Strip Poker

by Nancy Bartholomew

  “Hello, Fluffy,” the man said softly. “My associates tell me you are one ferocious lapdog.” He laughed, deep and warm.

  “Wait a minute, here. I thought when your friends said a Mr. Lavotini wanted to talk to me that you were ‘Big Moose’ Lavotini, but you’re not him, are you? I mean, ‘Big Moose’ Lavotini has grown sons. You’re not old enough to have adult children. Does your father know you’re here?”

  Moose smiled. “Hardly. My father’s been dead for over a year. It’s a little business complication,” he said. “You see, when my father died, we didn’t want to risk a battle for the corporation. So we just let it slide.”

  “How do you let a death slide?” I asked, aware that he had me sitting on the edge of my seat.

  “Well, it was a private burial, just the immediate family. And since no one had seen my father for many years, we just arranged to allow things to continue along as they had been. I do the talking, and everyone assumes I’m carrying out Pa’s orders.”

  One of the suits slid into the back of the car, sitting just to my left. The other one closed the back door, then opened the front passenger door and climbed in beside the driver. Everyone but me and Mr. Lavotini was wearing shiny black sunglasses, the kind that reflect your own image back to you while telling you nothing at all about the person behind the lenses. In a moment the car was moving, leaving the curbside check-in area and pulling away from the airport.

  “What are you doing?” I said, the panic creeping unchecked into my voice.

  Moose stared at me, his eyes locking onto mine. The humming grew even louder and I started thinking maybe my ears were ringing. “I thought we should get acquainted. Like I said in my note, we need to talk.”

  “But my flight leaves in an hour,” I said. I was totally freaked. This guy wasn’t going to turn around just because I had to catch a plane. The fact that I had a nonrefundable, nonchangeable ticket would mean nothing to him. One look at his Armani suit told me that money meant nothing to the Moose.

  Moose nodded to the suit next to me. The man turned to a built-in compartment, pulled out a bottle of wine, and with swift efficiency began to open it.

  “Sierra,” Moose said, “relax. No one’s going to hurt you … unless I say so.” He saw the terror on my face and laughed. “I’m kidding, honey. I’m not going to hurt you. After all,” he said, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper, “I’m your uncle.” He stared into my eyes, not breaking his gaze as the suit handed him a wineglass. “That is what you tell your friends, isn’t it? That I’m your uncle?”

  I could do little more than nod. Anything I might normally have done was erased when he stared at me. I was doing good to remember my name. I took the glass of wine that the suit offered and held it in my hand, willing it not to shake and give me away any more than I was already doing.

  It was a red wine, more purple than the leather interior of Moose’s limo. It didn’t matter that it was still morning and too early to drink. This was an occasion that called for something stronger than chewing on my fingernails. I took a big swallow and felt the taste of oak and berry break over my tastebuds like a wave. It was drier than Pa’s Chianti, with a hint of some spice I couldn’t quite name.

  “You like it, huh?” Moose asked.

  I leaned back in my seat and stared at the man across from me. I forced myself to lift my chin a half an inch, to meet his eyes as if this were nothing more than a leisurely chat.

  “Someone’s meeting me at the airport on the other end,” I said, wishing that were true and knowing it wasn’t. “He’s a police officer. If I don’t show up, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll find me.”

  Moose smiled softly. “Is that so?” he murmured. He looked at his “assistant,” snapped his fingers softly, and waited as the suit pulled out a thin brown envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “I don’t really think it’s like that at all, Sierra.”

  He handed me a five-by-seven black-and-white photograph. It was obviously taken at night, and the image itself was grainy and slightly blurred, but not so much so that I couldn’t make out John Nailor standing on his front porch, the key in the door, and Carla Terrance by his side, her hand gently touching his arm as she smiled at him. Across the bottom of the picture, in tiny white letters, a caption read, DECEMBER 24, 10 P.M.

  I tried to feign uninterest. I handed back the picture, but I couldn’t quit staring at it.

  “You want to tell me about it, or don’t we know each other well enough?” he asked.

  I took another swallow of wine and found him watching me. “Where are you taking us?” I asked.

  Lavotini nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “We’re driving south on 1-95. I need a winter vacation. I’d like to see where my niece is living. Besides, I have a little business to take care of in your hometown.”

  I jumped in my seat. “You can’t do that!”

  Moose smiled. The suit smiled. When I looked down at Fluffy, even she was smiling.

  Moose leaned forward in his seat, his dark eyes boring into mine. “I think we have many things to discuss, the least of which is that boyfriend of yours. And besides,” he said, “you got some large trouble down there. You ever think you might let your old ‘uncle’ help you out with that? I mean, I might take an interest. I might be useful.”

  Yeah, I thought, but at what cost to me? I felt the hum in my body grow steadily louder. I tried to ignore it, to look away from the dark shadow behind his eyes, and failed. I knew exactly what the price was going to be, and Sierra Lavotini didn’t ante up like that.

  This was one hell of a situation. I was receiving a personal escort back to Panama City, courtesy of the Cape May branch of the family. I had bikers waiting to talk to me, bikers that were not at all happy about doing it. I had no job to return to. And my boyfriend seemed to be sleeping with his ex-wife.

  I looked over at the Moose. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me, but his wineglass was nearly empty. I took a quick glance at his assistant and then a large swallow of my wine.

  “All right,” I said, “what do you want? I mean, a guy of your stature in the, um, community doesn’t just decide to go for a joy ride to the Redneck Riviera. You must want something, and I’ll admit I might owe you a little on account of me dropping your name a few times around town, but I didn’t take any untoward advantage. I just told a couple of guys to lay off.”

  Lavotini was watching me, his eyes half-hooded as if he were contemplating sleep, but he didn’t fool me. Moose Lavotini didn’t sleep. He was taking notes.

  “I don’t know, Sierra. There may be a business situation in Panama City, an investment opportunity, so to speak. I may need you to smooth the way a little, introduce me around. Like you say, nothing big, no risk to you. These are people you know. It might help me in my negotiations if I had an insider’s opinion.”

  “Mr. Lavotini,” I said, “could we be a little less vague about whatever it is that’s going on?”

  He smiled. “Call me Moose,” he said, not answering the question.

  Six hours later, somewhere around Richmond, we had progressed no further. We spent the entire time slowly finishing one bottle of wine and opening another. One of us would start a line of questioning, the other would switch it to something else. We sparred, we smiled, and underneath it all, there was another conversation. The kind of conversation you have with someone you know is a match, someone you can’t walk over or manipulate. It was clear: Moose Lavotini and I were cut from the same cloth.

  Twenty-one

  By the time I realized I should call Pa or be prepared for an invasion from Philly, Moose Lavotini had us seated at a table on the patio of San Genarro, a tiny Italian café in Atlanta with twinkle lights and red-checked tablecloths. We had the patio to ourselves, and a platter of fresh tomatoes seasoned with basil and capers had just arrived.

  “Pa’s gonna kill me!” I said, and reached for my cell phone.

  Moose stretched out one big hand and grabbed me.

  “Don’t
,” he said. “I handled it. A friend of yours called to say your flight got delayed outside of Atlanta. You’ll be calling them tomorrow.”

  “What about …”

  I let my voice trail off. For a moment I’d forgotten that John Nailor could’ve cared less about my arrival back in town. Maybe I was just a complication to him now.

  “Screw him!” Lavotini said. “Here you are, a beautiful woman, called out of town on a family emergency for Christmas, and the schmuck takes his ex-wife home with him? And you’re still looking to give him an explanation? What is this?”

  His eyes were moving across my body, flicking back up to my face and then starting their relentless journey again.

  “You got a mirror at your house?” he asked. When I nodded, he continued. “You ever look in it? I don’t think you’re seeing what I see. I see a beautiful woman whose man don’t appreciate her.”

  I fingered Nailor’s locket. There was an explanation. There had to be an explanation.

  Moose picked up the vibe and dropped the line of questioning. “I want to talk about what happened at your club,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “Update me,” he said softly. “I want to know who the new owner is. Who’s the competition? And what’s with the whack–accidental crossfire or your boy, Denny, got an enemy? And don’t worry, I know Gambuzzo ain’t got the cochones to hit somebody cold or otherwise.”

  So I told him. I gave him everything I had on all the rival club owners: Mike Riggs, the new owner of the Tiffany, and Izzy Rodriguez, the snake from the Beaver. I told him about the bikers and every other bit of information that had occurred to me in the days since Denny took the cap and Vincent lost the club. I told him about the dead biker at Dennis Watley’s funeral, and how some guy named Turk seemed to be in charge of taking care of Denny. My presentation could’ve been more organized, but considering my blood alcohol level, I figured I was doing good to remember my name.

  Lavotini nodded. He was tracking it all, keeping it logged in his brain without seeming to extend any effort. The food arrived and we hadn’t even placed an order. Moose had merely nodded at the waiter and things had begun arriving at the table. The soup came first, carabaccia, rich with pancetta and onion, a thick slice of toasted focaccia covered with cheese floating in the rich chicken broth. This was followed by pasta allo scoglio, so full of seafood you almost overlooked the noodles.

  I looked up at some point and saw him smiling.

  “You like to eat,” he said. “That’s very good.” His eyes were dark pools that seemed to reach inside my body, igniting it. “I like a woman who isn’t afraid to dig in and take what she wants.”

  We were no longer discussing food, if indeed we ever had been.

  I let the fork slide slowly out of my mouth, my eyes never leaving his. What in the hell was going on? I had a man who loved me waiting back at home—at least, I was pretty certain he loved me and half sure he was waiting. But here I was, making goo-goo eyes and speculating about touching a man I knew was mob connected. Still, I couldn’t stop.

  “Yeah,” I said, letting my eyes drift across his shoulders and down over his chest, “I’m like that. I like new experiences and I like to taste new things.” I looked him right in the eye even though I could feel my face start to flush and my nipples hardening underneath my shirt.

  Lavotini didn’t look away either. “Well, I guess I’ll have to find out more about your tastes, won’t I?” he said.

  I believe that is when I dropped my fork with a clatter that rang against the white china dish and echoed across the patio.

  Lavotini laughed. He motioned to the waiter, and coffee arrived at the table, accompanied by bomboloni, tiny cream puffs that melted in my mouth. It was maybe better than sex, but then I looked over at my dinner companion and wondered. The candlelight played off his dark Italian features and for a moment I was lulled into thinking he was merely intoxicatingly attractive. Then his cell phone rang and I saw the other side of Moose Lavotini.

  He flipped open the tiny phone, held it to his ear, and began frowning almost immediately.

  “Unacceptable,” he said, his voice stiff.

  “Not our problem,” he said a moment later. Then, “Take care of it.” He listened for another moment. “I think you know exactly what I’m telling you to do. Twelve hours. That’s all. No compromise, no deals. I’ll expect the contract tomorrow.”

  I don’t know if the caller was suicidal or not, but there was a further period in which Moose listened. Then abruptly, he shot back. “Fuck that!” he said. “And fuck him! You tell him no deal, you got me? No fucking deal now.” Then Lavotini lapsed into Italian and I was lost.

  When he flipped the cell shut, he stood, pushing his chair behind him, clearly angry. He had entirely forgotten me.

  The man who turned back to me a minute later was the charming Moose Lavotini, but the aftertaste of the other Moose lingered and I was on guard. When we reached the car, I had a moment where I thought of trying to run away. I looked at the darkened parking lot, now empty, and back out at the busy road that ran in front of it. I thought I could run out to the street, flag someone down, and this episode with Moose Lavotini would be over. But I also had no doubt he would pursue me.

  I felt him watching me, looked up and saw the dark, inscrutable eyes soften.

  “You wanna go, go now,” he said. “This ain’t a total hijacking. You aren’t really a prisoner. You wanna walk, I’ll call a cab.”

  I hesitated, thinking about it. My feet, however, had made up their mind because my body was moving toward the car, and my mouth was in on the decision.

  “And turn down a chauffeur-driven limousine ride?” I was saying. “No, you’re stuck with me.” But I didn’t mean it, did I?

  I think he sensed my uncertainty because he ignored me the rest of the way. He sat across from me, accepted a steaming mug of coffee from the suit, and began reading through a file folder of typewritten pages. I continued to study him until I began to realize that perhaps I should reflect upon what I was learning with my eyes closed. When I woke up it was to the barest light of dawn. The white stretch was pulling up into the Lively Oaks Trailer Park and I was home.

  Twenty-two

  Moose Lavotini looked at me as I stepped out of the limo. My bag and Fluffy’s crate were on the sidewalk and Fluffy was already gone, having bolted up the steps and through the doggie door into the relative sanctuary of her kingdom.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “I don’t want you talking to those bikers by yourself,”

  Right, like I was going to show up in a limo with mob enforcers for protection. Oh, that would really gain their confidence. They would just love to confide in me then.

  “Sure,” I lied. “It’s set up for tomorrow. Call me.” I peeked at my watch. In three hours, Frankie and I would be sitting at a picnic table at the Oyster Bar having a conversation with a guy named Dimitri. The syndicate was most cordially uninvited.

  Moose smiled. “That a girl,” he said. “Thomas is going to stay here and make sure nothing happens to you,” he added, motioning to one of the suits.

  I looked at him and saw he knew I had no intention of dealing him in on anything. In fact, the way he smiled, with his entire mouth and his eyes, let me know he was enjoying what he saw as a game.

  “No, sorry. Thanks for the offer,” I said. “I don’t do butlers. I don’t need protection. And I want my privacy.”

  Moose stopped smiling and gave me the look. It was the same look I’d seen him get when he was talking on his cell and he was displeased. It was dark and revealed an unwillingness to compromise.

  “Sierra,” he said, “that wasn’t a request. Learn who’s in charge, baby, and accept it. There are things I’m good at, areas where I have expertise and you have amateur status. Let me do what I’m good at. Let’s not get you hurt.”

  Then he smiled, as if the sun had come out and we were all happy campers. The limo door closed and Thomas, all neck and no v
isible personality, stood on the sidewalk waiting for an invitation inside.

  I sighed and reached for my suitcase. His hand covered mine in an attempt to get to it first. We were stuck there, head to head for a second, each one wanting to take charge.

  “All right,” I said. “Knock yourself out.” He picked up the case and stood waiting for me to lead the way up the stairs and into the trailer. “Some people, they get stray cats left on their doorstep. Me, I get a stray gunman. Go figure.”

  I was yammering, but I was also trying to figure out how I was going to ditch this boy so’s I could go meet Frankie. I led Thomas into my kitchen and took my suitcase out of his overstuffed hand.

  “I’m going to change,” I said. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours. Why don’t you get some rest? I’ve got a nice guest room.”

  Thomas seemed to be about out on his feet, but he just stood there, rigidly planted in my kitchen. I tried to figure out what a guy like him had for a weakness. He was well-built, nothing spectacular to look at, but if you took into account that he wore a suit, you might say he’d pass for good-looking. I smiled, giving him the Sierra thousand-watt turn-on treatment. He didn’t flinch, so importing Tonya the Barbarian to distract him wasn’t an option.

  “Okie-doke, Thomas,” I said, “I’m heading down the hallway. Make yourself at home.”

  Thomas didn’t answer. I was starting to wonder if he even spoke English.

  The idea came to me while I was taking a shower. It was born of bad movies and too much TV, but it was my only option. I stepped out, naked and dripping, and dialed Raydean’s number.

  “Comedy Central,” she answered.

  “I got a situation,” I said.

  “What you got is trouble,” she answered. “New Jersey plates on that limo. Tinted windows. You think I didn’t see Men in Black? Them aliens ain’t registered. Now you got one taking over your house, am I right?”

  I wrapped myself in a towel and shivered. “You’re about as right as they get,” I answered. “I was wondering, do those people at the mental health center give you anything to help you sleep?”