the edge. She left, said she couldn’t work. So where’s that leave me? I got one basket case and one gimp. I need Frosty Licks and I need you to get Marla off the hot seat. I don’t just gotta maintain income here, Sierra, I gotta come up with some extra jack for the government or they’re shutting me down. I have only a week to cough up a large chunk of change. This ain’t helping, Sierra.”

  I couldn’t tell him not to worry. I didn’t have any idea of where to go next. I needed a plan.

  “It don’t help, you pissing Nailor off,” Vincent continued. “I told you that at the very beginning. I told you not to mess with a cop. Now look. You need to be on his good side. We need him to look favorably upon us, but no, you gotta go play lovey-face with a customer.”

  Vincent paused to take a deep breath. He was getting his second wind and I didn’t want to hear it. I spun around and walked off, my ass burning like fire, hurting.

  “Hey, where are you going?” he called after me.

  “Home,” I said, not bothering to turn around. “I’ve got something important to do. This could be crucial.”

  Vincent took it how he wanted to hear it. He figured I was taking his words to heart. Be that as it may, I was figuring to go home and crawl into bed. This was one day I wanted to see end.

  I changed into my street clothes, all the while watching Frosty Licks giving me the evil eye. I was thinking about going down to the end of the counter and helping her to understand my position better, but I just didn’t have the energy. The quicker I cleared up Marla’s mess, the sooner I’d be showing Miss Licks the door.

  Tonya the Barbarian walked up and caught me staring. “Sierra, you say the word and she’s yesterday’s lunchmeat.”

  Tonya meant it, I knew, so I turned around and hugged her. “Not yet,” I said. “If her karma don’t catch up with her in the next couple of days, I may call on you, but not yet.” Tonya did only one routine involving her club and the pole at the end of the runway. She wasn’t going to help Vincent maintain the club’s status. Unfortunately, right now we needed Ms. Licks, but it was only a temporary situation.

  I took off, using the drive home to cool down. Bruno and Gordon had both insisted on walking me to my car. Bruno knew I felt lousy and said as much, telling me I shouldn’t be working in my condition, telling me I shouldn’t worry about a visiting porn star. Gordon echoed him.

  “I can’t stand to see you hurting, Sierra,” he said. “Not you. Go home and rest.”

  Bruno chimed in. “Yeah, put everything out of your mind. Let us handle the club, baby.” Then he hugged me, slipping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me in close. “You’re one of us, Sierra. You’re family.”

  “Yeah,” Gordon said. “You look like you could be my sister. I wouldn’t let her work if she was hurting. Don’t worry about some loser porn star. Let us handle that.”

  Right, I thought, if only it was that easy. I drove the whole way home, worrying. Fluffy ran out of Raydean’s newly installed doggie door when she heard the Camaro hit the parking pad. She pranced and yipped and turned circles, overjoyed to have me home.

  I looked down at her and had to smile. “So am I to understand from this that you’re cranked on sugar and that the Braves won? Or should I figure you’re just glad to see me?” Fluffy bounded up the steps and waited for me. She was glad to have me home.

  We crashed in record time. I don’t think it was five minutes before we were both asleep and snoring. It couldn’t have been more than a half an hour later that company arrived.

  Seventeen

  No one ever knocks on my door and then waits politely for me to come and answer it. No, they bang, they pound, and they generally yell out my name, as if I didn’t know who they were looking for, or as if it would make me move any faster. At five A.M., Detective John Nailor was in no mood to make an exception to the rule.

  “Sierra!” he yelled, pounding away. “Open up!” I waited for him to add “Police!” but he didn’t.

  Fluff flew off the bed, heading for her buddy. I was slower. I’d been lying down just long enough for all my muscles to stiffen up. Dancing had been a huge mistake.

  I pulled on my robe and shuffled slowly down the hallway. Nailor never let up. The pounding got louder the closer I came to the door. It eclipsed my attempts to call out to him. This just seemed to make him all the more anxious. Finally I pulled the chain off the door, unfastened the dead bolt, and stood face-to-face with one distraught cop.

  “Why didn’t you answer me?” he demanded.

  “Why didn’t you listen, instead of pounding away like a jackhammer?”

  Raydean’s lights came on and I knew we were under surveillance. Nailor ran his hand through his hair and just stared at me.

  “When did you get home?” he asked.

  “You mean you haven’t already felt the hood of my car and made a scientific determination?” Nailor wasn’t in the mood for my sarcasm. “All right. I guess I got in around three. Vincent made me come home early.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Then why did you ask? And how do you know? You mean you came back looking for me?” This was a positive sign. He’d decided to let me explain.

  Nailor ignored my questions. “You’re saying you left at three and came straight home?”

  I looked at him like he was some kind of freak. What was the matter with him? Did he think I’d run off with Barboni?

  “Would you like to come in, or do you want to stand on my stoop, disturbing my neighbors and making me look like a criminal?”

  Nailor brushed past me. He was still dressed in the suit he’d worn to the club, but his shirt was rumpled and the tie was loosened. He smelled of something I couldn’t quite identify, maybe deodorizer and cigarette smoke, chemicals and old copper pennies. It was a strange smell, but not unfamiliar.

  I shut my eyes, the memory almost on the tip of my tongue. Nailor interrupted.

  “So you came straight home? No stops? You didn’t stop at the store or buy gas or anything? No one saw you?”

  “What’s this all about, because if it’s about that guy you saw me with, I can explain.”

  He shook his head again impatiently. “Just answer the question.”

  “No. How about you tell me why you’re asking, instead.”

  I took a step away from him and pulled my robe closer. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the pale light of dawn creeping through my bay window and a tiny light over the stovetop.

  “Sierra, Frosty Licks is dead. Someone shot her and dumped her body in her hotel pool.”

  That was the smell on his clothing. It was the smell of a murder scene. I’d been around it before, a couple of times. But it was no wonder I couldn’t quite remember. My brain hadn’t wanted to remember. Dead bodies, blinding camera flashes, the stink of decomposition mixed with fear and blood, the odor of the chemicals the forensics team uses to process the scene. My brain never wanted to remember that smell. Now it clung to Nailor, haunting me.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, still not really wanting to hear what he was saying.

  “Sierra, she’s dead. What’s to understand?” He was cold, removed, still angry with me or worse, hurt.

  “Who? What? When? The basics, John, I need the basics. Why are you treating me this way? Why’re you checking up on me, as if I were a suspect?”

  Nailor wa
tched me. His face was closed, tight with some unnamed emotion. I was frightened by his withdrawal.

  “Sierra, you fought with Frosty earlier in the evening. You were there when Marla caught her with Ricky. I’ve gotta wonder if you’re holding out on me. I come into the club, I see some punk touching you like he owns you. I’ve gotta wonder what’s going on here.”

  I stood there, forcing my body to relax, making myself look him in the eye. I wanted to spill my gut, and yet he was standing in front of me, virtually saying he didn’t trust me. So I waited.

  Nailor hung himself. “What do you have on Marla that you’re not sharing?” he asked. “And who was that guy? If you’re screwing around, Sierra, I need to know.”

  I nodded slowly, like I was really listening. If he had more poison inside his system about me, well, let it go. It was better to find out now than to give my heart away and get burned. But Nailor was done. He folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the wall, and prepared to listen to my statement. And what a statement it was going to be.

  When I get mad, really mad, I start off slow and quiet. I was beyond mad. I hurt so bad I felt like my guts were squeezed up inside my head. I couldn’t see or feel anything but pain. You start to trust a guy and where does it get you? Right back where you should’ve been all along: alone.

  “All right,” I said, “so you have concerns about me. Fair enough. The guy, Alonzo Barboni, says he’s an insurance salesman, looking to show me a good time. I think he’s mob-connected and wanted protection money out of the circuit girls. So I was working him, not screwing him.”

  Nailor nodded, pleased that the subject was coming through. He had no idea how I felt.

  “And Marla? Marla don’t have the brains to kill off all her competition, but I believe I’ve told you that in the past. She didn’t kill Frosty or Venus. I know her gun is missing. I know she made threats, but it’s a setup. Going with what seems most logical to me, I figure Barboni’s your man to watch.”