Drag Strip (29 page)

Meatloaf dangled them in front of me. “Police auxiliary,” he said. “Always prepared.”

I took the knife away slowly, folded it, and put it in my pocket.

“Are you just going to let her do that?” Carla screeched.

“Absolutely,” Wheeling smiled. “She's police auxiliary, too.”

“No, she's not!” Carla wasn't having any of it, but then, neither was Wheeling.

“Try me,” he said. “You may have my partner's balls in a sling, but you're nothing to me. I don't owe you a thing.”

“I'll have him in my custody before the day's out,” she huffed, watching one of Wheeling's men lead Mickey away.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

Then he looked over at me, the mustache twitching to beat the band, his face held as stiff as ever, but just barely.

“Let's go see about my partner,” he said, crooking his elbow.

We left Carla sputtering and walked out onto the fire escape. Detective Wheeling looked over at me, his eyebrow raised speculatively.

“Okay,” he said, “the DEA's been camped out on Rhodes's doorstep for months, watching his money-laundering operation. I've been here investigating a murder. How come you, a”—he struggled for a moment—“an amateur, could figure out that Rhodes killed your friend and her father?”

I leaned against the railing and watched the action on the ground below. Mickey was being searched, a small crowd of drivers and mechanics gathering to watch, incredulous looks on all their faces.

“I wasn't sure,” I said. “But I knew that Ruby and Wannamaker were killed for a reason, and the only link was the missing brother, Michael. After Wannamaker was killed, I knew money was the motive. The killer had to be somebody who needed or wanted money badly enough to kill for it. I nosed around until I figured out who it was. Mickey was at both murder scenes. Looking back on it, he was at the club the night I got beat up.” Wheeling looked surprised. “I didn't tell you about that one,” I said. “Mickey owed everybody money. Hearing him say on the phone that he'd be coming into money confirmed it for me. Tripping over his safe, now, that was a giveaway.”

Detective Wheeling's mustache jerked. He shook his head and led me down the steps.

“Mind if I catch a ride with you?” he asked. “It isn't everyday I ride with a good-looking detective. Most of the time, I gotta ride with ugly cusses, like your boyfriend.”

We drove back toward Panama City. Ahead of us was the squad car carrying Michael, a.k.a, Mickey Rhodes. Behind my Camaro were five Panama City police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Not because they needed them, but simply because they could. That's Panama City. We may be small, but we're living large.

Thirty-one

We pulled up onto my parking pad and I cut the engine. The sun was beginning to set, and the early evening sky washed the silver trailers with color.

“I guess you got a lot to take up with him, huh?” I said. “But just so you know, he's not feeling too well.”

Detective Wheeling looked over at me. “You don't have to worry. I think I know why he did it, and I'm not going to bust his chops about it.”

“Why, then?”

Wheeling looked down at his lap, his hands twitching a little as he debated what to say.

“Sierra, I'm thinking you might be around for a while,” he said. “I'm thinking you might be trustworthy with this, but God knows, I don't want this getting out.” He took a deep breath and looked away. “Awhile back, I had an affair with a patrol officer. It's not something I'm proud of, but it happens. I could tell you it was the hours or the work, but that would just be crap. I had an affair. It almost cost me my family, and if anyone in the department had known, it would've cost me my job. Still could.”

I reached over and put my hand on his arm, but I don't think he was even aware.

“When I saw her sister coming out of the racetrack office a while back, I knew. John didn't want to risk me getting involved. And I hate to say it but I'm pretty sure Carla knew about it, too. The police department's a small place, and back when I was seeing Suzi, Carla was working third.”

“You think she'd hold that over John's head?” The woman was lower than I thought.

“You don't know her,” Wheeling said, “she's got a one-track mind for the job. She'd use whatever leverage she had to pull John into the investigation, even if it meant threatening his partner or forcing him to lie to his chief. Loyalty doesn't matter to her. She wanted to crack that money-laundering operation. It didn't matter what it took to do it. The job is everything. That's what broke her and John up.” He looked at me. “So that's that, all right? Stays between you and me, okay?”

“Deal,” I said. “Let's go see your partner.”

*   *   *

The trailer was rocking when we stepped inside. Ma, Al, Arlen, Raydean, and Vincent Gambuzzo all sat around the kitchen table, the remains of lunch scattered across the countertops. A ferocious card game was in progress, and Pa's gallon jug of Chianti was almost empty. Even Al was smiling, a large pile of poker chips sitting next to his empty tumbler.

“Youse gonna ante up, or what?” he demanded of his tablemates.

Raydean threw in a red chip and cried, “Hit me, big man! One card!”

Arlen hooted and folded his cards. Ma sighed and threw in a blue chip.

“Give me four,” she said.

It was gonna be a long night.

Raydean spotted me first, about the same time Fluffy came prancing in from the back.

“He must be better, huh?” I asked, hoping they hadn't forgotten their patient.

“Get out them track shoes, girlie,” Raydean cried. “The fever broke and he's asking for food!”

“Yeah,” Al said, “but these two loaded him up on the vino as an extra precaution. The guy's probably floating on the ceiling by now!”

I looked over at Fluff for a report. “He doing better?” I asked.

Fluffy yapped once and went over to the game. She hopped up in Al's lap, never one to go for the underdog, and appeared to be reading his cards.

“You go on,” Wheeling said. “I'll wait.”

I wanted to go, worse than anything, but he'd been right, he had the longer relationship, and right now that needed attention.

“At the end of the hall,” I said, giving him a push. “You go. I'll wait.”

“Thanks, Sierra.” He walked off and I watched him for a moment, his back stiff, his hands at his side.

I stepped out onto the back stoop, the card players oblivious to my leaving, all except for Fluffy, who followed and curled up in my lap when I sat down on the top step.

“Hey,” I said softly, looking up at the clouds, “I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, I want you to know I made it square for you. I got him.”

There was no answer, just a soft breeze blowing across the grass and the first firefly of the evening dancing above my gardenia bush.

Fluffy settled a little closer into my lap. “I don't know what it's like, dancing with the angels,” I whispered, “but I gotta believe you're teaching 'em a trick or two.” A tear slid down my cheek and I buried my face in Fluffy's soft hide.

The door creaked open and John Nailor stood framed in the doorway. Wheeling was supporting him, but not by much.

“Is the seat next to you taken?” he asked. He made his way to the railing and slowly sank down beside me. Wheeling vanished back inside, the door closing softly but firmly behind him.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You lied to me. You left for that track like I told you not to do.”

I shrugged, tears running down my cheeks.

“Well, I had to call Wheeling to back you up. I figured you might get in over your head.”

“I was doing all right,” I muttered.

“Yeah, you and that knife.” He laughed softly, then let his hand rest softly on my thigh. “You're thinking about Ruby, huh?”

I nodded, the tears closing off my throat.

“Come here.” With his good arm he pulled me close, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Put your head down, right there.”

We sat for a few minutes, with no sound but the crickets whining in the heat. Then he began to sing, very softly at first, and then loudly enough for me to recognize the tune and join in.

“I'll fly away, oh Glory, I'll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by. I'll fly away…”

We sat there singing, my head on his shoulder and his arm around me, tears sliding down my cheeks until the song was finished and the sky had turned to darkness. Then I heard his voice, speaking this time.

“I'll keep an eye on her down here,” he said.

And then he pulled me toward him. “Let's go in there and show 'em what a couple of real card players can do,” he said.

I took one last look up at the sky and saw the first star of the night pop out.

“Yeah,” I said, “this oughta be something to see. You beating the house with one hand tied behind your back.”

“Ah,” he sighed, “but you haven't seen what that hand can do!”

The door opened, and the sound of laughter floated out into the night.

“All right, hot stuff,” I said, “let's see the one-armed man produce.”

He was looking over at me, smiling that smile I knew only too well.

“Oh, I'll produce, all right. Question is, can you handle it when I do?”

Right there, in front of Al and Ma and the entire table full of card players, John Nailor kissed me. It was long and slow and left no doubt that we had unfinished business. But that was all right, 'cause Sierra Lavotini, the Queen of Unfinished Business, was on the case. And if John Nailor was looking to start something, I was just the woman to finish it.

 

Read on for a teaser of Nancy Bartholomew's latest book

FILM STRIP

Available in hardcover from St. Martin's Minotaur

When Venus Lovemotion died it was a giant pain in my ass. Literally. I was bending over to unlock the door of my '88 Camaro when I heard the shot and felt a stinging sensation in my left cheek. Venus's agent started screaming; Bruno the bouncer started shooting; and I started to feel something warm and wet run down my leg.

I would like to tell you that my life flashed before my eyes as I sank slowly to the ground, but it didn't. Instead I thought about Panama City Homicide Detective John Nailor—not because he would wind up catching my killer, but because I had never seen him naked. Now,
that
was a regret. In fact, that one thought probably kept me alive. That, and the fact that a wound to the left posterior is in no way life threatening.

I am told that the bullet tore through Venus's carotid artery on its way to my ass. But I don't like thinking about that. I prefer to think about what a lovely evening it had been, at least up until the moment that gunplay broke out. Venus and I had teamed up, the visiting porn star and the house headliner, together in a rousing number designed to stiffen the resolve of the most passive customer and loosen his already thinning wallet. We had danced to “When You Wish Upon a Star.”

Venus was lowered carefully from the ceiling, perched on the tip of a quarter moon. I swung in slowly from the diametrically opposed corner of the stage clinging to a huge sequined star. It was poetry in motion. We were wearing complementing G-strings; hers was gold, mine was silver. Our pasties were gold and silver stars, the very tiniest things imaginable.

Venus's agent, Barry “The Snake” Sanduski, made Vincent Gambuzzo, the Tiffany Gentleman's Club owner and my boss, take out extra insurance on account of how he didn't want to suffer the consequences of our risky routine. See, according to Tonya the Barbarian, one of Venus's former roommates and a Tiffany girl, Venus was the eighth wonder of the world, carefully constructed by the finest medical care money can buy.

Tonya said that Venus had more silicone in her body than a sucker-lot special has Bondo. She said Venus used to be flat-chested and pudgy with mousy brown hair and an astigmatism that made her squint.

The Venus I met had 48 triple D's and a waist like a Barbie doll's. Her eyes were large and contact-lens purple. Her lips were pressed into a permanent kissy pout and her hair was something between spun gold and cotton candy. Her brain, however, left something to be desired. Venus was a fluffball, but that ain't at all why men paid to watch her strut across the stage.

So when the first few strains of “When You Wish Upon a Star” rang out, and Venus and I were lowered slowly from the ceiling, the men in the house were not thinking of Jiminy Cricket and Walt Disney. They were watching the finest talent on the northwest coast of Florida. I mean, you pair a girl like Venus up with a girl like me, and you've got serious lust action. While Venus is definitely artificial, I'm the genuine article: five feet ten inches in my stilettos, long blond come-hither hair, legs that won't quit and a pair of 38 double D's that have never known a surgeon's scalpel. Furthermore, I got the know-how to crawl inside a man's head and drive him wild.

Barry “The Snake” Sanduski and Vincent Gambuzzo couldn't have been happier with our number. Probably because the house take, according to Gordon, the doorman, had never been higher. I know I'd never seen the house so crowded, even during Spring Break or Bikers' Week. It is a given that the Tiffany is a class joint, and that is why we attract such high-caliber clientele, but when you import traveling talent and appeal to your locals, you've got a money-maker. I can say these things, because it was my idea to call in Venus Lovemotion.

Of course, I let Vincent take the credit, and I don't spread it around, but lately I feel as if I'm the brains behind the Tiffany. I mean, business was a little slack, it was off-season. I figured, why not call in the southeastern traveling circuit out of Atlanta. People from Atlanta always head to Panama City for vacation, why not call in some of that city's biggest talent to make the tourists feel more at home?