* * *
The police had to make their way through spring break traffic. I heard the siren long before I actually saw them weaving in and out of cars, passing pickup after pickup of half-clad, drunken college kids. Denise was sitting inside the office, sipping tea that her friend the manager had pressed upon us both. I was standing outside by the entrance, trying to suck enough air into my lungs to replace the smell of death. It didn’t seem to be working.
Panama City sent three cars. The area was quickly sealed off, and before I knew it, Denise and I were leading the officers back to her room. This time I couldn’t go inside. They let us go as far as the edge of the sidewalk. It must’ve made quite a picture. There I am, still in my stage makeup, my blond hair all piled up on top of my head, dressed in stiletto heels, towering over this young recruit with a buzz cut. Denise’s there, looking tiny and frail, and stinking like vomit. The whole place is rapidly being cordoned off with crime scene tape, which, as it always does on TV, draws a crowd. And to top it off, there’s a dead body on Denise’s floor.
Denise was standing next to me, peering into her place and shaking, when the detective arrived. I knew it was him because of the way the uniforms started cutting out of his way, and how they right away let him past the tape and got busy. Up until he arrived they’d all just stood around, not doing much of anything.
The detective walked right up to the body.
“You guys get a shot of this yet?” he called to the crime scene team.
“Got it, Skipper,” someone yelled out.
The detective stared at the guy’s back for a moment, like he was thinking or something, then he leaned down and turned the guy over. Denise gasped again, her eyes widened.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
“Oh God, what?” I asked. She looked terrified and even more pale. “You know him?”
Denise trembled violently. “No,” she said. “I never saw the guy before.”
The young recruit who’d written down our particulars was standing next to Denise, watching. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I was thinking, She knows that guy. The victim may have been a mess, his face bloody and discolored, but I could’ve sworn she knew him.
The detective called to the police officer who’d taken our statements and he trotted right up. I was trying to read their lips, but Denise had another agenda.
“Sierra,” she hissed, yanking on my sleeve.
“Hush,” I hissed back, “I’m trying to get what they’re saying.”
“Sierra!” Her voice was insistent.
“What?” I said, impatient to get back to eavesdropping. Denise looked around to make sure no one was listening.
“Don’t say anything about Arlo,” she said softly.
I turned all the way around, forgetting about the cops.
“Look, Denise, do you think this could have something to do with Arlo?”
Denise wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” I said. “Listen, Denise, your dog disappears, then your place gets torn up and some guy’s dead on your floor, and you don’t know?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the police officer gesture toward us. “I think you oughta level with them, Denise.”
Denise glared at me, the color rushing back into her face. “Look, Sierra, they got Arlo, all right? I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything else. They’ve got my dog and I’m not doing nothing to jeopardize getting him back.”
The cop and the detective were starting toward us. I didn’t have time to mention to Denise that there was the small matter of her being a barmaid and not having the ransom money.
Denise’s eyes were filled with tears. “I mean it, Sierra,” she whispered. “Keep your mouth shut about Arlo.”
What else could I do?
* * *
Detective John Nailor wasn’t my type. I knew it from the moment the officer with the clipboard introduced us. I don’t mean he was unattractive—far from it. I’m only saying he was a little too clean-cut for my tastes, that’s all. His hair was black and clipped short. He had deep brown eyes, the kind that don’t miss details. He walked up and shook hands like he was at a business meeting, firm and efficient. He was wearing a navy blue suit that I could tell must have set him back plenty. His shirt was crisp and white, and to his credit, I didn’t see one of those plastic pocket liners some men have to keep their pens from leaking. He smelled good, too.
Denise wouldn’t look him in the eye. She stared down at the ground and was still shaking like a blender. Detective Nailor put his hand on Denise’s shoulder like a big brother and started talking.
“Ms. Curtis, I know this has been hard on you, but I need to ask you some questions. I’d like you to come to the station and give a statement.”
Denise shook her head. “Why?” she asked.
Nailor shrugged. “We find it easier to do it that way. I can type up your statement, get you to sign it, and we’ll be through.”
That’s what he said, but his eyes were serious, and he watched Denise like maybe she was holding back. Maybe I was paranoid; after all, I’m not used to keeping secrets from cops. I didn’t think he’d be such a bad guy to talk to, but it was Denise’s secret to spill, not mine.
“Let’s go, Denise,” I said. “We’ll give our statements and get it over with.”
Nailor looked up at me and smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Lavotini,” he said firmly. “I only need to talk with Ms. Curtis. She’s the resident. As I understand it, you were just visiting?”
He was smooth, this guy. The way he asked the question and then stared into my eyes made me feel guilty, and I hadn’t even done anything. My dad used to look at me like that when he thought I was skipping school or giving the nuns a hard time. Most of the time my dad didn’t even have anything on me; he’d only ask like that to see what I’d cop to, but that was then.
“That’s right, Detective,” I answered, “I was only visiting.”
Denise stood up a little straighter and tossed her long red hair back over her shoulder.
“I’ll be fine, Sierra,” she said, her voice suddenly strong. “I’ll call you later.”
“Whatever,” I answered.
I knew what they were doing. They were separating us, in case I said something she didn’t or vice versa. I read books. I watch TV. I am not a dummy. The detective escorted me to my ’87 Trans Am. He stood next to me while I fumbled with my keys.
“Listen,” I said, “you go easy on my friend. She’s a good kid and this is a big shock to her.”
Nailor smiled, but his eyes reached into mine, questioning. “Ms. Lavotini, if your friend’s telling it like it really is, she’s got nothing to worry about. From us, that is.”
“What do you mean by that exactly?”
Detective Nailor stared at me for a moment. Behind him the neon lights of the Blue Marlin flickered and went out. It was dawn on the Redneck Riviera and the sun was starting to rise.
“This wasn’t some random robbery. That man was killed somewhere else and brought to Ms. Curtis’s apartment. I’d say someone’s sending your friend a message.”
I wanted to ask him more, but I stopped because I realized he didn’t know any more. Detective Nailor was as new to the scene as I was, only I knew about Arlo and Nailor didn’t. I shrugged my shoulders and slid into the driver’s seat.
Nailor pushed the door closed, then leaned his hands on the open window and peered inside.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
“I’m sure you will,” I answered.
I took off in a cloud of exhaust, revving my engine and laying tracks out of the Blue Marlin. It was six A.M. on a spring beach morning, my friend had lost a dog and gained a dead man, and suddenly I was very, very tired.
Four
I was dreaming. Me and Fluffy, my Chihuahua, were riding in the front car of the roller coaster at Disney World. Fluffy was holding her tiny front paws up in the air and yelping with excitement. Her
lips were pulled back in what can only be described as a grin of pure joy. Then we shot into a tunnel, and the sound of the roller-coaster wheels on the tracks was intensified a million times. We covered our eyes, but the noise continued. It was so loud, it woke me up.
The sound of thunder in a tunnel continued, and now Fluffy, who had been sleeping on the pillow beside me, woke up and started barking furiously.
“What in the hell?” I grabbed my purple chenille robe and hopped off the bed. The trailer park was not known for tranquillity, but this was ridiculous. I ran over to the window, pushed up a few miniblind slats, and peered out into the bright sunlight. My trailer was currently surrounded by at least a hundred bikers—okay, maybe ten bikers, but they didn’t have baffles on their tailpipes, so it sounded like a hundred. Only a few of them wore helmets, those spiky ones that look like World War I German helmets. The rest had bandannas tied around their heads. All of them had long hair and beards.
“These friends of yours?” I asked Fluffy.
Fluffy smiled and I took that for a “maybe.” As the bikers didn’t show any signs of leaving, I decided it might be best for me to meet them head-on. I stepped into my high-heeled slippers, the ones with the pink feather stuff across the top, and went to the door.
It was boiling outside, one of those late April afternoons in Florida when the temperature spikes up and the heat shimmers off the roofs of the metal trailers. The Lively Oaks Trailer Park is arranged in such a way as to make all the trailers line up like cemetery crosses. There are no oak trees, as the name implies, only sandy patches of ground interspersed with weedy grass. Everybody could see everyone else’s trailer, and I was sure they were all watching mine right now.
I stepped out onto the stoop, feeling like the Statue of Liberty; all I needed was a cup of coffee to hold up like a torch. I waited to see what was going to jump off next. The bikers were staring at me, making gestures to one another and snickering. The guy closest to my steps seemed to be the one in charge of this little mission. Unlike the others, he had hair that was fairly short, and a dull brown, but he had a mustache, a Fu Manchu, that dripped off the sides of his jaw. He was big, a beefy kind of man, but I didn’t think much of that was fat. His bike glimmered in the mid-afternoon sun, and black leather fringe hung off the handlebars, like a kid’s trike.
All the bikers wore leather vests with some kind of emblem on the back, so I figured they belonged to one of the local clubs, the Warlocks or the Pagans or something. That worried me a little bit, but I tried not to show it. At a signal from the front man, the bikers began turning off their engines, one at a time, until at last there was relative silence.
“Are you Sierra?” the big guy asked. He was wearing leather gloves with the fingers cut off, leather chaps, and scuffed biker boots. I was figuring that after a few more minutes in the sun, he was going to smell pretty ripe.
“Who wants to know?” I answered.
“Denise sent me,” the big guy said. Then I recognized him. He’d been into the Tiffany a couple of times to pick up Denise after work. She’d told me she was seeing someone new.
“And you are?” I asked, still not moving.
“Frankie.” The big guy smiled, and I noticed a dragon tattoo on his arm. FRANKIE, it said in big letters underneath it. He saw me staring and laughed.
“So I don’t get wasted some night and forget,” he said.
“I’m assuming you was wasted when you did that.”
The others snickered again, and Frankie silenced them with a look.
“Denise wanted me to come by and tell you she’s okay. The cops kept her talking for most of the morning, but she cut out of there around lunchtime. I told her to get some sleep and I’d come check up on you.”
Pretty friendly for a biker, I was thinking.
“Where is she?” I asked. Inside I could hear Fluffy hurling herself at the door in an attempt to get out. I stepped back and turned the knob. Fluffy tore outside, barking and growling. She raced down off the stoop and lit right into the guy next to Frankie. Her teeth sank into his boot, and before I could move, the guy kicked Fluffy into the air. She landed with a thud on the concrete parking pad.
“You fucking douche bag!” I screamed. Fluffy stood up slowly, shaking her five-pound body. I was off the steps and over to her side. Frankie was off of his bike and in between me and his friend.
“Bitch,” the other guy said, “I’m gonna skin that dog and tack its head to your door if it tries that again.”
He was starting to move, but Frankie stood right in front of him. “It’s a fucking mouse dog, you goddamn idiot,” he said calmly. “It’s teeth won’t even cut through your pants.”
The others laughed.
“Hey, Rambo,” one yelled, “you afraid of a mouse?” The others thought this was hilarious. Rambo, however, didn’t think anything was funny. His face reddened and his eyes took on a wild glare, like maybe he was inches from losing control.
My heart was pounding and I couldn’t move. I wanted to get up in his face. I wanted to hurt him, but I was also weighing the odds of surviving. Whatever was going to happen wasn’t going to come from me—not then, at least.
“Back off, man,” Rambo said to Frankie. Frankie didn’t move.
“We don’t have time to waste on some pissant dog,” said Frankie. “We’ve gotta get back to the clubhouse. We got something to take care of.”
The others were starting up their bikes and turning around. Frankie stepped back, still watching Rambo. Rambo started his bike, pulled a wheelie, and was gone, roaring down the trailer park street and out onto the road. Frankie turned to me.
“Is your dog all right?” he asked.
I was hopped up on adrenaline, my heart was pounding, and my ears were ringing. I wanted to hurt somebody, anybody, and Frankie was the closest. I stood up and launched myself at him, all in one movement. I slammed into the side of his nose with the heel of my hand, almost catching him unaware.
Just as quickly, he grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back. We stood there like that, him maintaining pressure on my arm until I was almost bent double, and me trying to move.
“I’ll let you go when you calm down,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. Beside us, drops of blood began dotting the grass. His nose was bleeding and inside I felt good.
Behind us, across the narrow trailer park street, I heard a screen door slam. Then I heard Raydean, my next-door neighbor.
“Son,” she said softly, “if you don’t want to meet your maker right now, today, I suggest you unhand that young woman and take a giant step backward.”
Raydean stood on her trailer steps aiming a shotgun at Frankie. Raydean had leaned her frizzy gray-haired head along the left side of the gun and was eyeing Frankie down the barrel. Raydean was dressed in her pink flowered housedress, her knee-high nylon hose rolled down to her ankles, her white saggy legs and arms rippling when she moved ever so slightly to keep Frankie in her sights.
Frankie slowly let go of my arm and I straightened up all the way. Fluffy was standing where I’d left her, growling. Raydean followed Frankie through the sight of the gun.
“Sugar,” she called to me sweetly, “you want I should blow his testicles to kingdom come now?”
Raydean was a sweetheart, but she was also batshit. Raydean was fine as long as she made her trip to the mental-health center every three weeks for an injection of Prolixin. If she missed that appointment, within two weeks she’d be seeing little folks who weren’t there and calling the cops to say that the Flemish were invading the complex. This would soon be followed by Raydean shooting out the window at invisible soldiers, then being carted off by the cops to the state hospital. So I wasn’t real sure if Raydean thought Frankie was Flemish, or if she had an accurate read of the situation.
Frankie didn’t know any of this, but he still looked plenty nervous.
“How’s about this, Raydean,” I said, eyeing Frankie and praying he didn’t try to run.
“How’s about we let him go this time, but if he ever tries anything like this again, then you can shoot him.”
Raydean thought for a moment, lowered her gun slightly, and looked at me. “He ain’t one of them Flemish, is he?”
“Nah, Raydean,” I answered. “He’s a biker.” This seemed to satisfy her.
“Go on, then, son,” she said.
Frankie moved slowly to his bike and climbed on. I took a few steps toward him, careful not to aggravate Raydean. The adrenaline rush had gone.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you,” I began.
Frankie looked a mess. Blood was still running down his face and had stained his shirt.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Shit happens. Rambo’s an asshole.” He sighed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Denise’s in Room 320 at the Blue Marlin, but don’t call till after six. She needs to sleep.” He turned the key in the bike’s ignition and pressed the electric start button. The Harley roared to life. In an instant he was gone.
I turned around to Raydean, but she, too, was gone. Fluffy stood in the middle of the driveway, staring after Frankie. She wasn’t smiling.
Five
They call the beachfront in Panama City the Miracle Strip. In the two years I’d lived there, I hadn’t latched on to what the miracle was. Maybe it was a miracle that any one town could attract so many young rednecks. More likely, the Chamber of Commerce wanted the tourists to think that this particular stretch of beach was the best the Panhandle had to offer. I’d given up trying to figure it. I was now sitting on the far western edge of the Miracle Strip, enjoying a piña colada on the deck that runs across the back of Sharky’s.
It’s hard to miss Sharky’s Beach Club. It is a faded gray, thatched-hut sort of joint that juts out along the edge of Front Beach Road, its sign screaming to passersby. And if that’s not enough to grab your attention, there’s always the giant shark hanging out in front of the entrance.
I was looking at the sunset and the people wandering up and down the beach in front of the back deck bar. A couple of young guys in white shorts and shirts were lowering the blue beach umbrellas and hauling equipment up to a nearby hotel for the night. This was the time of day I liked best in Panama City, the brief lull in the action, when sunburned nymphets napped and tired men showered, preparing for another round of partying.
The Miracle Strip Page 2