Drag Strip (8 page)

The girls paraded forward, took a turn around the pole, which had been decorated for the occasion in black, then strutted out down the length of the runway, blowing kisses and giving the boys a little taste of the evening to come. The men went wild. Bills littered the air and the stage like confetti. This would be a night for Panama City to remember.

Ruby would have been thrilled. She would've joined right in and danced her heart out. For a moment I thought of her, lying lifeless on the ground, and wanted to run away, but I couldn't. I was a pro and the others were looking to me to pull us through the tough times. That's what families do. They stick together through the rough patches, no matter what the cost and no matter how much it hurts.

I knew my job tonight. I was the mother and the referee to a bunch of the best and most highly strung dancers that the Florida Panhandle had to offer. There was no time for my own feelings, not with twenty-five others to manage. So I kept them moving. I teamed them up in pairs or threesomes. I kept them busy changing costumes, helping with props and circulating the room doing table dances, and I laid down the law.

“There will be no lap dancing. There will be no competition for the customer. This is a tribute, not a slugfest.”

No one had a problem with this, not even the girls from some of the less formal clubs. The only dancer I had to ride was Marla, and that was no surprise. Marla fancies herself my competition for headliner, and so if I told her it was raining outside, she'd be the first to assure me how wrong I was.

“I don't see why I can't do a fly-over,” she said, pouting.

“Marla, it would mean rigging the stage with extra stuff, and we don't have the time.”

Marla had one big act. She called it her salute to our flying men in uniform. She dressed like a B-52 bomber, all silver sequins, complete with wings and wires so she could fly out over the runway, grabbing her tits and yelling, “Bombs away, boys!” It took a lot of wires to heft Marla and her 52DD “bombs” up over the stage, and this was just not the time.

“Well, Ruby would've loved it,” she said, glowering.

“Ruby would've laughed her ass off like she always did,” I answered.

“You're just jealous!”

“Marla,” I said, “I really don't have time for this. We each get five minutes. I put you on third, so if I were you, I'd get my ass in gear and get ready because you're on in five minutes.” I walked off from that one, but she managed to mix it up with the guest artists and need interference from me at least five more times that night. It was worse than watching a toddler.

The real trouble came toward midnight. Tonya the Barbarian was full tilt into her big number. It involved a fake-fur cavegirl outfit, a club with rubber spikes, and a lot of grunting. It was a primitive workout at best, with the club utilized in ways no true cavegirl ever imagined, but it drew a fascinated audience. It was the same kind of crowd who goes for women mud-wrestling topless.

Tonya was sort of rolling on the floor of the runway, much to the delight of the contingent of race car drivers who had elected to attend representing the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway.

“After all,” Roy Dell had explained, “it happened on our turf. We felt like we ought to be here as a show of respect.” He'd brought along Meatloaf and Frank and some of the other drivers and pit crew members. All in all a good turnout. Even Mickey Rhodes had shown up, but he chose to spend most of his time huddled at the bar, conferring with Vincent.

Roy Dell and Meatloaf were most enamored of Tonya's G-string, which seemed to be made of chamois cloth and chicken bones. They were risking the wrath of Bruno the bouncer by leaning as close over the edge of the runway as they possibly could to insert rolled-up bills into Tonya's tiny leopard-skin garter when a loud disturbance broke out.

It started at the back of the room, near the door, and rumbled like a tidal wave toward the front of the house. Watching from just off stage, I saw men being shoved aside like spent paper towels and heard a dull roar, but because of the crowd I couldn't tell for sure what was happening.

Things seemed to move in slow motion for a moment as I saw Roy Dell's facial expression change from a drooling leer to abject terror. Tonya was too absorbed in her act to clock that she was in danger of becoming a victim, and the only thing that may have saved her was Bruno taking a flying leap that landed him across the edge of the runway, effectively spinning Tonya back up the slippery runway and away from the action.

“Roy Dell Parks!” a deep throaty voice called. “I done warned you for the last time.” The sea of bodies parted as a thick, beefy arm reached out and grabbed Roy Dell by the lapels of his bright yellow shirt.

“Now, honey,” Roy Dell began, but his voice was quickly squeezed to a squeak.

I had a good view now. Men were scattering like Ping-Pong balls. A tall, bleached blonde wearing a red and white vertically striped shirt, with the name
LULU
embroidered in red across the top half of the back and
DERBETTES
stitched across the middle, reached for a beer bottle. With one hand clutching Roy Dell by the shirt collar, she neatly tapped the beer bottle against the edge of the runway, thus giving her a perfect weapon for fending off an enraged and determined Bruno.

Although she never made eye contact with Bruno or Fast Eddie, the backup bouncer, she seemed to sense their presence.

“Don't none of y'all bother us,” she shouted. “This is a domestic situation brought about and aggravated by y'all's disregard for the sanctity of my marriage.” She took a step backward, dragging Roy Dell with her. “Sex has done reared its ugly head and made an addict out of my husband. He is a fool for race cars and now he's a fool for women. It was only a matter of time.”

“Lulu, honey,” Roy Dell squeaked.

“Shut up, you worm!” Lulu continued to walk backward, the beer bottle waving in her left hand and Roy Dell gasping for breath in her right. “If you was half the man you think you are, you wouldn't be running around looking for inflation.”

“You go, girl!” Tonya yelled, apparently forgetting that with Roy Dell went a sizable portion of the evening's tips.

Meatloaf and Frank looked at each other and shrugged. Meatloaf snickered. The other racers stood, open-mouthed, as did the rest of the men. Bruno followed Lulu, getting as close as he could but aware of the flashing beer bottle. Vincent seemed to be the only one with any sense about him. He anticipated Lulu's departure and pushed the double entry doors wide open so she'd have a clear path of departure.

“You think I don't know about you making a fool of yourself over that dead girl the other night?” she asked Roy Dell. “You think that creature found you attractive? Do you actually think I like sitting in the pit and looking across and seeing you sweet-talking some girl young enough to be your daughter?” She didn't expect an answer from Roy Dell. “Then you come here to publicly humiliate me?” She snorted. “Them days are over, Roy Dell.” By now they had reached the doorway, but unfortunately, so had Detective John Nailor.

I saw him approach slowly, like he was out for nothing more than a stroll. Lulu was so wrapped up in her speech to Roy Dell and in guarding her front, that she never thought to look behind her. With one fluid movement, Nailor reached up, relieved Lulu of the beer bottle, and kept walking right past her.

“Y'all have a pleasant evening now, y'hear?” he said.

Lulu and Roy Dell continued on their way out to the parking lot, and the entire audience at the Tiffany stared at John for a long moment, then instantly lost interest as the music cranked back up and Tonya the Barbarian began to wriggle on her belly like a reptile.

I stood and watched John from my position at the edge of the backstage curtain. He appeared to have popped in for a quick drink, like he was only John Q. Public, but I knew better. Everything John did was for a reason.

Vincent Gambuzzo was apparently thinking the exact same thing I was, because he began to circle John's table, his face growing increasingly red as his jaw twitched angrily. I knew what was coming. It happened every time John Nailor entered the Tiffany. Vincent would puff up like a blowfish and Nailor would merely watch. One of these times Vincent was going to really make a fool out of himself, and then where would we all be?

As usual, it was up to me to see that cooler heads prevailed. I nodded to Ralph, the stage manager, signaling the girl I wanted to go on next, and headed out to play den mother.

“Detective,” Vincent was saying as I approached the table, “you're bad for business.” John was staring at him like he was a specimen in an aquarium.

“Gambuzzo, I'm a paying customer,” he said, gesturing toward his Coke. “I'm just here to enjoy the evening.”

“Nailor, you know and I know—” Vincent began as I stepped up to the table.

“Table dance, Detective?” I said, placing my stilettoed foot firmly up on the table in between the two men and giving John Nailor a good glimpse of the goods that made the Tiffany famous.

He didn't move a facial muscle, but he let his eyes do the talking, running them up the length of my leg like silk stockings.

“Don't mind if I do,” he said slowly. Then he reached forward and slipped a twenty-dollar bill in my garter.

This was a first. Usually he'd settle for a smart remark and then leave, but not tonight. Vincent, mollified only slightly by the display of money, sniffed and moved back a few steps.

“Well, I guess there's nothing wrong with a paying customer,” he groused, “but I got my eye on you two.” With that he wandered back to his spot at the end of the bar, leaving us alone.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you didn't want to be seen around me.” John eyed me slowly, lingering over the pasties and the giant ruby in my navel.

“Start dancing,” he said softly, but with a firm no-nonsense tone.

I looked over my shoulder. Vincent's jaw was pumping. I began to move to the music. John leaned back in his seat, hands clasped behind his head, watching me like any other customer. But he wasn't any other customer. The memory of our kiss, shared in the darkness of my kitchen, came coursing through my body, and I felt suddenly vulnerable.

“Look at me,” he said, “and step closer.”

All right, I thought, if he wants the full treatment, then that's what he'll get. I looked him right in the eye and produced the best moves I had to offer. I brought my hands up to cup my breasts, then let my fingers drift down below my waist. John watched, a soft smile playing across his face.

“Is this how you like it, Detective?” I said softly, then let my fingers dip below the edge of my sequined G-string. I was waiting for him to break, to look away, to back down, but he didn't.

“I'm liking this just fine,” he said, sliding forward in his chair. In his hand he held another bill, but it was wrapped around a thin white piece of paper. He waved the bill in front of me, beckoning me to come closer. I ran my hands down my thighs and wiggled so close I could smell his cologne. With an easy, practiced movement, he shoved the card and the bill in the front of my G-string. My stomach turned over as his fingers brushed my skin.

“In case you need to reach me,” he said, “that has my pager number on it.” He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

“What makes you think I'll need you?” I asked. I placed my hands on either side of his chair and leaned over him, my breasts a few inches from his face. “Maybe it'll be the other way around.” Nailor's hands moved involuntarily, reaching for me, then dropped back to his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing himself to stay in control.

“I read the paper,” he said, opening his eyes. “I don't know what's going on, but somebody doesn't like you. You need to watch your back.”

“I wouldn't worry about me, Detective,” I said. “I'm used to handling trouble.” I pushed back from his chair and stood right in front of him, staring as hard as I could into his eyes. “Maybe you're the one playing with fire.” My heart was pounding and I could feel my face turning red.

“Be careful what you ask for, honey,” he said. “You just might get more than you bargained for.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. Neither one of us moved. We were as close as we had been in my trailer. I could feel the heat between us and it took my breath away. He reached a hand out and touched me lightly under the chin.

“It's time to quit playing games, Sierra,” he said. “You're moving into a whole new league.”

I wasn't sure if we were talking about Ruby's death or me and him. Either way, I wasn't running away. I stood and watched him as he tossed back the last of his Coke and walked out the door.

Vincent was staring at me, his jaw twitching and his fingers drumming nervously on the bar. He knew something was up, whether it was the body language between John and myself, or just the fact that one of Panama City's detectives had come into the bar on an alleged social call. Vincent had that much going for him; he could smell a problem long before it ever materialized.

Ten

Ruby Diamond's memorial had been a huge success. The girls made money, the women's shelter made money, and Vincent made money. I don't think I allowed myself to feel the hollow emptiness left by Ruby's death until I'd packed my dance bag and settled back behind the wheel of my Camaro. Then the vision of Ruby wearing her ridiculous Dolly Parton wig and standing next to my dented car surfaced, as did a million other flashes of memory. Ruby dancing, biting her lower lip in that sweet, vulnerable way she had. Ruby lying on the floor of my living room, laughing and reaching over to scratch Fluffy.

I started up the car and pushed a tape into the cassette player. I was crying and trying to fit the tape into the damn player while I also shifted into first and attempted to pull out into the four
A.M.
traffic of Thomas Drive. I floored it and chirped the tires out of the driveway and halfway down the block before I made the turn onto the shortcut to the Hathaway Bridge and home.