The Miracle Strip (16 page)

“Then why didn't you tell your ma and me?” Pop asked in exasperation.

“And risk you not understanding, or worse, demanding I quit? I was going to tell you sometime, but I wanted to be working in a better club first. Pop,” I said, “I'm a good girl, really I am. I don't use drugs. I'm not doing anything illegal. I just love what I do, finally.”

Pop shook his head and reached for my hand. “Honey, don't you think that's all your ma and I want for you? Yeah, I gotta admit I was angry when I heard, but part of that's 'cause I heard from a friend and not from you. How you think I felt, hearing my daughter was taking her clothes off in some club in Upper Darby, no less?”

“I'm sorry, Pop.”

“You should be sorry for that, Sierra. That ain't no way to show respect for your parents. But you should never be sorry for doing something you feel is right. Your ma and me, we raised youse guys to hold your heads up and be proud of yourselves. If you want to be the best dancer there ever was, then do it, but don't you never apologize to nobody.”

Pop stood up and put his hand on my head. “I love you, honey, and I'm proud of you, no matter what you think. I'm going home now. I'm not going to tell your mother about this talk because it would hurt her to know you was afraid to come to her. But I expect you home for dinner on Sunday. I expect you to walk in and look your ma in the eye and tell her what's what. That's all I'm asking of you, Sierra. Hold your head up and respect your mother. God gave you a talent, and that ain't nothin' to be ashamed of, honey.”

He left and I showed up for dinner on Sunday. My brother Johnny was the only one to try and give me any grief. I asked him did he think he could strut down a runway, get naked, and walk off with two hundred dollars? He was concerned about his friends finding out.

“So what you're saying, Johnny, is that you're afraid of what they'll think of you.” Johnny sputtered and denied it, but I cut him no slack. “I'm no different naked than I am with clothes on, Johnny. I'm the same person. I haven't lowered myself. I'm not ashamed of my body. It earns me a decent living. If my dancing makes you insecure, then that's your problem.”

Nobody else gave me any grief. When they saw that I hadn't changed and I was still the same old Sierra, everyone lightened up. My brothers even referred some of their friends to my club for bachelor parties. Ma took to helping me craft some of my costumes.

“There,” she'd say, holding up a G-string, “this'll bring in the tips.” In a way, my sheltered, stay-at-home mother was getting her own kicks out of seeing me be successful.

It was a nice couple of years, back then. I worked my way into some better clubs, made some more money, and enjoyed myself. That was before it all got so complicated and long before I made the move to Panama City. I guess I'd been naive to think that geography cured complications. Life in Panama City was turning out to be far more complicated than life in Philadelphia.

*   *   *

I finished my dance and my shift on autopilot, barely aware of the applause and catcalls. I wanted out of the Tiffany. I needed to think. I didn't need to hear some sorry excuse from Lyle about why he ran out on me. I just needed to be alone, to think. I knew now that nothing would be right again until I'd gotten to the bottom of Leon Corvase's murder and brought some control back into my life. That fact was underscored as I walked to my car in the parking lot. The unmarked white sedan had been replaced by a brown Ford. I was still under surveillance.

“Piss on it,” I said to no one, my voice filling the almost-empty lot. “I'm headed back to my trailer, if it makes it any easier for you,” I yelled across the lot. “Maybe you'd like to lead this time.” The detective sitting in the car ignored me.

I slid behind the wheel of the Rent-A-Wreck, turned the key in the ignition, and said a prayer of thanksgiving when it started. At least tomorrow I could go used-car shopping, maybe find another Trans Am. I attempted to chirp the tires as I took off, like I would've done in the old Trans Am, but all the rental did was belch black exhaust. I pulled out of the lot and onto Thomas Drive followed by my trusty police dog.

“Sierra,” a voice said in the darkness. My heart took off and I gasped. “Don't be afraid. It's me, Frankie.”

The voice came from the backseat, somewhere near the floorboards.

“About time you surfaced,” I said. “Where's Denise?”

“We'll talk about that in a couple of minutes,” he said. “First you gotta lose your boyfriend back there.”

“How do you know?”

“Sierra, don't be stupid. I had to wait four hours to find a time to sneak into your car. I've been trying to get ahold of you for two days. You got cops glued to you like dogs got fleas. Of course you got a tail. Now let's lose him.”

I was feeling some ambivalence. The last and only time I'd tangled with Frankie, I'd been on the losing end until Raydean had showed her shotgun. How did I know he didn't want to pay me back? In fact, given the death of Denise's ex, how was I to know he hadn't killed Leon and maybe even Denise?

“I can't lose him, Frankie. Don't you think I've thought of that?”

“Just do like I tell you,” he said. His voice didn't sound like there were going to be any options. It wasn't a polite request.

My curiosity got the best of me. I'd find nothing out if I stuck with my tail. Why not take the chance?

“Cross the bridge like you're heading home. Go your normal speed. Don't let him think anything's unusual. When we get to Beck, turn right.” He was taking me to Old St. Andrews, a residential area filled with renovated older homes that lined the bay.

“That's your plan?” I asked.

“No, Sierra, I didn't want to give you too much at one time.”

“Well, we're over the bridge and passing the college now.” I glanced in my rearview mirror. “He's not too far back,” I said.

“All right, listen. When you turn onto Beck, make a left pretty quick, cut your lights, and pick up speed. You know that area?”

“Well, kind of, but it's not where I usually hang, if that's what you mean.”

Frankie sighed impatiently. “What you want to do is put some distance between you and him, then cut into a driveway or the back of a vacant lot and hide until he goes past and loses you.”

“Yeah, right.” Did he think I was James Bond?

“Sierra, he's not planning on this. You've got the surprise element working in your favor.”

Frankie was right. When I veered suddenly onto Beck, raced for a side street, and cut the lights, I found myself behind the older homes in total darkness. I slid around darkened streets, looking for my opportunity. My heart was racing and my palms were sweating as I gripped the steering wheel. With a quick lurch, I turned into the gravel parking area of a big home, pulling my little Toyota up alongside a ramshackle former garage. As I peered out the back window, I saw the brown Ford glide by a moment later.

“Done,” I said proudly.

Frankie's head popped up from behind the seat. He wasn't smiling.

“Don't get cocky. That boy's on the radio right now, and in two minutes every squad car in Panama City'll be down here looking for you. Come on.” He pushed the back door open and hopped out into the dark humid night.

I saw no option but to follow him. We stayed close to the side of the garage, edging our way out toward the road. Frankie had grabbed my arm and was guiding, pushing, me forward. He'd been right about the police. Three squad cars moved quickly past the old home, responding to the detective's call.

Frankie waited until the third car had passed, then pushed me forward into the light of a lone streetlight and across the street onto the beach that rimmed St. Andrews Bay. It was a cloudy, moonless night, and the black water of the bay seemed to drink any available light down into its depths. Frankie climbed over some fallen tree limbs, all that remained of Hurricane Opal's rampage, and pulled me down and almost under the pile of debris.

“It'll be hard to spot us here,” he said, “even if they come looking.”

I crouched down among the branches, resting on the moist sand. Above us on the road, I could hear the intermittent sound of a car's powerful engine, slowly cruising down the street. John Nailor was going to be pretty unhappy about this development.

“Where's Denise?” I asked.

“You tell me,” Frankie answered, his voice a harsh staccato. “I haven't seen her since I moved her into her new room. She was supposed to sleep for a while, then meet me after work. She never showed up. It's been over a week, Sierra.” Even in the darkness, I could see the anxiety on Frankie's face. “I've got to find her.”

Frankie leaned over to peer into my eyes. “I've got to find her,” he said again, but this time his tone was harsh. “If you know where she is, then you've got to tell me.”

“Why would I hold out on you, Frankie? I told you I don't know where she is.”

The nervous feeling was back in the pit of my stomach. Did he really not know where Denise was, or was this a careful manipulation?

“Did she say anything about me to you?” he asked suddenly. “Did she tell you anything about what's going on?” What was he talking about?

“No, she didn't say anything about you, except that she was happy and she felt safe with you.” I stared through the dark-ness, trying to read him. “Why? Is there something she should've told me?”

Frankie backed up a little. “No,” he said. “I wondered because you seem like you're keeping something back. Maybe she said something to make you not trust me.”

My stomach churned away. None of this made sense. One thing I knew, Frankie wasn't being honest with me. I didn't answer him; instead I waited.

“Sierra, Denise needs me,” he said softly. “She don't know how badly she needs me.” His words were both menacing and pathetic at the same time.

“Frankie,” I said into the dark space between us, “have you stopped to think that maybe she's dead? Maybe some rival dope dealer killed Leon and Denise.”

“No.” Frankie's voice jumped out into the darkness. “No, that's not possible. I would know if she was dead.”

“Bullshit, Frankie,” I said. “How would you know? What do you mean you would ‘know'?”

“I would just know, that's all,” he answered softly. “She isn't dead. She needs me. And she's in big trouble.”

“So you're psychic, are you, Frankie? Now you can see Denise alive and in trouble, but you don't know where she is? Give me a break, Frankie. You're holding out on me. You know a lot of things you aren't telling.” I reached over and snatched at the lapel of his leather vest. “You hurt her, motherfucker, and I'll kill you.”

Frankie's eyes glittered in the darkness. For a moment we stayed locked together, then Frankie threw back his head and laughed. It was a harsh, angry sound that tore at the night air.

“You'll kill me, will you? You're mighty protective of someone you don't know half as well as you think. I'm not Denise's problem. Denise is in trouble all right, but she created it. And I'll tell you one other thing, it'll take more than guts and good looks to pull her out of it.”

There was the sound of a car door slamming and footsteps running along the side of the road. I'd forgotten for a moment about the police. Frankie looked up, then reached across the short space between us. He grabbed me by both arms and pushed me roughly back onto the wet sand. I was only aware of his strength and size as he rolled his body on top of mine and roughly pushed his lips over mine.

I struggled and he pushed harder, seemingly oblivious to the approach of the police. A cold white light washed over us, illuminating Frankie. Frankie turned his face to the light.

“Hey, man,” Frankie said, his voice slow and good-natured. “What gives?” Frankie's body shadowed my face, leaving me in the darkness. “Me and my woman was passing a little time, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled and was rewarded as the officer moved the light away from us.

“Sorry,” he called, “I was looking for someone. You or your lady friend see anyone down on the beach?”

Frankie laughed a deep throaty rasp. “Buddy, I ain't seen nobody and I can assure you my old lady wasn't looking at nothing but my ugly face. Ain't that right, baby?”

“No, baby,” I answered, “I didn't see nobody but you.”

That was good enough for the officer. He spoke into the mike on his lapel and then turned to leave.

“You folks have a good evening,” he called. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

Frankie rolled off me and sat up. I pushed myself up and brushed the sand from my hair and back. The rough feel of Frankie's mustache on my mouth lingered; his leather-and-sweat smell clung to my skin.

“We'd better be gone before they come back and ask for identification or something. I'll get you back to your car.”

“What about you? How will you get back?”

Frankie laughed his mirthless chuckle. “Southern Tattoo's right up the road. I'll call Rambo from there.” He set off walking quickly across the road and I had to run to keep up.

“What about Denise?” I asked.

Frankie didn't look back. “Like I said, Sierra, Denise is in a lot of trouble. If you hear from her, tell her I'm looking for her. Tell her I'll help her.”

“Help her what?” I said to his back.

“She'll know,” he answered, then veered off abruptly to the right. “There's your car.”

The Toyota was no longer hidden by darkness. Two cop cars stood parked behind it, their blue lights flashing and their spotlights trained on my bumper. When I turned back toward Frankie, he was gone, leaving me to face the music alone.

Twenty-one

Detective Dennis Donlevy, my tail, and I had something in common: We were both in hot water with John Nailor. The young detective, when summoned by the officers surrounding my car, introduced himself with barely suppressed rage. He was no happier after speaking to his boss and finding that he was to follow me out to my trailer and wait for Detective Nailor to join us. Donlevy was just plain miserable after we arrived at the Lively Oaks Trailer Park. He slouched in the front seat of his car, staring straight ahead, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.