Strip Poker

by Nancy Bartholomew

  “Cause trouble? I don’t see how you can think I had a thing to do with Vincent getting his ass in a sling.”

  Marla sniffed. “Between your cop and your relatives, I can’t see how this isn’t your fault,” she said. “Vinny don’t go looking for trouble like you do.”

  “No, Marla,” I said, “Vincent doesn’t have to go looking for trouble. He’s a magnet for misfortune.”

  Marla raised her eyebrows like I was suddenly using big words deliberately in an attempt to confuse her.

  “You know, Vincent’s got enemies,” she said. “Jail is not a good place for him. He has needs, strong needs. I just can’t see him lasting long in prison.”

  I was not gonna go there with her. I did not want to know about Vincent’s “needs.” What he needed was to be off a murder rap.

  “Marla, what we need here is to find the guys that robbed the place. We need to figure out how someone else got ahold of Vincent’s gun and shot Denny. Or we need to prove that the ballistics test is wrong. But one thing we don’t need is to hear about Vincent’s sex drive.”

  Marla sniffed. “Well, I should hope not,” she said. “Me and Vincent are quite happy in our relationship. Besides, you are definitely not his type!”

  I sighed and stepped out of the elevator. What we had here, as usual, was Marla trying to communicate with higher life forms and failing. Maybe Raydean was right about the aliens taking over the world. Maybe Marla had lost her mind to the Flemish.

  Eugene was standing by the door to the surgical suite, his face practically pasted up against the glass window. Beyond him I saw nothing but the empty hallway leading to the operating rooms.

  “Why don’t you come talk to me,” I said to him. “Why don’t we see if we can come up with something on those guys?”

  Eugene reluctantly left his post and wandered up. “All right,” he said, but his eyes were still glued to the closed doors. I was on the verge of telling him that it would be all right, that Bruno was one tough cookie, when the surgical suite door flew open and a young nurse in green surgical scrubs scurried out, the front of her uniform bloodstained, and her mask pulled just below her chin.

  “Eugene?” she called.

  Eugene walked up to her, his eyes searching her face for a sign.

  The nurse smiled slightly, but seemed a little intimidated by Eugene’s bulk. “Dr. Thrasher wanted me to bring you a message.” Eugene nodded. “He said to tell you he’s got your back.” Here she seemed a little uncertain of herself, but Eugene smiled. “And the doctor also said Bruno is gonna be fine, they’re just repairing a tear in his artery. Dr. Thrasher said for you to take a load off and go eat something. He’ll be out in about an hour and a half. Bruno is gonna be fine,” she said again. She sounded just like a little parrot of Dr. Thrasher.

  “Tell the doc I said I owe him another one,” Eugene said.

  The nurse nodded and walked back toward the suite. She was petite, with a perky little butt that Eugene seemed to find fascinating.

  “You gonna offer her a job or go get something to eat?” I asked. Eugene, a new man again, turned to me and smiled.

  “You just jealous ’cause she’s tiny and got a bigger butt than you do,” he said.

  I didn’t dignify this with an answer. “Well, are you going to go eat something or not?”

  Eugene shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”

  “How about we go get you something and bring it back?”

  Eugene started to shake his head no, but reconsidered. I was willing to bet he hadn’t eaten since this whole mess had begun.

  “Well, maybe a little something,” he said. “Like maybe some meatloaf, if they’ve got it, and a cheeseburger, all the way, mashed potatoes and fries, a salad, two cartons of milk, and get me some chocolate cake if they’ve got any. If they don’t, just bring a couple of whatever desserts they got. And if there’s no potatoes, try for spaghetti. I gotta carbo-load.”

  Marla, sensing I was going to leave her alone with Eugene, sprang toward the elevator and started popping the button. We rode down to the ground floor in silence, made our way to the antiseptic cafeteria, and proceeded to load a tray up with every bland dish Eugene’s starving stomach could demand. Marla followed along behind me, sighing and now and then tossing a food item onto the tray. I was not going to ask her what was on her mind, because it was clear that was what she wanted me to do. I figured let Gambuzzo pry stuff out of her. Marla was not my problem. But that made me think about Vincent. Vincent was my problem.

  I looked over at Marla and decided not to tell her I was leaving town for a few days. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her that Vincent was going to spend his Christmas behind bars. Instead, I started lining up my options, figuring what I could do in the next twenty-four hours to find out what had gone down in Vincent’s office that could’ve resulted in him being buttoned for a murder.

  The cafeteria closed down after we left. Marla carried one tray and I carried the other and we still struggled to get all that food up to the third-floor waiting room. She didn’t talk, just sighed now and then and looked up toward the ceiling, as if that was gonna help her plight.

  “Supper’s on,” I called out as I stepped off the elevator. Eugene turned, revealing visitors. John Nailor stood there, Joe Nolowicki by his side, a notepad in hand and a serious look on his face. Clearly I was interrupting something.

  “Detective,” I said, nodding at Nailor and sliding the tray onto a table that occupied one corner of the room.

  “Ms. Lavotini,” he said, his deep voice sliding over my name like a caress. I shivered.

  “Did I leave anything out?” Nolowicki asked Eugene. For a moment the three men turned away from us as Eugene thought it over.

  “No, I think that’s about right,” he answered. “I couldn’t really see from that angle, but I did get a real good look at the shooters. With all the confusion, it would’ve been easy for Mr. Gambuzzo to drop his gun. One of them could’ve picked it up.”

  Nolowicki wasn’t going with Eugene’s speculation. His eyebrows shot up and he stared right at Eugene. He looked out of place without a cigar. “Anyone could’ve picked that gun up, but only Gambuzzo’s prints were on it,” Nolowicki said.

  Eugene was right back on it. “Maybe they wore gloves, or wiped it. You didn’t get a full print off the trigger, did you? And you couldn’t get one off the butt, not with that plastic handle.”

  Nolowicki shrugged. “Well, only one person threatened the victim with that gun, and that was Gambuzzo, so I’m sticking by it.”

  Nailor stepped around Eugene. For some reason he was letting Nolowicki ask all the questions, and he wasn’t intervening. What was this all about? Surely he didn’t think Vincent shot anybody?

  “What’re you doing here?” he asked me. “I thought you were working tonight.”

  He walked toward me, closing the distance in a few steps but taking his time, knowing, I’m sure, that I watched him. That was the thing about Nailor. He didn’t showboat because he didn’t have to. He moved in a slow, deliberate way that made him incredibly attractive. It was his self-assurance. I like a man who knows where he’s going and doesn’t have to worry about how he gets there.

  By the time he reached me, my doubts had vanished. Everything else on my radar screen had faded into the background. It was the smell of him, the spicy leathery scent, that made me want to pull him closer. It was the way he looked at me and smiled that slow, sexy grin that reminded me of his lips on mine.

  “I went to work,” I said, “and then I got to thinking it was maybe time for a career change.” My eyes never left his. We were communicating on another level about all the things that were best left unsaid until later.

  “Career change, huh? Well, I’ve heard those things happen. Would this career change involve the rumor I heard about the Tiffany’s new name?”

  “It would indeed,” I said, almost whispering as I moved even closer to him.

  Nailor nodded toward the eleva
tor. I looked back at Eugene and Nolowicki. Nolowicki was listening and nodding, but he still appeared to be unchanged by whatever it was Eugene was telling him. Marla was keeping a low profile over by the windows, but I knew she was soaking it in. Every little word was going somewhere inside that devious mind of hers, and I knew she’d use the information at some point.

  The elevator doors opened and Nailor pushed me inside and hit the red stop button. The door closed behind us, and in an instant he had pulled me to him. I felt him inhale, then kiss the top of my head.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “I missed you, too,” I answered. “But what are you doing here with Nolowicki? I thought you were the primary?”

  “Your place later?” he whispered in my ear, ignoring the questions.

  I nodded, my throat suddenly tightening. God, how I wanted this man. I wanted to lie in his arms, lay my head on his strong chest, and forget all about everything but him. I flashed to an image of him, naked, hovering above me, and then just as quickly shook it off. I couldn’t. Not now. I had to take care of Vincent.

  “Sure, my place,” I said. “I want to know everything that’s going on.”

  His hands slid up and over my breasts, touching my nipples and feeling them harden beneath his fingertips.

  “Really?” he whispered. “All right, I’ll tell you everything that’s going on, step by step.” He was trying to get by me, trying to ignore the questions and go where he wanted us to go.

  I pushed away from him, turned and hit the red button. This was pointless.

  The elevator door opened again and I stepped out. “Talking,” I said. “Talking is very important. I need to know what else you’ve found out.”

  Nailor sighed and in his eyes I saw something change. He knew it wasn’t going to work. He knew what I was feeling. That was the trouble with Nailor; he almost always knew what I was feeling.

  “I’ll meet you back at the trailer,” I said, and almost ran away from him, back to the sanctuary of Eugene and the waiting room. Nailor followed, his footsteps echoing behind me. Life had prepared me for lots of things, but Nailor wasn’t one of them.

  Marla had apparently had all she could take of Nolowicki talking about her beloved Vincent. In the brief time we’d been gone, Marla had edged closer and closer to Nolowicki and Eugene. By the time I crossed the lobby and re-entered the waiting room, Marla was a nuclear warhead and the hapless detective was the target.

  I almost felt sorry for him. There he stood, the top of his bald head gleaming in the weird glow of the fluorescent lighting, his red jacket pale compared to the angry flush in Marla’s cheeks, listening and pinned almost to the wall by Marla’s huge tits.

  “My Vinny is a prince,” Marla was saying. As she spoke she kept moving closer, inching her way right up into Nolowicki’s face. “You go around telling people that he uses drugs, that he has them in his desk! That’s horse poop and you know it! I think you all are trying to frame my man!” She whirled around and looked at Nailor, her eyes huge black wells of pain and distress.

  “Why don’t you look for the real killer?” she continued. “Why don’t you pick on that bimbo that was there, huh? Maybe she shot the little guy and left her dope behind. Ever think of that?”

  Nolowicki, to his credit, decided to play peacemaker. “No, Miss er … what was the name?”

  “Marla the Bomber,” she said. “And that’s all you need to know because I wasn’t even there that night!”

  Joe Nolowicki looked over at Nailor, gave him a cop look I’d seen a million times, a hey-watch-this sort of nonwink.

  “Well, Marla, now maybe you can help us out. Maybe you can tell us all about the Vincent Gambuzzo you know. Maybe show us around his place and explain a few things about the real man.”

  Marla was going to go for it. I could see her turning it over in her head. She cocked her head and examined Nolowicki. “Maybe I just could,” she said, and a small, sly smile broke out across her face. “But not at Vinny’s place …”

  That’s right, I breathed silently, don’t let him in without a warrant.

  “No,” Marla continued, “we’ll be much more comfortable at my place!”

  Joe Nolowicki smiled, but it was just as phony as Marla’s. “Now, that would be right nice,” he drawled. He looked over at Nailor. “Can I catch up with you later?” he asked.

  Nailor frowned, obviously not liking it. Nailor was straight up, clean. He didn’t work a con or lead a witness. It wasn’t his style, but on the other hand, what could he do? Nolowicki was another investigator working a different angle. So he nodded and the deal was sealed.

  Eugene was back by the surgical suite doors, hoping to get a glimpse of Bruno or to catch Dr. Thrasher on his way out of surgery. He looked like a big black Labrador retriever.

  I slipped up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna go,” I said. “I’m gonna see if I can’t catch a little shut-eye and then get up with Gambuzzo. You call if there’s any change, all right?”

  Eugene nodded, not looking away for more than a moment. “I’m cool,” he said.

  Nailor walked up to us. “Eugene, I’ve just got one or two more questions for you, and then I’ll leave you alone, okay?”

  I took that as a cue. I slipped away, leaving each detective to his subject, and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. When I walked through the front door, I came face-to-face with the elderly security guard. He was standing by Marla’s car, a dewy-eyed, wistful expression on his face.

  “Ain’t she something?” he murmured as I walked past. Somehow I just knew he didn’t mean the convertible.

  I hopped in my car and tore off out of the lot, wanting to put some distance between myself, John Nailor, and the events of the past twenty-four hours. I reached over and cranked up an old Allman Brothers tape. “Ramblin’ Man” broke the silence of the latenight air. I cranked up the heat full-blast so it could compensate for the open T-tops and settled back, trying to fight my mood. Whatever in the world was happening? In less than twenty-four hours my boss had lost the club and gotten himself arrested for murder; one of my best buddies was in intensive care, clinging to life; I find out that my parents were in some kind of desperate trouble; and in the midst of all that, I was suddenly made aware that I’m in a real, honest-to-God relationship.

  I looked in the rearview mirror, sensing his presence again before seeing him. There he was in his new unmarked Crown Vic, gaining on me. By the time I entered the Lively Oaks Trailer Park he was just off my bumper. The two of us were up the steps and inside the door, barely managing to avoid crushing Fluffy as Nailor backed me up against the kitchen wall and started unbuttoning my blouse.

  I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, finally pulling it open and away from his body. I wasn’t aware of any Greek chorus of doubt in my head this time. The only thing I wanted was him. I took his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom, stumbling in the darkness, knowing nothing but the way I suddenly ached for him.

  He tried to slow me down, pushed my hands away as I grabbed for him, and forced me to wait while he ever so slowly undressed me. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me close, his lips trailing their way from my breasts to my belly.

  “Nailor, come on,” I said. “Don’t make me wait this time.”

  I pulled his clothes off and pushed him back onto the bed, but he wouldn’t let me rush him.

  “We have all night,” he whispered as his lips brushed my ear. “So I’m taking all night. Get used to it, Sierra. I’m not like the other men you’ve known. With me it’s all about you. I’m going to spoil you, Sierra.”

  I felt myself go weak. My stomach flipped over and the desire that had threatened to engulf me fanned to a five-alarm fire. I didn’t think about anything but him and the two of us making love. My body belonged to the process and nothing I could do would stop it.

  He pulled me to him, his fingers spreading my legs, moving inside me, his tongue following his fingers until I moaned and
began to move with him. I lost track of time. My ears started to ring. I pulled him closer, up and into me, joining with him and crying out as he filled me.

  We moved together, my hands sliding down his back, pulling him deeper inside, until I felt him cresting and taking me with him. We came, shattering against each other, pulling each other closer and deeper, lost in the sensations that moved us. And then it happened.

  “I love you, Sierra,” he whispered.

  My eyes flew open and I stared at him. He was looking right at me, and if I judged right, he was as surprised by his words as I was. He closed his eyes and lowered his head to my shoulder, feathering my skin with a soft kiss. I couldn’t see him, couldn’t tell how he was reacting, but I knew what those words had done to me.

  “You want something to drink?” I said, moving away from him and rolling to the side of the bed.

  “Sure. How about water?”

  I looked over at him. He was lying back, his arm behind his head, studying me with that cool detective stare of his.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of some of Pa’s Chianti,” I said.

  “Scared you that bad, did I?” he murmured.

  I jumped out of bed then, pulling on my purple chenille robe and stepping over the pile of clothes on the floor.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, moving for the door. I started down the hallway at light speed, almost running in my need to escape.

  “You’re the one running away,” he called.

  “No, I’m just the one who’s thirsty. I mean, you wore me out!” Then I was out of his range, safe in my kitchen, pouring Chianti into tumblers while my hand shook like a leaf. Nailor loved me? He couldn’t mean that. After all, the words were said in the heat of passion. How could he love me? He didn’t know the half of me. And I didn’t know the half of him.

  I leaned up against the kitchen sink and took a big swig of wine, forgetting for the moment that Nailor’s glass was sitting beside mine. I needed time and space to think.