The Miracle Strip (10 page)

We were on the 17th Street Causeway, just over the bridge. Raydean and Fluffy had their noses pressed to the glass, staring at all the boats. We hit A1A and the ocean broke open in front of us. It was no longer the way I'd remembered it as a child. Now there was a fancy brick walkway and a low white wall that curved and undulated like the Great Wall of China, only tailored to midgets.

The palm trees were still as I remembered, and the lifeguard stations, but the old Lauderdale was gone. In its place was the smell of money and privilege. The funky little bars that visiting college students called home were interspersed among fancy clothing and jewelry shops. I had the sense that soon even the bars and beach-supply stores would vanish and be replaced by art galleries and home furnishing meccas. There wasn't much room here for the regular guy and his wide-eyed family, let alone for a nostalgic stripper.

I almost missed the
Jungle Queen
and Bahia Mar. The big gaudy boat blended in with the rest of its surroundings and somehow seemed small. When I was little, the smokestacks of the big paddlewheel touched the sky. The bright red and gold paint had seemed brighter, truer than the fire-engine red of Pop's hook and ladder. Now it seemed faded, a poor relation among the gleaming white cabin cruisers that rimmed the Bahia Mar.

We parked amid Cadillacs and BMWs. Raydean had produced yet another floral housedress from her Piggly Wiggly sack of clothing and God knows what else. Her hair was no longer smushed flat on one side. It stuck out at random all over her head. We were going to be noticed, no doubt about that.

Fluffy was walking on the end of the rhinestone leash that I keep in my purse for important show-off occasions, and when leash laws are in danger of being enforced. Fluffy fit in here—at least that's how she carried herself. She pranced like this cousin of mine did in my brother Tony's wedding. My aunt Angie thought my cousin was a big disgrace, calling attention away from the bride. But my cousin was taking her moment, letting the world know that she was fine with herself.

That's how Fluffy took the dock at Bahia Mar Marina. She looked from side to side, taking her time, looking to see who was around and who was watching. The damn dog had more self-confidence in her toenails than my aunt Angie ever mustered in her life.

Raydean was oblivious to everything but the big boats. She walked along, her clunky shoes catching now and then in the thick wooden slats of the dock. She looked like a drunk.

When Fluffy screamed, and that's really what it was, I was unprepared. The high-pitched yelp of pain and panic caught at my chest, sending my heart racing. At first I must've been in denial, 'cause I looked around for another dog, then instantly knew. It was Fluffy.

I looked down and saw blood spurting from her foot. Fluffy had fallen and was continuing to scream. I knelt at her side, trying to get to the foot, but in her pain she snapped at me, catching the side of my hand and drawing blood. She wouldn't let me near. The side of her paw welled with blood and in the center I could see a large fish hook. I started to make a grab for her again, but someone placed a firm hand on my shoulder, pulling me back.

A man stooped down beside us. He was tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper gray hair that had a white streak across the front. His nose was long and narrow, like maybe he was part Indian. He was tanned, like most of the water people, and wore tan chino shorts and a too-white sport shirt.

“Wait,” he said. His voice was calm and in charge. “Like this.” He reached around behind us and grabbed a pair of heavy leather gloves from the top of a chest next to one of the boats.

“I'll hold her. You try and calm her down. Then we can get the hook out.”

He reached for Fluffy and she bit him. He barely flinched, just held her while we both spoke softly.

“It's okay, girl,” he murmured.

“Baby, Mama's here,” I said, not knowing what to do next.

“All right,” the man said. “I'm going to put her on this chest and hold her. You're going to have to push the hook through her paw and out.”

I felt my stomach turn over and my skin prickled. I couldn't do that to her.

“Let me take her to a vet,” I said, backing off a little.

The man looked up at me and I saw his eyes were a clear, strong gray. He looked like I'd somehow disappointed him or, worse, let Fluffy down.

“You can do that,” he said slowly, “but then she'd be stuck with this hook in her foot for another hour or so, and her paw would probably be bleeding longer.”

I looked at Fluffy. She was whimpering, her eyes liquid with pain.

“All right,” I said. “What do I do?”

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Sierra Lavotini,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Sierra, you can do this,” he said, his voice reassuring. “It happens all the time to fishermen. She'll feel better as soon as it's over.”

I wasn't so sure.

“With one motion,” he said, “push the barb through and out. Then pull the rest of the hook through. I'll hold her as still as I can.” Fluffy, sensing something was about to happen, struggled against the man whose name I'd never asked.

“Easy, sweetheart,” the man cooed. “Go, Sierra,” he said, his tone changing to a no-nonsense command.

“Easy, Fluff,” I breathed, and reached for her paw. Behind me I could hear shuffling feet and the intake of a collective breath. We had drawn a small crowd of Bahia Mar's patrons, all queued up like rubberneckers at a car accident, unable to pass and unwilling to look away.

Fluffy looked at me, her eyes trusting and full of the pain from the fish hook. I tried to find the switch I use in emergencies, the one that shuts down the emotions and makes me feel removed from the situation. Fluffy was my baby. No, I couldn't think like that. I grasped her paw firmly.

“I love you, Fluffy,” I whispered. Then I took a sharp breath, held it, and pushed the barb through Fluffy's little paw. She screamed again, and tears poured down my face.

“Easy, Sierra,” my helper cautioned. “Take this.” He handed me a clean white handkerchief from his back pocket. “Wrap it around her paw, tight, so it stems the blood flow, but not too tight.”

I wound the handkerchief around Fluffy's tender paw and took her from the man's lap. Fluffy was only whimpering now, no longer screaming. The man leaned over and carefully picked up the bloody hook, examining it.

“It looks pretty new,” he said. “Probably made a clean wound, but you never know. Now's the time to get on to the vet. There's an emergency clinic out on Tamiami Trail. You can walk right in with her.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice shaky.

“You'd better get going,” he said, the gray eyes watching. “I'll help you get her to the car. I think you can manage to get her there by yourself, if she'll lie still for you.”

“Oh, I'm not alone,” I said, turning to look for Raydean. She was gone. The people who had stood watching were wandering away, sensing that Fluffy was going to be all right and embarrassed to be caught openly gaping.

“Well, she was right here,” I said, bewildered. This was not what I needed. We had to get Fluffy to the emergency clinic.

“What does she look like?” my companion asked.

As the onlookers scattered, I saw Raydean sitting alone on a bench at the end of the dock, leaning forward. She had her head in her hands, rocking.

“There she is,” I said, starting to move forward.

“Your mother?” he asked.

“No, a friend of mine. We came down looking for another friend of mine. She used to live here. Denise Curtis—er, Corvase. You don't know her, do you?”

The man thought for a moment. “Denise Corvase,” he murmured. He shook his head. “Can't seem to place her. Friend of yours, you say?”

“Yeah. She kind of disappeared on me. I thought she might be having some trouble with her—” I broke off, aware that I was babbling far too much. “Well, I was wondering if she was here. She used to live on a boat called the
Mirage.
Ever hear of that?” I asked.

My new friend thought again, his face furrowed. “Sorry,” he added. “But I'll ask around. You staying nearby?”

We were almost up to Raydean, and she wasn't looking so good. I needed to get her in the car and do damage control. Fluffy's injury had probably scared Raydean out of whatever fragile balance she had.

“I'm staying at the Airport Hilton,” I said quickly. “It's Sierra Lavotini. Just leave me a message. And thank you for what you done for Fluffy.” Raydean was crying softly as we walked up to her.

“Will she be all right?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, looking up at him. “We'll be fine. Thanks for everything.”

He took the cue and left, walking slowly back down the dock. I walked over to Raydean and placed my hand on her shaking shoulder.

“Honey, are you okay? Fluffy's going to be fine. We just need to take her on to the vet and she'll be right as rain.” Fluffy whimpered as if to contradict me. Raydean slowly raised her head. Her face was puffy and red from crying.

“This is not a safe place,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”

Raydean shook as I led her to the car. Every now and then, she'd look over furtively at Fluffy. I didn't know what she was thinking, but I was even more concerned with getting Fluffy to the vet.

We pulled out of the marina and were headed toward the emergency clinic before Raydean spoke again. She sat with Fluffy perched gingerly on her lap, staring at the wounded paw.

“Sierra, why're we here, anyway?” Her voice had slipped into a little girl's hesitant whispery tones, not at all Raydean.

“We're looking for Denise, honey,” I said softly. “She used to live on a boat called the
Mirage.
I thought—”

Raydean yelled out “Mirage” so loudly, I swerved. A passing car blew its horn as I came too close.

“It's a mirage,” she was saying. “It was a big mirage.” She was shaking so hard I thought Fluffy would slip off her lap.

“What's a big mirage?” I asked, trying to humor her.

“That boat, where Fluffy hurt her paw. Did you not see?” she asked, her old Raydean voice returned. “That boat was the
Mirage.
Said it was out of Boca Raton.”

Fourteen

It was dark when I finally had time to consider life's ironies. Fluffy was resting comfortably on a pillow in the hotel room. Sitting beside her, pillows behind her and Moon Pies at her side, Raydean was watching the Braves on cable. I'd had my hands full all day. We'd waited for hours at the emergency clinic, just so a vet could wrap Fluffy's little paw, lecture me on dog safety, and charge me a hundred bucks.

Raydean had lapsed in and out of some state where it seemed hard to get her to respond. It'd been hell to get her to eat supper. She seemed to eye every restaurant suspiciously, refusing to eat anything but prepackaged food from the grocery store. I'd finally convinced her that we couldn't leave for home until tomorrow because I was tired. I had no idea how to break it to her that we needed to return to the Bahia Mar tomorrow.

I slipped into my new white bikini and used my shirt for a cover-up. Maybe some laps in the pool would loosen me up. That was the ticket, laps and a frozen piña colada. Raydean waved absently as I left for the pool. Fluffy slept on unaware.

The pool at the Airport Hilton was surrounded by white lounge chairs and lush tropical greenery. Like most of your upscale hotels, it featured a poolside bar and a disinterested bartender. The pool was warm, and lit by soft yellow lights. I had the place to myself.

I couldn't tell you how long I swam. I let myself sink into the repetition of stroke after stroke. At some point I realized I was angry. I was pushing myself through the chlorinated water, pushing against everything that seemed to overpower and control me. I pushed away the tears that I'd wanted to shed all day. I pushed away my frustration at being so close to the
Mirage
and being so stupid. That man had to have known the
Mirage
or Leon Corvase. Hell, he could've worked on the boat for all I knew. Like a stupid schoolgirl, I'd let my emotions ride me.

I swam on and on, cursing silently, hurting my sore muscles as punishment, until I was too limp to move. I hauled my water-puckered body up onto the edge of the pool, doing it the hard way. I walked over to my table and dried off with a harsh white pool towel. Now I could have the piña colada. Now I could stop beating myself up and figure the rest of my plan.

I sat, panting, drinking my slushy drink. Somewhere nearby someone lit a cigarette. In my younger, careless days, I'd smoked. Years later, my nose still caught the whiff of a freshly lit cigarette and reached out to inhale. There was something about that first pungent whisp of smoke.

“You saved me the trouble of calling your room.”

The voice, deep, resonant, and steely calm, cut through the darkness and took me back to the morning. He stepped from the shadows and walked up to my table, casually pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. He was wearing white linen trousers, Italian tassel loafers without socks, and a pale pink Izod shirt. Unless my sense of smell was off, he was also wearing Paco Rabon cologne. The white streak in his hair was more prominent in the dark, and his eyes seemed clearer, perhaps more colorless than they had that morning. He carefully set his cigarettes and ornate silver-and-turquoise lighter down on the glass table.

“Mr. Corvase,” I said, my voice a calm lie, “I wondered if you'd come in person or send along a messenger.” Inside, I shuddered. I looked over at the bar, hoping for a witness, but it was deserted. The steel shutter had been pulled tight and locked. It was me, alone with Denise's ex.

“You were looking for Denise,” he said casually. His cigarette glowed orange in the darkness. A few feet away, in the hotel restaurant, patrons ate their dinners by candlelight, looking out at the pool but unable to see me. My table was hidden from view by a bougainvillea. Leon Corvase stretched, his muscles taut, like a large cat.