When I reached the front stoop, I stopped and banged on the front door, the sound echoing off inside the tiny house.
“Gordon!” I yelled. “It’s me, Sierra. Open up! I need your help!”
For a minute there was no sound whatsoever. I surveyed the houses that lined either side, pinched together like irritable siblings, and saw few with cars in the driveways. It wasn’t a tourist neighborhood. The people who lived here worked, probably blue-collar or service jobs.
I heard something rustle off to the side of the house. I looked back down the street toward Ponce, where my teammates waited out of sight, and then took off around the side of the building.
“Sierra.” A husky whisper seemed to emanate from the battered Escort. “Over here.”
My heart rose up in my throat and I stepped closer to the car. Weeds scratched at my legs as I slowly stepped closer to the rusting vehicle. Gordon was crouched down on the far side of the car.
“Gordon, what’re you doing there?” I said, my voice a shade louder than normal.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “Come with me. Everything’s going to be all right.”
I reached his side and crouched down beside him, hoping to soothe him by going along with him.
“What are we hiding from?” I whispered.
Gordon’s hair stood up in wiry tufts. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, ripped and bloodstained, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he peered out from behind the car, darting his head back below the car’s fender.
“All right,” he whispered. “Follow me. Keep your head down and run low.”
I assumed he was taking me inside, but instead ran in a straight line toward the house next door. I hesitated, then followed him. I had to follow him. He was our only link to Marla. Unfortunately, my backup would now be useless.
Gordon ran up onto the screened-in side porch of the tiny bungalow and quickly opened the door into the house. I let the porch door slam behind me, but its echo sounded like a small, hollow slap. No one a block away would’ve heard that sound.
Gordon locked the door behind us and turned to face me. His demeanor had changed with the closing of the door, from wild man to genial host.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” But my voice cracked, breaking into a high-pitched squeak.
Gordon stared at me. “You were knocking on the door and saying you needed my help. Something must be wrong.”
I looked around the tiny cottage, staring past him into the living room. It was furnished with a shabby-looking plaid couch and a matching recliner. The coffee table was a thick, rustic wooden piece. Sitting on top of the table was a small vase full of yellow roses.
“Well, yes, actually something is very wrong. Marla’s missing and no one seems to know where she is. I guess I just didn’t know who else I could turn to.”
Gordon seemed to relax even further. “Oh,” he said, “is that all?” He moved toward the tiny galley kitchen that stood beside the living area. “Let me get you something to drink,” he said. “You want some tea?”
Tea? Now? I bit my tongue. “Sure.”
I wandered closer to the flowers, my shoes sounding like echoing slaps as I walked across the scuffed wooden floor. Gordon reappeared with the tea and set the glasses down on the coffee table, right next to the flowers.
“You like roses, I hope,” he whispered. “They’re the only flower as regal in their bearing as you.”
He sat down on the sofa, pulling me beside him. I looked into his eyes and saw the madness stare back out at me. I don’t know what he saw when he looked at me, or how long it would take before he realized I knew.
Gordon stuck out a hand and brushed a curl back behind my ear. “You are so lovely,” he said softly. “No one can hold a candle to you.”
I tried to think of something to say. I willed my mouth to open, but nothing came out. I felt frozen. No one can hold a candle to you.
“Didn’t you get the messages I sent you, the ones with the flowers? I told you not to worry. I told you I’d take care of you. I want to take you away, Sierra,” Gordon said.
“I can’t,” I said. It sounded desperate, but I covered it. “I have a job, Gordon.” I smiled like I meant no offense, but he just stared, regarding me solemnly.
“They don’t appreciate you. They keep trying to replace you. I can’t keep them away forever. They’ll keep coming and coming, trying to knock you down off the throne. And the men, Sierra, their hands are dirty. They all want to get you, Sierra. I only want to protect you.” He looked sad, staring at his shoes for a moment. “I couldn’t help Lori, so I have to help you.”
“Who’s Lori?”
Gordon’s attention shifted back to me. “My sister.”
I made myself stretch out a hand and touch his knee. “The sister with the flowers?” I asked.
Gordon nodded. “She worked with them, up in Atlanta. She wanted to be an actress. My parents and me, we thought she was making it. Lori told us she was dancing and acting and selling her flowers.”
Gordon looked over at me, anguish etching its way across his features. “You look so much like her, Sierra. That’s why I started working at the Tiffany. I came here to get away, just like we used to when I was a kid. And then I’m driving down the main strip, and I looked up and saw your picture up there on that billboard by Sharkey’s. That’s when I knew what God wanted. Don’t you see? It’s my second chance.”
I felt sick. Gordon was talking, all the while patting my knee like an uncle.
“I got here just in time, didn’t I? Gambuzzo invited those evil Syndicate people right into your club, Sierra. It would have been only a matter of time before they put you in the movies. They control everything in Georgia and North Florida. You would’ve had to work for them.”
“Gordon, I wasn’t in any danger. No one was going to hurt me.”
“They said they’d protect Lori, but they didn’t, did they?” Gordon smiled softly. “Those girls would’ve seen your beauty. The other dancers didn’t like Lori because she was beautiful. Barboni didn’t protect her. Nobody did. They got her high, they made her work for drugs, and then they let some pervert kill her.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “But now I have you. I’m your guardian angel, Sierra.”
I couldn’t help it. “If you’re my guardian angel, then why did you try and hurt Fluffy? For that matter, why’d you blow up Detective Nailor’s car?”
Gordon’s eyes clouded. He looked as if I’d physically hit him. “I wouldn’t have hurt your dog. I just wanted to scare you a little. Make you more careful … keep you from getting hurt.” He scowled. “And that cop ain’t your friend. All he wants is to own you. Besides, if he’s such a good cop, then why can’t he catch me?” Gordon’s features relaxed into a smile of satisfaction.
I stood up. “Where’s your bathroom, Gordon?” I was going out the window. Maybe. First I was going to see if Marla was in the house.
It took him a moment to process my request, then he stood and took me by the hand. “Use this one,” he said, and led me to a tiny bathroom in the hallway. There was no window. No way out. Gordon stood there as I started to close the door, obviously intent on guarding me.
“Gordon,” I said, “I’m starving do you have anything to eat?”
He smiled. I wasn’t going anywhere. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
I closed the door and leaned back against it. He loved me, enough to kill for me, enough to protect me from any perceived threat. I knew without a doubt, he’d never let me leave, not willingly. I crossed to the toilet and flushed it, then pulled open the medicine cabinet. It was crammed with tiny bottles, all of them partially full of pills and capsules. Zyprexa, Prozac, Trazodone, Wellbutrin, Remeron, Clozaril. The same medications I’d seen on Raydean’s countertops before the docs realized she wasn’t taking them. I read the dates on the bottles and realized that Gordon hadn’t taken his medication in quite some time.
“Sierra?” Gordon’s voice echoed down the hallway.
“Coming,” I answered. “I’m washing my hands. Hey, do you have any pickles to go with that sandwich?”
“I’ll go look,” he called. He sounded so normal.
I slid my hand into my bra, removed my Spiderco knife, and slipped it into the palm of my hand. Then I carefully opened the door and slipped across the hallway to Gordon’s bedroom. It was a shamble of disorganization. Clothes lay in wrinkled heaps on the floor, sprawled across chairs, piled up with the quilts on his filthy bed. The room smelled faintly of blood and decay.
I tiptoed across the room to the closet and began to turn the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. It was locked. I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to find her and get her out of the house before the cops came screaming down the street and all hell broke loose.
“Marla,” I whispered, “are you in there?”
I paused, listening with my ear against the door. I couldn’t tell. I thought I heard a slight scrabbling sound.
“Honey, it’s Sierra,” I whispered again. “I’m going to get you out of here. Just hang on.”
I turned around and found Gordon standing in the doorway, a plate with a sandwich in one hand and a gun in the other.
“Oh, Sierra,” he whispered, “I wish you hadn’t done that.” The plate slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, shattering into pieces. “You know I can’t let you leave. You’re all mine now. We’ll never go back.”
“Gordon, no.” My throat went dry and my heart was beating so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
He walked toward me, a heavy, slow step that seemed to drag him forward, almost against his will. He reached me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me to the bed.
“We’ll always have each other,” he said softly, and raised the gun to my head.
“Gordon, wait!” I said, trying to keep my voice down, trying to hide the panic. “We’re not finished.”
Gordon was listening.
“There are things we can do here on Earth that we can’t do in eternity.”
I shifted my body toward him, turning my head so I could look at him, ignoring the barrel of the gun.
“Gordon, you can’t shoot me. You wouldn’t shoot Lori.” I was grasping for something, anything, to help me stay alive long enough to get help. “Talk to me, Gordon,” I whispered.
His eyes flickered and I began to unbutton my blouse with one hand.
“Help me, Gordon.” I moved closer, offering myself to him. The knife hidden in my other hand comforted me, offering me the only hope I had.
Gordon’s hands shook. The gun trembled but barely moved. He slowly raised his free hand and stretched out his fingers to touch my breast.
“I want you, Gordon,” I said softly, and began to move toward him. “Put down the gun, baby.”
“Not yet.”
I pulled off my shirt and unfastened my bra. While he sat there watching, I stood up before him, moving in between his knees. “Touch me, Gordon. Put your face right here.”
As I pulled his face toward my breasts, I slipped the Spiderco open, its razor-sharp blade cold against my palm. As I began to push him backward onto the bed, straddle his thighs, and climb on top of him, I heard the dim wail of sirens turning onto his street.
Gordon snapped back up, shoving me to one side as he listened.
“See?” he said. “Just like Lori. You didn’t listen to me. You called them.”
He didn’t wait for me to answer. He pushed me off of him onto the bed and sprang on top of me, his face suffused with rage. With a trembling hand he raised the gun, pinning me down with one hand as he pointed it first at his head, and then at mine.
I moved, reflexively, swinging my arm up and into the pressure point inside his arm. He fell heavily on top of me and the gun exploded with a deafening roar as we began to fight.
I couldn’t move him, and I couldn’t let him kill me. I lashed out, kicking and screaming, hoping someone would hear me but knowing they wouldn’t.
Gordon brought his hands up, free of the gun, and began to choke me. He rose up, bringing the full force of his upper body into his effort to kill me. I hurt. I couldn’t breathe and I was terrified.
Get your money’s worth. I heard Nailor’s voice ringing inside my head.
With one last burst of energy, I forced my hands up, inside his arms and lashed out, but this time I used the knife, slashing deep into his arm as I pushed him over. I screamed and ran, ignoring the howl of rage and pain that followed me.
I got as far as the door, fumbling with the lock, before he reached me.
“No!” he screamed. He slammed into me, pushing me into the hard wooden door. I bucked backward, lashing out with the knife at any portion of his body I could reach. He shrieked and jumped backward, and I ran, picking up the vase of roses and hurling them out through the living room window.
Gordon ran back into the bedroom and returned an instant later. He’d found the gun, but I’d found the window and was jumping out as he ran after me, trying to aim, trying to make his bleeding arm cooperate.
I fell out the window, not at all gracefully, and began to run. Behind me a gun exploded. In front of me another gun exploded, but I couldn’t see. I was running for my life, sprinting the short distance toward the other house and the swirling lights of the patrol cars.
“How about that, eh?” someone said.
Someone grabbed me, pulling me to the ground behind a squad car. “Jesus, Sierra,” Nailor said, his body shielding mine.
There was total silence for a brief second, and then Packy Cozzone’s voice rang out. “Hey, you Ninjas,” he called. “I shot the little fucker, you can quit pointing them rifles like you are actually serving a purpose. He’s dead. I saved your miserable little butts.”
Nailor, sensing an impending second death, raised his head. “All right,” he said, “hold your fire.” He looked back at me. “We found the kid that Gordon paid to deliver the flowers, caught him in a drug raid. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon to tell you. We would’ve had Gordon in a matter of hours. Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked.
I shook my head. “He was by himself, but his bedroom closet door’s locked. I thought I heard something in there, but—”
He didn’t let me answer. “Search the house,” he said. “There may be a hostage in the bedroom closet.”
Panama City’s finest, with weapons drawn and fierce, fierce looks on their young faces, strode past us into the tiny bungalow. Nailor followed and so, unbeknownst to Nailor, did Vincent Gambuzzo and I. For a brief moment everyone was silent. That’s when we heard the thumping in the bedroom closet. That’s when Vincent lost his head and pushed right past a young kid with the Colt M-16 fully automatic rifle, and pulled open the door with a force that ripped the fragile lock right out of its frame, oblivious to the police commands to “stand back!”
Vincent knelt down and pulled a bruised and bleeding Marla out into his arms. She smiled up at him softly and then began to cry. Vincent Gambuzzo took her up onto his lap and sat on the floor cradling her, his big puppy-dog eyes filling up with tears, even while he tried to smile his reassurances. Marla looked at him as if she’d never really seen him before, and stretched out her hand to wipe away the lone tear that escaped down his cheek.
“It’s going to be all right, baby,” she said. “The Bomber’s back in business.”
Thirty-two
The thing I like about the South is this: It’s not really any different from Philly, except it’s cleaner. Back when I was a kid, we lived in a brick-and-siding row house. The front yard was concrete and the backyard was a postage stamp of green grass, flowers, and a huge old walnut tree.
In the summertime, the old people, my parents and their parents, would drag out green metal chairs and position them under the tree. On Saturday nights Ma would set up a card table with a worn white tablecloth on it, and the next thing you knew, it was a party. She’d stick candles in o
ld Chianti bottles and the party would break up as the last nubs burned down and out. I remember lying up in bed, hearing the grown-ups talking and laughing outside under the walnut tree, and feeling safe and loved. I just knew the whole world was a happy place.
My trailer has a tree out back, a scrawny old pin oak, with branches that reach out into the little square of burnt grass they call the common area. I put my own chairs out there. In the summer, me, Raydean, and Pat will sit out for hours on an off night, listening to the whine of bug zappers, and sniffing the scent of citronella oil that wafts out of the tiki torches I stuck into the hardened ground.
The Saturday after Gordon died, three days after it all came to a head, my friends began to gather in the backyard. It was a way to bring closure to the horrible events that had taken place, a way for us to begin healing. The table was bigger than Pa’s, but his Chianti bottle had its customary place of honor in the center. Everybody cooked, even Francis, who tried and failed to re-create Ma’s cannoli. Pat brought a seven-layer salad and fish for the grill. Raydean pulled a few of her famous consolation casseroles out of the freezer and heated them up just before we served.
Marla and Vincent came. Marla was still limping, walking like she hurt and nursing her broken arm. Vincent practically carried her out back and put her in a soft chair that he’d bought especially for her for the evening. He went back to his car and returned with big containers of pasta salad and his famous lasagna.
Packy Cozzone even showed up, accompanied by Guido and Hamm, his sidekicks. Packy, good New York family boy that he was, didn’t want to come empty-handed. He had hoagies flown in from New York, thick with Capocola ham and Provolone cheese, bursting with fresh tomatoes and shredded lettuce. Guido and Hamm tugged a keg of beer out under the tree and packed it in ice. Clearly they expected to stay for a while.
Ernie Schwartz arrived a little after eight, walking up the driveway in a Hawaiian shirt with his ukulele tucked under his arm. His wife trotted along quietly by his side, sniffing disapproval, and carrying a box of Godiva chocolates.
“So pleased to meet you at last,” she said, sticking the candy in my hands so we wouldn’t have any physical contact. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Film Strip Page 22