Drag Strip
Authors: Nancy Bartholomew
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Contents
St. Martin's Paperbacks Titles by Nancy Bartholomew
Overwhelming Acclaim for the Sierra Lavotini Mysteries
Other titles from St. Martin's Minotaur Mysteries
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Always, for Adam, Ben, and John
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where would I be without your love?
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and
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For Chi-Chiâmy beloved aunt and mentor,
my safe harbor.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks goes out to my editor, Kelley Ragland. I am fortunate indeed to have such a dedicated and talented force in my corner. I would be remiss if I failed to mention the extraordinary efforts of my hardworking publicists: Naomi Mendelsohn and Katie Monaghan. They came through for me time after time.
I would like to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of my critique group: Nancy Gates, Wendy Greene, Chris Farran, Charlotte Perkins, Ellen Hunter, Diane L. Berry, and Rene Gilleo.
Thanks to the members of the Panama City Police Department, in particular Sergeant Joe E. Hall. Thanks also to Corporal Stan Lawhorne of the Greensboro Police Department for spending countless hours driving me around southeast Greensboro, explaining police procedure. My thanks also to Clay Harvey, author and noted gun expert, for his support and advice in both areas.
This book was researched and written with support from the Central Piedmont Regional Artists Hub and the North Carolina Arts Council.
I would be lost without the support I have found from the mystery reading and writing community. Sisters in Crime, the Atlanta chapter, gave me my start. Mystery Writers of America, in particular the South Florida chapter, pushed me further along. There are so many, many wonderful writers out there always willing to help out a fellow author and to lend a hand whenever possible.
Then there are those wonderful independent bookstore owners who held signings, fed me, encouraged me, and endorsed my efforts to their customers. Thank you!
I am forever indebted to my loyal family of first readers: Suzi and Larry, Nancy and Jeff, Mom, Betsy, Chuck and Edie.
I am a working mother, as all mothers are, and I would never have finished this book without the caring support of my friends. For all the moms who took my boys for an afternoon, or said, “You go, girl,” I am eternally grateful. My very best friend from childhood, Betsy, called all of our old friends and organized a reunion, reminding me that she'd always known I would one day write a book. Thanks for believing in me; you don't know how much I value your friendship.
Last, but never least, I thank my family. My parents were always there in a pinch, promoting and publicizing when they weren't rescuing us all. My husband listened to each word, every day, as it was written. My boys ate noodles, wore wrinkled clothes at best, and were late for almost everything except soccer. The house remains a shambles. The dog is still untrained. But we are all together, dirty and happy, piled up on my bed eating Chinese takeout from little white cardboard containers. Thank you for enabling me to chase my dream.
One
John Nailor and Vincent Gambuzzo are trying to drive me crazy. If they were working together on this project, I'm sure I'd be in a straitjacket somewhere, gulping down Prozac cocktails. As it is, I'm still one up on both of them, but they're gaining on me.
John Nailor is a detective with the Panama City Police Department, and up until he kissed this little brown-headed woman, I thought he was pretty interested in me. It wasn't like we were dating. We had shared an encounter of a personal and dangerous nature and I thought that in the near future we would evolve into something a bit more horizontal. But when he looked over at me before he kissed her, I knew I'd gotten it all wrong.
I guess he's not really my type anyway. He's too clean-cut. His hair is straight and brown, and he wears suits, with crisp oxford-cloth shirts and ties. He's not even quite as tall as me when I wear my five-inch stilettos, but still, there's something about him that makes me forget that I prefer a biker with a panhead Harley. Maybe it's his eyes. When I stare at him, he never backs down. That is, until he kissed that woman right in front of me. He looked away then.
Vincent Gambuzzo, on the other hand, drives me crazy for an entirely different reason. He's my boss. He figures it's his job to make my life a living hell. The Tiffany, where I work, is his little kingdom. He figures if he micromanages his exotic dancers, especially me, his headliner, then his club will one day be as well-known as the Gold Club in Atlanta. I say what Vincent knows about managing talent could be stuck on the head of a pin and you'd still have room left over.
Take, for example, tonight. I'm out on the runway doing my tribute to Dorothy and
The Wizard of Oz
when Vincent comes barreling right down front with some young guy in a black satin jacket. Vincent can never do anything small. He weighs about three hundred pounds, all of which he squeezes into a black suit and black silk collarless shirt. He talks loud and he wears black wraparound sunglasses 24/7, even with it dark as ink in the club.
“Hey, Rita,” he shouts, “bring Mr. Rhodes here a gin and tonic. And bring me my usual.”
Did he not have any respect for a working artist? Judy Garland is crooning “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” I'm reaching behind my back to undo my red sequin bra, and guys are down front panting. He completely blew the moment.
Vincent didn't even notice. He was too busy arranging for Mr. Big Shot's comfort. For somebody who's always intimating that he's mob connected and therefore fearless, he sure was kissing up to this Mr. Rhodes. It was sickening, but then, I know Vincent is no more connected to the mob than my third-grade teacher, Sister Mary Rose. So he needs all the big-shot connections he can get. Of course, that still doesn't justify why he saw fit to drag me into the whole thing. If Vincent Gambuzzo hadn't dragged me into his little plan for Mickey Rhodes and the Dead Lakes Motor Speedway, then I wouldn't have seen John Nailor kissing that bimbo and I certainly wouldn't have gotten myself in such big-time trouble.
Vincent waited until I was down to my pasties and my red sequin shoes to point me out to his visitor. He leaned across the table and bellowed: “Now you'll want her for sure. That's what you get when you use the Tiffany talent.”
I'm thinking whatever scheme Vincent Gambuzzo is trying to promote, Sierra Lavotini will avoid like the black plague. I don't do lap dances and I don't have nothing but a hands-off relationship with the clientele. Vincent had to be out of his mind, and the dirty look I shot him told him so.
Vincent laughed. “She's a feisty one, that Sierra, but she draws a crowd.”
I'm thinking to have a little talk with Gambuzzo after his friend leaves, maybe remind him that Sierra Lavotini is perhaps connected to the “Big Moose” Lavotini syndicate out of Cape May, New Jersey. That usually kept Vincent in his place. He didn't need to find out that I was in no way related to Mr. Moose.
When I clicked my heels three times for the finale and started saying “There's no place like home” to my crowd of admirers, Vincent started talking again. I'm sure he ruined my tips by a good fifty percent.
“Sure,” he was saying. “Pick any two girls you want. I'll have them up to the Speedway for opening night. It's no problem.”
I snapped my garter, trying to get Vincent's attention, but he ignored me. If he thought I was going up to some racetrack and stand around while greasy-fingered motorheads rubbed their hands all over my ass, well, he was mistaken.
Of course, if the money was right, I might consider it.
Two
Ruby Diamond was born to strip. I knew it from the moment she walked into the Tiffany. You can tell a natural at a glance. It's the way she moves. Ruby's walk was a caress. She was comfortable with herself and vulnerable, all at once. When she got up on stage to audition, the men in the club stopped to watch, and not because her figure was outstanding, which it was. They stopped because something in them reached out to her.
Ruby walked out on stage and the music started, but she didn't move for a full thirty seconds. She just stood there, looking out like she was searching past the bright lights for something or someone. She stood there, biting her lower lip gently, wearing nothing but an FSU T-shirt and a bikini. She had long brown hair, coiled into a sleek French twist, and large liquid brown eyes. For one moment, every man in the place imagined that Ruby was a virgin and she was going to offer herself to only him.
They moved, like a herd, down to the front of the stage, their faces changing into soft, comforting older-but-wiser lovers. She seemed to look at each man, a smile playing softly across her face, and then she began to move. She held those men in the palm of her hand, and before she'd even lost her T-shirt, her garter was full of bills.
The men didn't whistle and call out like they do the ones who strip to get naked. They whispered encouragement. They smiled like newlywed husbands on their honeymoon night. They were entranced. Ruby, in her soft, open way, was seeming to give herself up to them, but I was watching her eyes and I knew the truth. Ruby was a pro, just like me. She was new and her act lacked refinement, but she was pro material nonetheless.
Later, after Vincent hired her, I gave her the backstage tour. That's when I got the scoop, just like I do with all the new girls.
“So what do you think?” I asked. I swept my arm around the locker room, including the long makeup bar with its wall-to-wall mirror and the rusty metal lockers.
Ruby was glowing. “It's great. Just great.” In the light of the dressing room I could see she was no more than nineteen, about the age I was when I started.
“First job?” I asked.
She turned to me, her eyes gleaming with the knowledge she'd just conquered the room.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Yeah. But I won a wet T-shirt contest on the beach last month.” As if that counted for something.
I knew the look. She'd just discovered that there was something she could do really well. She could make men want her, and for that, she could make a lot of money. I felt the same way my first time. Most of the time I still feel that way. There's nothing like standing at the edge of the runway, towering over a crowd of men, and realizing they're yours. You own them.
“I just moved here from Wewahitchka,” she said abruptly. “I got my own place and everything, but my roommate, she took off on me. I didn't know how I was gonna make the rent. Then I saw the audition sign, and it was just like my psychic said: âDon't turn down any opportunities; this is your lucky cycle.'”
