The Miracle Strip (2 page)

Denise was staring at Vincent like a deer caught in headlights. I gave her a little shove to get her moving, then turned to face the boss. I had the feeling Vincent would've mowed me down to get to Denise, just for the pleasure of reaming her out for leaving her post. Vincent was like that sometimes. If he thought he had the upper hand, he was all over you.

Vincent never had the upper hand with me. For one thing, in my black spike stilettos, I was a good four inches taller than him. For another, Vincent knew I had his number. When he bought the Tiffany, about a year ago, he tried to bluster his way around us girls, intimating that he was big-time connected. He'd sit around, all three hundred pounds of him, in his black suit, with the black silk shirt and tie, wearing these wraparound sunglasses, with it dark as Pharaoh's tomb in here, and let on he knew all these big wiseguys, like Lucky Pagnozzi and Stiff Red Runzi. I knew he didn't know anything.

You don't grow up in Philly without knowing every rank-and-file mobster by name and reputation. Lucky Pagnozzi was a nobody, didn't nobody I know ever hear of him. Now, Stiff Red Runzi, that was a name; only trouble was Stiff Red got his name after the fact. Stiff Red bit it outside a Fort Lauderdale restaurant sometime in the late seventies, secondary to a driveby whack from a rival family.

Vincent Gambuzzo, I found out, was the son of a small-time numbers guy. Buying the Tiffany was Vincent's attempt to make it big. So the first time Vincent attempts to mess with me, I lay it all out for him.

“Vincent,” I say, “I admire what you're trying to do here, really I do. Turning the Tiffany into a high-class joint is a stroke of genius, but you're making a mistake.”

Vincent kinda leans back in his chair, puffing up his chest, getting ready for a fight.

“And how is that?” he asks, pitching his voice low like he's maybe Marlon Brando.

“Well,” I say, “you start off good, but then you start bullying everybody around and treating me, your top act, like I'm a no-nothing no-talent. That will not get your staff to pull behind you. It will, however, piss us off.”

Vincent's face turns red and his jaw starts pumping like the turnstile at Vets Stadium on the opening day of baseball season. Before he can blow, I continue.

“Furthermore, my last name's Lavotini, as in Moose Lavotini. You may have heard of him?”

All right, now, I admit that I am not related to Big Moose Lavotini, head of the Lavotini Syndicate out of Cape May, New Jersey, but Vincent didn't need to know that. I just paused and looked significant. Vincent took the bait and blanched. He didn't talk to me no more like I was lunch meat, and I didn't bring up that his so-called connections were bogus.

So when Vincent saw me in the hallway, he realized he wasn't going to get to Denise. Instead, he slowed up and stared at me from behind his sunglasses.

“Don't you got nothing better to do than block the hallway?” he grumbled.

Vincent had to save face some way. I shouldered past him and into the dressing room. It was five minutes until I had to be back on for the second show. I realized as I walked into the dressing room that I was still carrying Arlo's crumpled ransom note.

Three

Denise didn't live far from the Tiffany. She'd lucked out moving to Panama City in the winter, off season to all but the snowbirds from Canada. She had an efficiency in the Blue Marlin, one of the little family motels that lined Highway 98, a main route to the beach. Denise managed to live there for off-season rent year-round by relieving the motel manager of front-desk duty one day a week.

We wandered past the pool, our faces lit with the weird incandescent glow that radiated from the underwater lights. Denise's little studio was at the far end of the court, right next to the ice machine and the motel laundry. It was April, spring break season, and the motel was pretty much at capacity. Parties seemed to be in full swing in many of the motel rooms, the music and mating calls of the young rednecks echoing off the enclosing walls of the complex.

Denise didn't seem to hear a thing. She stuck her key numbly in the lock, sighing as it wouldn't turn and she had to twist harder.

“Damn thing,” she muttered impatiently.

“Want me to try?”

I turned the key in the lock and quickly realized the problem: Denise'd already unlocked it. I said nothing, turned the door handle, and pushed open the door. Even without turning the lights on, with only the dim glow from the neon tubes that framed each wing of the motel, I could see something was very wrong. It was either that or Denise was a bad housekeeper. The insides of the little efficiency were turned upside down. The mattress from the bed was flung against the wall, lamps were knocked over, and the contents of the dresser drawers decorated the tiny apartment.

“Oh my God,” Denise gasped, sagging against my arm.

I reached around and fumbled for the light switch. With the overhead light on, I could see we had a much larger problem. The lump of sheets at the foot of the bed wasn't a lump of sheets. It was a body.

Denise tossed her cookies all over the sidewalk outside the room, narrowly missing my stilettos. I took a few steps inside the room, in part to avoid being splattered, in part to make sure the guy was really dead, not just hurt bad. There was no mistake. The man's hands were tied behind his back and blood had clotted around a small indentation at the base of his skull.

Behind me, I could hear Denise heave again as I looked around for the phone. I found it on the far side of the bed, ripped from the wall.

“Denise,” I called, “is the office open?” I was on automatic pilot. I didn't want to stand still long enough to really get what had happened. I needed to move, to get help, to get away from the odor and the sight of a pale yellow body.

Denise coughed and straightened up. “Yeah,” she said, “there should be someone in there.”

“Well, we need a phone. Yours is out of order.” I blew past her and headed up to the front office with Denise right behind me.

*   *   *

The police had to make their way through spring break traffic. I heard the siren long before I actually saw them weaving in and out of cars, passing pickup after pickup of half-clad, drunken college kids. Denise was sitting inside the office, sipping tea that her friend the manager had pressed upon us both. I was standing outside by the entrance, trying to suck enough air into my lungs to replace the smell of death. It didn't seem to be working.

Panama City sent three cars. The area was quickly sealed off, and before I knew it, Denise and I were leading the officers back to her room. This time I couldn't go inside. They let us go as far as the edge of the sidewalk. It must've made quite a picture. There I am, still in my stage makeup, my blond hair all piled up on top of my head, dressed in stiletto heels, towering over this young recruit with a buzz cut. Denise's there, looking tiny and frail, and stinking like vomit. The whole place is rapidly being cordoned off with crime scene tape, which, as it always does on TV, draws a crowd. And to top it off, there's a dead body on Denise's floor.

Denise was standing next to me, peering into her place and shaking, when the detective arrived. I knew it was him because of the way the uniforms started cutting out of his way, and how they right away let him past the tape and got busy. Up until he arrived they'd all just stood around, not doing much of anything.

The detective walked right up to the body.

“You guys get a shot of this yet?” he called to the crime scene team.

“Got it, Skipper,” someone yelled out.

The detective stared at the guy's back for a moment, like he was thinking or something, then he leaned down and turned the guy over. Denise gasped again, her eyes widened.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

“Oh God, what?” I asked. She looked terrified and even more pale. “You know him?”

Denise trembled violently. “No,” she said. “I never saw the guy before.”

The young recruit who'd written down our particulars was standing next to Denise, watching. I don't know what he was thinking, but I was thinking, She knows that guy. The victim may have been a mess, his face bloody and discolored, but I could've sworn she knew him.

The detective called to the police officer who'd taken our statements and he trotted right up. I was trying to read their lips, but Denise had another agenda.

“Sierra,” she hissed, yanking on my sleeve.

“Hush,” I hissed back, “I'm trying to get what they're saying.”

“Sierra!” Her voice was insistent.

“What?” I said, impatient to get back to eavesdropping. Denise looked around to make sure no one was listening.

“Don't say anything about Arlo,” she said softly.

I turned all the way around, forgetting about the cops.

“Look, Denise, do you think this could have something to do with Arlo?”

Denise wouldn't look me in the eye. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” I said. “Listen, Denise, your dog disappears, then your place gets torn up and some guy's dead on your floor, and you don't know?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the police officer gesture toward us. “I think you oughta level with them, Denise.”

Denise glared at me, the color rushing back into her face. “Look, Sierra, they got Arlo, all right? I don't give a rat's ass about anything else. They've got my dog and I'm not doing nothing to jeopardize getting him back.”

The cop and the detective were starting toward us. I didn't have time to mention to Denise that there was the small matter of her being a barmaid and not having the ransom money.

Denise's eyes were filled with tears. “I mean it, Sierra,” she whispered. “Keep your mouth shut about Arlo.”

What else could I do?

*   *   *

Detective John Nailor wasn't my type. I knew it from the moment the officer with the clipboard introduced us. I don't mean he was unattractive—far from it. I'm only saying he was a little too clean-cut for my tastes, that's all. His hair was black and clipped short. He had deep brown eyes, the kind that don't miss details. He walked up and shook hands like he was at a business meeting, firm and efficient. He was wearing a navy blue suit that I could tell must have set him back plenty. His shirt was crisp and white, and to his credit, I didn't see one of those plastic pocket liners some men have to keep their pens from leaking. He smelled good, too.

Denise wouldn't look him in the eye. She stared down at the ground and was still shaking like a blender. Detective Nailor put his hand on Denise's shoulder like a big brother and started talking.

“Ms. Curtis, I know this has been hard on you, but I need to ask you some questions. I'd like you to come to the station and give a statement.”

Denise shook her head. “Why?” she asked.

Nailor shrugged. “We find it easier to do it that way. I can type up your statement, get you to sign it, and we'll be through.”

That's what he said, but his eyes were serious, and he watched Denise like maybe she was holding back. Maybe I was paranoid; after all, I'm not used to keeping secrets from cops. I didn't think he'd be such a bad guy to talk to, but it was Denise's secret to spill, not mine.

“Let's go, Denise,” I said. “We'll give our statements and get it over with.”

Nailor looked up at me and smiled. “That won't be necessary, Ms. Lavotini,” he said firmly. “I only need to talk with Ms. Curtis. She's the resident. As I understand it, you were just visiting?”

He was smooth, this guy. The way he asked the question and then stared into my eyes made me feel guilty, and I hadn't even done anything. My dad used to look at me like that when he thought I was skipping school or giving the nuns a hard time. Most of the time my dad didn't even have anything on me; he'd only ask like that to see what I'd cop to, but that was then.

“That's right, Detective,” I answered, “I was only visiting.”

Denise stood up a little straighter and tossed her long red hair back over her shoulder.

“I'll be fine, Sierra,” she said, her voice suddenly strong. “I'll call you later.”

“Whatever,” I answered.

I knew what they were doing. They were separating us, in case I said something she didn't or vice versa. I read books. I watch TV. I am not a dummy. The detective escorted me to my '87 Trans Am. He stood next to me while I fumbled with my keys.

“Listen,” I said, “you go easy on my friend. She's a good kid and this is a big shock to her.”

Nailor smiled, but his eyes reached into mine, questioning. “Ms. Lavotini, if your friend's telling it like it really is, she's got nothing to worry about. From us, that is.”

“What do you mean by that exactly?”

Detective Nailor stared at me for a moment. Behind him the neon lights of the Blue Marlin flickered and went out. It was dawn on the Redneck Riviera and the sun was starting to rise.

“This wasn't some random robbery. That man was killed somewhere else and brought to Ms. Curtis's apartment. I'd say someone's sending your friend a message.”

I wanted to ask him more, but I stopped because I realized he didn't know any more. Detective Nailor was as new to the scene as I was, only I knew about Arlo and Nailor didn't. I shrugged my shoulders and slid into the driver's seat.

Nailor pushed the door closed, then leaned his hands on the open window and peered inside.

“I'll be in touch,” he said.

“I'm sure you will,” I answered.

I took off in a cloud of exhaust, revving my engine and laying tracks out of the Blue Marlin. It was six
A.M.
on a spring beach morning, my friend had lost a dog and gained a dead man, and suddenly I was very, very tired.

Four

I was dreaming. Me and Fluffy, my Chihuahua, were riding in the front car of the roller coaster at Disney World. Fluffy was holding her tiny front paws up in the air and yelping with excitement. Her lips were pulled back in what can only be described as a grin of pure joy. Then we shot into a tunnel, and the sound of the roller-coaster wheels on the tracks was intensified a million times. We covered our eyes, but the noise continued. It was so loud, it woke me up.