The Miracle Strip (12 page)

Marla was waiting in the dressing room. She was carefully applying silver glitter eyeshadow and trying to act nonchalant. She was wearing part of her costume, a silver sequined bodice with an American flag on her chest. Matching silver shoes lay beside her chair and the wings leaned against the side of her dressing table.

“You're back,” she said in a strangled, little-girl tone. “I'm glad.”

“No you're not,” I said pointedly, “but nice try.” Marla straightened up and eyed me nervously.

“Sierra,” she said, all sugar and spice, “let's us try to get along. We're all one big family—”

“Marla, cut the crap. I'm not in your family and you damn sure ain't in mine. Face facts. You spent the week I've been gone trying to worm your way to the top and take my slot.” She wouldn't look me in the eye. “I expected no less from you. But I'm back now,” I said as I walked slowly toward her, enjoying the fear in her eyes, “so any ideas you had about taking my place are hereby made history. Got that?”

Marla was trying hard not to blink, not to back down, but her south Alabama breeding didn't hold her up. She swallowed hard and would have answered me, had not Rusty interrupted us.

“Sierra, the new guy, Lyle, told me he found some of Denise's stuff behind the bar. He was wondering what to do with it. I figured you might want it, maybe you'll be seeing her.”

I stared at him, completely forgetting Marla. Rusty stood holding the dressing-room door open. He was trying to act like it didn't faze him, seeing girls running around half dressed, but he was one of those guys who never quite get used to it. Rusty was fair-skinned and redheaded. His feelings had a way of creeping up his neck and staining his face, no matter how much facial hair he tried to grow. Rusty was a boy and wouldn't be a man even in old age.

“Where is it?” I asked. I hadn't even considered the possibility that Denise had left something behind at the club.

“Lyle's got it behind the bar. Says it's a makeup bag or something like that.” Marla was using the distraction to edge her way toward Rusty and out the door. I let her go. Life had suddenly slipped back into focus. I had Denise and Arlo to think of. This was no time for a catfight.

*   *   *

Lyle was an efficient bartender. He combined an economy of motion with an easy patter of small talk. I watched him reach into the cooler for a beer and a frosted mug with one hand, while neatly placing a napkin in front of a customer and saying something that made the man in front of him laugh. He was a man's man, but not one of those with a point to prove. He was easy and confident with his masculinity.

I stood at the edge of the waitress station, watching him finish with the customer and waiting. I knew he saw me because he reached under the bar and picked up Denise's floral makeup bag before he turned around and walked toward me.

“You must be Sierra,” he said in a soft Texan drawl. He glanced up at me quickly, then looked away, almost as if he were shy.

“No flies on you, cowboy.” I took the bag he offered, my fingers lightly grazing his. “This all?” I asked.

Lyle shoved his tan felt Stetson a little further back on his head and stared into my eyes. With my heels on, we were even. Maybe he had an inch or so on me, but I could look almost straight back at him. His face was tanned and lines played around his eyes and mouth. He looked like the genuine article, but why would a real cowboy tend bar?

“It is, Sierra, less'n you'd do me a favor and let me buy you a drink after closing.”

I looked back at him, then over his shoulder at the customers lining the bar. They were all watching, and despite the volume of the music, I had the feeling they all knew what was going on and what Lyle was asking. They were rooting for Lyle.

Lyle looked at me, his gaze unwavering, expectant, and earnest. What I liked about the way he asked was that he was straightforward. No gimmicks. It wasn't going to make or break his day if I said no. Shit. Why the hell not, I thought. I say yes to one guy and simultaneously fulfill the fantasies of ten others. It wasn't like I exactly had an overload of male company in my life. And it was only a drink, for pity's sake. Why the hell not? I said yes and the whole bar ordered another round.

To his credit, Lyle didn't try to act like this was a goal and he'd just scored. He merely nodded politely, said he'd see me later, and went back to his job. I went backstage clutching Denise's bag and feeling like maybe the tide was turning.

Don't misunderstand me. I am not a princess and I do not feel like any man who gets to spend time with me has been granted some royal privilege. Quite the contrary. But in my line of work, men overlook the personality inside and deal only with the package. I can understand that. I created my image. It earns me a good living, but the drawback, and sometimes the blessing, is that I don't meet too many men who go beyond the exotic dancer to the self-actualized inner being.

I dated a therapist one time who told me this was a defense mechanism. “Well, who doesn't know that?” I said. “Sometimes being a little lonely, with money to spare, is better than life with an alcoholic asshole who beats you.”

My therapist boyfriend said, “Let's talk about the alcoholic asshole who beat you.”

“Hey, Sigmund, when I need a therapist, I'll pay one,” I said, and quit dating him. Like I was saying, who needs complications and assholes? Just give me a man who doesn't feel you're an engine that needs to be tuned up or overhauled. This once, let me find a guy who doesn't only want to get laid and own you.

I was ready to hop up onstage and start lecturing when I remembered Denise's bag and the real reason for traveling out and meeting Lyle in the first place. I took a detour into the dancers' rest rooms and decided to have a look-see in private.

I sat down on the commode in one of the stalls and unzipped the bag. Denise had crammed her few essentials into a small space. A lipstick in a cheap gold case spilled out onto the floor and rolled across the cracked ceramic tile. Mascara, powder, and various other cosmetics crowded to the top of the bag. I emptied them out hastily into my lap, hoping to find something, anything, that might lead me to Denise.

At the bottom of the bag, I found the only remaining tokens of Denise's life in Panama City, a picture of Arlo sitting on the back of Denise's Harley and a Blue Marlin Motel key. I figured the key was Denise's spare, hidden in her bag in case her other one got lost. I cradled the picture of Arlo, staring at his little gray face. His dark dog eyes seemed to stare back at me. Where are you guys? I wondered.

I packed the makeup back into Denise's bag, keeping the key and the picture. Denise had been gone for a week. If she'd really left town, then her stuff would be gone from the motel efficiency. Her Harley wouldn't be parked out in front of her room and her car would have vanished, too. But if someone had snatched her, then maybe her stuff would still be around. Maybe there'd be something in her apartment that would help me prove she'd been kidnapped, because no matter what anyone else said, I was sure Denise had left against her will.

Seventeen

He caught me as I was leaving. I almost didn't recognize him without the hat. He stood there outside the supply closet, holding a case of liquor and looking at me with his big dark eyes. It was going on three
A.M.
I'd done my last set, removed my stage makeup, and scurried into my clothes. I had one thing on my mind and Lyle had another on his.

In my rush to get to the Blue Marlin, I'd forgotten Lyle and the promised drink. I turned back around and faced him. I could have blown him off and continued on my way, but a promise was a promise. Sierra Lavotini keeps her word. Truth was, I wanted a drink before tackling Denise's room. And truth was, too, Lyle was growing on me. I liked the way his hair fell over his forehead into his eyes when he wasn't wearing his Stetson. I liked the way his forearms rippled and pulled taut when he hefted the case of bottles.

“I didn't forget,” I began, shifting my dance bag up on my shoulder.

“No?” He didn't believe me, but he was playing along.

“No,” I said firmly. “I was going to toss my stuff in the car so I wouldn't forget later. I'll be right back.”

He favored me with one of his half-amused lopsided grins. “If this is not a good time, Sierra—” he began. I cut him off.

“Lyle, really, this is a great time. How about a vodka gimlet?” He nodded and headed off toward the bar. I watched him walk away. He had a nice ass for a cowboy.

*   *   *

The vodka gimlet was waiting when I returned. It was perfect, heavy on the vodka, light on the lime. Lyle leaned back against the wall behind the bar and watched me take the first sip. He was drinking a Corona, a wedge of lime squeezed down the long neck of the bottle. An empty shot glass stood next to a bottle of tequila and a salt shaker.

I sat and waited for the preliminaries, because they always come: “I liked your act” and “How'd a girl like you…” But Lyle didn't say any of the expected.

“I hear tell you didn't exactly cotton to me taking over your friend's job,” he said, his voice a long, dry drawl.

“It don't have a thing to do with you, I guess,” I said. “It was just a shock to walk in after only a week and see you.”

Lyle laughed. “Believe me,” he said, “it was a shock to look up onstage and see you walking out of the fog and not the B-52s of Miss Marla Angelica.” He grinned. “It was a very welcome surprise, I might add.”

I took another sip of my gimlet and looked Lyle over.

“You got something against our men in blue?” I asked. I was going to enjoy this. The vodka was warming its way down my body and I felt like sitting for a while.

“No,” Lyle said slowly, “I don't object to a military salute, but I'm not a glitter-and-sequin man, personally. I like a woman who knows she's a woman, with the right equipment, and ain't afraid to use it. I like,” Lyle said, leaning forward, “simplicity and sophistication.”

Something other than vodka was spreading like a brushfire through my body. This had the makings of a long evening. I looked down and realized that my glass was empty. Just as quickly, Lyle replaced it with another gimlet. He poured a shot of tequila, licked the
V
between his thumb and forefinger, salted it, and licked again. He tossed back the tequila with one short move, then bit into a wedge of lime. We sat quietly for a few moments, long enough for me to realize he'd switched the bar music to country.

“Why'd your friend quit?” he asked after a while.

“She didn't quit,” I answered impatiently. What had Vincent told him, anyway? “She's missing.”

Lyle straightened up and looked like maybe he hadn't heard me right. “Missing?”

“Yeah, but nobody else thinks so. Vincent and the others think she took off.”

Lyle looked concerned. He moved closer to the bar and touched my hand lightly. To my surprise I found myself crying—not big crying, just tears leaking and running down my cheeks.

“Man,” he said, sighing, “I can see now why you were so upset to see me here. How'd she disappear?”

I thought about it before I spoke. I tried to figure his angle. Did he want to know because he was really concerned or was this the come-on before the usual come-on? I somehow didn't think so. I figured that if Lyle wanted to sleep with me, he'd ask.

So I told him the whole story. I told him about Arlo and Denise and the dead body in her apartment. I told him about Frankie the Biker and Leon Corvase. I told him how Denise had dropped out of sight after the accident and how I knew she'd never run off without Arlo. I told him I didn't think she'd run out on me either, but that part I wasn't so sure about.

Lyle listened. He leaned back against the wall, arms folded against his chest, a serious, intent look on his face. He didn't ask questions. He didn't look away. He let it all drain out until I had nothing left to say. I swallowed the last of my gimlet and sat there, feeling empty.

“So you've got her key,” Lyle said. “When are you going to use it?”

I pushed back from the bar and reached for my purse, feeling through the leather pocket to make sure the key was still there.

“I was planning on going there later tonight.”

Lyle took my empty glass and, instead of refilling it, dunked it in the soapy water behind the bar. I guess it was his way of saying two is enough. He was closing down for the night. He leaned over and switched off the music.

“Let's go,” he said. “I'll follow you.” He reached for his hat and started out from behind the bar.

“Wait a minute,” I said. I wasn't so sure this was the way I'd planned it.

Lyle stopped, his slow smile warming his face.

“You're right,” he said. “I was inviting myself along. But,” he said, looking at his watch, “it's going on four
A.M.
I just thought it might be a little hairy, doing it all by yourself, without a lookout. I mean, if someone snatched your friend, maybe he's watching her place, or hanging around nearby.” He looked apologetic. “I was thinking you could use a little muscle, if'n it came to that.”

He had a point. Leon Corvase had made me a little cautious. Maybe he was having Denise's place watched. If he hadn't snatched her, he'd be looking for her. I made a snap judgment.

“You can come,” I said, “but you have to stay outside and watch from there.” Then, belatedly: “I'd appreciate having someone cover my back.”

*   *   *

Lyle stayed right behind my rental car the whole way over. He drove a big pickup, with some kind of shiny chrome wind-scoop deal on the roof of the cab. It looked like an out-of-place cowcatcher. His truck was bright red with gold curlicues detailing the lines along the truck's sides. I got to worrying that having Lyle's pickup in the parking lot of the Blue Marlin would be like taking a mobile billboard advertising my presence.