“Oh God, oh God!” I moaned, rocking back on my heels. I was fighting back the urge to cry and trying to figure out what to do. “All right! All right! We’re gonna get you some help,” I said, but I don’t think he heard me. He didn’t move. He didn’t cry out when I slipped my arms under his shoulders and began dragging him slowly across the yard.
I don’t know how I dragged him to the car. He was a dead weight, but I was suddenly powerful. It felt effortless. It seemed to take forever, but I wasn’t tired. I was determined. When we reached the car, I knew I was done for. There was no way I could pull him into the backseat all by myself.
“Honey,” I said, resting him upright against the car, “I need you to listen to me. I need you to come back and help me. Help me help you, John.”
He moaned and his eyes fluttered. “That’s it,” I said, “just one little move and I’ve got you in the car. Okay? On three. One, two, three!” I pulled, he pushed, a little. I pulled harder and he was in the car, lying on my backseat.
“All right! Good! Just rest, sweetie. We’ll be at Bay County in no time.”
“No!” he said, his eyes flying open. “No! No hospital! I’m all right!”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I yelled. “You’re fucking bleeding all over my car!”
“It’s a surface wound,” he gasped. “Went clean through. It’s just my arm. Sierra, don’t take me to the hospital. Take me home!”
He was out again. Cold. I was sweatin’ and he was out cold. What was I supposed to do? He said no hospital. Maybe those gunshots really had been meant for him. He was in trouble, I knew that much. And then I knew: Ma. She would know. I’d take him home all right. Home to Ma.
Twenty-seven
In my former life, as a little girl, I’d wanted to be a nurse. Now, seeing us both soaked in blood, I knew what a joke that had been. My heart was racing. The car was hot, and the air sticky sweet with the scent of blood. I wanted to throw up.
I didn’t think he was outright bleeding to death. I think blood spurts out in spasms when you’ve cut an artery or some vital blood vessel, but I don’t know, because I’d given up on my medical career when I learned about bedpans. All I could do now was drive. That was something I could do very fast and very well. It was twenty-some miles back to the Lively Oaks Trailer Park. I think I made it in just over fifteen minutes.
John hadn’t said a word the whole trip back. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t regained consciousness. I, on the other hand, said plenty.
“You know,” I said, “you shoulda been straight with me up front that you was hurt. We coulda wasted less time that way. But, no, you’re too macho or whatever.” When that didn’t work, I moved on to threats and intimidation. “If you wake up,” I said, “if you let me take you to the hospital, I’ll dance naked on your bed every night for a year.” When that brought no response, I started a new conversation. “Okay, God,” I said, “it’s me again. Only this time, listen, it ain’t for me. It’s for him. Honey, don’t let this one die on me. Not so much on account of me, but on account of he’s a good guy. He ain’t never hurt nobody. And look, Ruby’s gone. Isn’t that enough dying? I don’t know if you knew Ruby was gonna die, or nothin’. I’m not saying you did. Maybe you were busy and it slipped by. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened. Whatever. I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying, ‘Hey! Listen up! Don’t let him die.’”
Sometimes you gotta get people’s attention.
I didn’t need to get attention when I drove up. Maybe that was on account of me laying on the horn. At any rate, Al came running down the steps as I pulled up, the ugly gun back in his hand.
“Sierra, what the hell’s with the horn? Hey, you got blood all over you!”
“I need Ma,” I said. “Look!” I jumped out of the car and flipped the driver’s seat to reveal John Nailor passed out on the backseat.
Al stuck his gun in his waistband. “You shouldn’t have done this!”
“I didn’t do it, burgerhead!” I said, lapsing back into our childhood name-calling. “He’s shot, we gotta get him inside.” I went on before he could start in with the cop-interrogation routine. “He said he can’t go to the hospital.”
Al gave me a look and must’ve seen something in my face, because he didn’t ask another question. By the time he’d reached into the backseat, Ma was on the stoop. When Al pulled out of the car and turned around, he had John cradled in his arms. Ma looked from me to Nailor and went into action.
“Put him in Sierra’s room,” she barked. “Sierra, run out to the Lincoln and get Pa’s first-aid kit out of the trunk. Al, move it! Don’t jar him!”
By the time I was back with the kit, which was more the size of a small suitcase on account of Pa being an EMT, Ma was working. She had John on his side, with Al holding him, as she cut away his shirt with a pair of scissors.
“Oh, Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the Saints,” she breathed. “Sierra! Towels! I’ll need warm water and a washcloth. Move it!”
I flew. I threw the towels on the bed and ran into my bathroom to run water. Al was supporting Nailor with part of his body and opening the first-aid kit with one hand.
“It looks like it went in the front,” Al was saying, “with the exit wound here in the back above his elbow.”
“Apply pressure there, honey,” Ma said. “We’ve gotta stop the bleeding.”
I brought a wet washcloth into Ma and stood there by her side, waiting for her to take it and feeling useless. Nailor moaned suddenly, and Ma and Al both stopped what they were doing, as if surprised to find that the gunshot wound was attached to a person.
“Hey,” I said. I made my way up to the bed and knelt down. “Tough guy,” I said softly, “it’s me.”
His eyes fluttered and then opened.
“That’s Ma,” I said when I saw his eyes connect with hers. “And Al’s behind you, there. Welcome to Nurse Sierra’s Home Health Care Center for the Physically Wounded and Terminally Stubborn, that, of course, being you.”
He licked his lips and winced.
“Don’t go making any speeches,” I said. “We’ll take donations when you’re back on your feet.” My God, he looked pale.
Ma looked at Al. “Is it stopping?”
Al carefully lifted back the edge of the towel and peered at the exit wound. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Well, keep it elevated while I try and put a tourniquet on.” Then she looked at Nailor. “You’re bleeding a lot,” she said, her voice an even, calm monotone. “We’ll get that stopped and you’ll be fine.” Her eyes seemed to soften, even as her hands worked to tighten the tourniquet around his upper arm. “It hurts, huh, sweetie?”
He nodded. “Not too bad.” But his eyes made him a liar.
“Sierra, get the boy a little of your Pa’s tonic,” she said. “Thickens the blood.” She nodded to Al to tighten his hold, then looked back at Nailor. “If you ate more Italian food and drank red wine regular, this sort of thing would go a lot easier!”
Nailor laughed softly. “Just need you to cook it for me,” he sighed, and his eyes closed. Ma smiled, reached out, and grabbed the washcloth off the bedstand. Gently, she began wiping the soot and dried blood off his face and neck.
“You’re a mess, son,” she said softly.
I sat down next to Ma and waited until she was finished. “You want him to have this?” I said, pointing to the tumbler of Chianti I’d brought into the room.
“Al,” Ma said, “we gotta prop him up a little.”
It took the three of us to get him positioned, but finally Ma was satisfied. “That’s good. Sierra, just give him a little sip at a time.”
“You with us, here?” I said, a little louder than normal.
His eyes fluttered open.
“This is gonna help. You’ve had it before, but I didn’t tell you it was good for you.”
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Chianti. Thickens the blood.” Al sighed and Ma reached out to swat him.
“Mr. Wiseguy,” she huffed.
Nailor took a sip and choked, then another. “How much, Ma?” I asked.
She looked at Nailor and the tumbler I held in my hand, as if maybe she was actually calculating a dose. “At least half the glass,” she pronounced. “We got a lot of blood needs thickening.”
Nailor’s eyes weren’t opening, but he drank. Al was sitting next to him in the bed, keeping Nailor’s arm elevated and pressure applied to the wound. I saw him lean closer to John and lift the towel. His eyes met Ma’s.
“It might be slowing down,” he said.
Ma nodded. “Thank your father for that, Mr. Know-It-All!” She looked at the clock and then back at me. “Sierra, don’t you gotta be at work in an hour?”
“I’m not going to work with him hurt like this.” Nailor appeared to be sleeping, his head slumped back against the pillows.
“Oh?” Al said. “And so you’d be telling your boss what? That your cop boyfriend got hurt and you can’t come in? You wanna draw attention that something’s not right?”
“No, Al, I’ll tell him I’m sick.”
“Oh,” he scoffed, “that’s real smooth. Were you sick yesterday? You think him and anybody else who’s wondering won’t know that’s bogus?”
I hadn’t thought about it that way.
“Sierra, you’re in the middle of some deep shit, or haven’t you noticed? Have you caught on yet that every time you do anything connected with finding out who killed your friend Ruby, that you or somebody else gets hurt?”
Or killed, I thought, remembering Wannamaker Lewis.
“This is dangerous, Sierra. We gotta play this one safe. Go to work. We don’t want anyone coming around here asking questions, especially if we’re gonna hide a cop with a gunshot wound.”
“All right, all right! I’ll go. You done with the sermon?”
“All’s I’m asking is for you to use your brain. You kicked over a big can of worms, Sierra, and somebody out there don’t like it.”
* * *
Before I left, I walked back into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. He was sleeping, a lock of straight brown hair falling across his forehead. I leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek. His eyes popped open and he smiled slightly.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
I was Sierra, Queen of the Night, my blond hair curled to fall across my shoulders, all powdered and scented, with gold glitter lotion perfuming my body.
With his good arm, he reached out and touched my cheek, his fingers trailing down my neck and across my shoulders.
“You know why I did it?” he said.
“Did what?” I had to lean closer to hear him.
“Kissed her.”
“Yeah, why did you do that, you snake!” I was kidding, a little.
“I wanted to make you mad.”
“Good job, sport! It worked.”
He smiled. The bastard was actually smiling. “I know.” Then the frown came. “If you hadn’t been mad, somebody might’ve killed me. If you’d blown my cover…” His eyes closed. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“Anytime, big man.” I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. I’m a sucker for a pitiful man. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” I couldn’t tell if he heard me. He looked to be asleep again. “I’ll crawl in bed next to you,” I added. There was no reaction for a moment, so I started to leave. The sound of his voice surprised me.
“Naked, I hope.”
“You just keep dreaming, sport. I’m more woman than you’ll ever handle.”
“Try me,” he whispered.
I figured my detective was on the road to recovery.
Twenty-eight
Vincent Gambuzzo wasn’t happy. That was nothing new for Vincent, nor was the object of his displeasure—me—a surprise. I managed to piss off Vincent almost every time he saw me. It didn’t bother me, but it bugged the hell out of him.
“Listen,” he said, “Dead Lakes Motor Speedway is a big account. I’m looking to maintain a relationship and you ain’t helping.”
We were standing outside his office, just around the corner from the front door. People were walking past like it was Grand Central Station, and I could’ve cared less, but Vincent was doubly ticked on account of not liking his business known among the staff and public.
I stamped my black stilettoed heel, setting all the beads and bangles on my tigress outfit to jumping. “I don’t give a good rat’s ass what you think,” I said. “There ain’t money enough to make me go back out to that racetrack!”
Vincent’s jaw was twitching, and behind the wrap-around sunglasses his entire face glowed a coronary red.
“Mickey Rhodes requested you,” he said. “He wants to do a tribute to Ruby, sort of as a way to let the fans know that it’s all right to come to the Speedway, that people are safe there. He thinks if you’re there, it’ll spread that message.”
“Ain’t my problem, Gambuzzo.”
“You want it on the line, Lavotini?” he sputtered. “All right, here’s the line: If your ass isn’t up to that racetrack next Wednesday night, I’ll…” He paused for a moment, long enough for me to open my big mouth.
“You’ll what, Gambuzzo, fire me?”
“You’re damn right!” he thundered.
“Oh, well, ain’t that a fine business decision,” I said with a sneer. “Fire your headliner on account of she won’t go back to the place where another one of your dancers was murdered. How’s that gonna look? Eh? Who you gonna find to work for you then, Vincent? A club owner who thinks no more of his dancers than to send them into harm’s way!”
We were drawing a crowd. Tonya the Barbarian stood just behind me, her cavegirl club clutched in her hand like she might have call to use it. Marla had wandered up and clearly taken Vincent’s side, but when Tonya snarled at her, she jumped back a good three feet.
“They know who killed Ruby,” Vincent said. “And Roy Dell’s a wanted man. He would no more show his face at the Speedway than in church. Dead Lakes is safe, Sierra. You’re just showboating and I won’t have it! Your ass’ll be up there Wednesday night with a smile on your pretty little face, or you won’t have a job to come back to. You work for me, Sierra, and this ain’t Disneyland.”
I could feel it welling up. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d wanted to. I had my pride. Sierra Lavotini didn’t eat shit for nobody.
“You don’t own me, Gambuzzo,” I shouted. “And you can kiss my smooth ass, ’cause I quit!”
I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe the words had come out of my mouth, but it didn’t matter, ’cause I’d said ’em, and now I had to live by them. I spun around and stalked off to the dressing room amid cheers from my supporters and Vincent’s voice calling over the top of them.
“Come back here, Lavotini! You can’t quit! You’re fired!”
I didn’t look back. I just held my head high, walked into the dressing room, and started packing. Two years I’d given that man, and now I was done. I didn’t need him. I could find a job tomorrow. Show-N-Tails had been after me for over a year to come work for them, and every other club in the country would be the same. I didn’t need him!
I threw my costumes into my bag and started cleaning out my small portion of the makeup bar. I was cussing and talking to myself to beat the band. I wasn’t even aware that anyone else had come into the room until I looked up and saw Ralph the stagehand standing behind me, his eyes the size of saucers, terrified.
“Well, what are you looking at?” I snapped, instantly sorry.
“Sierra,” he said, his voice squeaky with trepidation, “please don’t go.”
I looked at him standing there, his red hair and freckles making him look like Opie Taylor from Mayberry, and my heart melted.
“I can’t stay, Ralphie. I have to go. It’s a matter of principle.”
He gulped, looked me right in the eye, and said, “It’s pride’s what it is. You and Mr. Gambuzzo are always like t
his. Why’re you going now?”
“’Cause I said I would” sounded like a lame reason, and we both knew it. The other dancers were slowly filing into the room, standing behind Ralph and staring at me the same way he was. I was leaving them. Their mom was leaving.
“I’m sorry, guys,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I can’t let him talk to me like that. I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere.” I walked through them, out into the hallway, and out the back exit door. I left to the sound of complete silence, a first for the Tiffany Gentleman’s Club.
“Keep walking,” I said to myself. “Don’t look back.” My bag of makeup and costumes felt heavier with each step I took. The trip across the parking lot was endless. I threw my bag into the backseat, jumped into the driver’s seat, and took off, spinning my tires the entire way out of the parking lot and onto Thomas Drive. Behind me, another car pulled out of the parking lot and in behind me. An unmarked sedan, black. Wheeling.
“Screw him!” I said into the wind. “Screw everybody! Screw the whole situation!”
I drove down the Miracle Strip, the stretch of Panama City Beach that hosts mega-hotels sandwiched in between mom-and-pop motels, go-cart tracks, and bars. Boys, standing alongside the road on the lookout for trouble, yelled out, but they barely even registered on my radar. I needed quiet and a place to think. I needed the beach.
I pushed on past the Strip, letting my foot rest heavy on the accelerator as I zoomed toward Laguna Beach. Wheeling was right behind me, following at a discreet distance.
“All right for you, then. See if you can do this…”
I swung down one of the side roads and picked up speed, zooming from corner to corner. I knew a few turns that Wheeling obviously hadn’t anticipated. You don’t grow up in Philly, with them tiny alleys and one-way streets, to be defeated by Panama City’s little grid. I pushed ahead of him and abruptly swung into the Lotus, one of the beach’s largest and most exclusive complexes.
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