Film Strip (15 page)

“Sure did,” I said. “Turns out she had hemorrhoids. Go figure.”

“I wondered,” he said, heading for the front door of the hotel. “You were gone for quite a while. Which phone did you use?”

The trap, but I was ready. “Well, that was part of the problem,” I said. “I didn't want to use the one out in the lobby, you know. I figured with Mom's condition being what it is, we'd need privacy. Took me forever to find a private phone.”

“Which was where?” he asked. We'd stepped into the warm evening air and Barboni was signaling the valet. His arm gripped my elbow like a vise.

“Um, well, actually, I tried to find the health club. They said it was on the fourth floor, but it must've been somewhere else. You know, I thought about using the locker room phone, but I never did find it.”

Barboni's attention was diverted for a second as a silver Porsche Boxster drew up to the curb. The valet stepped out and left the car running, ran over to the passenger side and opened the door for me.

“Damn,” I said, looking over at Alonzo. “I didn't know Hertz rented these things. That must be costing your company a pretty penny in expense money.”

The boys in white shut the doors and we were closed in again, pulling out of the brick driveway and onto the street.

“There is no health club in this hotel, Sierra,” Barboni said. “What were you doing in my room?”

He couldn't have known; he was guessing. A part of me knew this, and yet I suddenly felt as if I were back in Sister Mary Margaret's office explaining that it hadn't been me down at Giardello's Drugstore, sipping a vanilla soda during school hours. It had been my evil twin, Monica.

“Now you look here, Barboni,” I said. “I don't know what type of floozy ditzbag you're used to running over, but you don't get to talk to me like that. In fact,” I said, as Barboni hit the edge of town and ran the speedometer up to eighty-five, “you can just turn this thing around and drop me back at the hotel. Our evening is over.”

Barboni laughed and punched the accelerator. He had no intention of going back. I turned and looked behind us, knowing what I'd find. The road stretched like a long, black snake out the rear window. Pat's pickup would be no match for a Porsche.

The moon rose over the Gulf. Now and then I caught glimpses of the waves crashing onto the beach with phosphorescent white trails that followed them back out to sea. I was afraid for the first time in a long while. What had I been thinking? What sort of plan was it that involved two elderly women and a dog as backup?

I tried to relax. They knew where we were heading, but what if he'd lied? I tried thinking of escape plans and alternatives, but when you're moving down the highway at ninety-plus miles an hour, escape becomes a life-threatening option.

I knew we'd pass through Seaside, a tiny, ready-made neo-Victorian village. He'd have to slow down there, but it wouldn't be enough for me to roll out to safety. No, I was trapped. I watched him for a moment. He was intent on driving, one hand on the clutch and one on the wheel.

“All right,” I yelled over the engine's roar, “look at it from my point of view.”

He glanced at me and snickered. “What's your point of view? You're a stripper trying to rip me off. Fair enough. You wanna act like a whore, I'll treat you like one.”

Shit. Which was worse, him guessing the truth, or him thinking I was common dirt looking to rob him?

I laughed. “That's what you think?”

The car slowed a tiny bit. “Yeah,” he said, “that's what I think.” But there was a tendril of doubt in his voice.

“So, what are you, just stupid or flattering yourself?”

Now we were only doing twenty miles over the speed limit. Barboni was spending as much time looking at me as he was the road.

“Man, you have brass ones. You break into my hotel room and then you have the nerve to deny it?”

I laughed again, like I was delighted with our little game. “Barboni, you spend too much time up north selling insurance. The smog must be getting to you. Of course I broke into your room, and actually, I didn't technically ‘break' in. The maid opened the door.”

“So you admit it?”

We crested the edge of Seaside and blew right on through to the other side in less than a minute. The place needed a speed trap. Barboni hit the accelerator again as soon as we left the last gingerbread cottage behind and pushed on for Grayton Beach.

I favored him with a withering glance. “Of course I was in your room. What else could I do? Do you think a dancer goes out with just any customer? Do you think, in fact, that I have
ever
gone out with a customer?” Barboni was listening. “No. I have never, ever, crossed the line, until I met you.” Oh God, this was crap, but it was working.

“Did you really think I would leave a public place with a man I hadn't checked out? No. I went up and looked through your room. I don't need your jewelry or your money. I need information. I need to know you're not maritally affiliated. I need to know you're really a businessman and not a dope dealer or a serial killer. So I went up to your room to check you out. You've got some explaining to do, big guy.”

Barboni shook his head slowly. He couldn't believe it.

“I have explaining to do?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Like, where's your suitcase? Where are your toiletries? Why is there no sign that you've ever slept in that room?”

We were coming up on Grayton Beach. If he stopped I was in good shape. If he kept on going, I was dead. He stopped two minutes later at the only five-star restaurant on the Panhandle. Michael's is perhaps Florida's best-kept secret, and yet the tiny parking lot was full, leaving only one space beside the trash Dumpster.
NO PARKING AT ANY TIME
, read the sign. Barboni couldn't read.

“You know what?” he asked, turning to look at me.

“What?”

He smiled slowly. “You're full of shit. I like that. Let's eat.”

He wasn't going to answer my questions and he wasn't going to kill me. At least, not until after dinner.

He unfolded himself from the tiny sportscar and stood waiting expectantly. Apparently waiting for him to open my door would've been pushing it. I stepped out onto the sand and gravel lot and pointed to the No Parking sign.

Barboni shrugged. “Don't look like a fucking law to me. Do you see any trash trucks coming to make a pickup?”

I walked around the front of the car and started up the wide wooden steps to Michael's. The building was low-slung, with a tin roof. If you'd dropped it down by the beach it would've passed for an elderly vacation cottage. There were rocking chairs on the porch and a huge beveled glass door that swung open as an unseen hostess spotted us and opened it.

“Welcome to Michael's,” she whispered. She was a reed-thin blonde with a long black skirt, a white form-hugging polyester blouse, and a need to please.

“Barboni, party of two,” he said, smiling like he approved.

“We're expecting you, sir.” Her eyes were only on him. “Right this way. I believe you requested the private room?”

“I did.”

She was walking across the pine floors, past quiet tables with flickering candles and white linen tablecloths, out onto a small screened porch. One table waited in the middle of the tiny room, banked behind it was a chintz sofa. Intimate dining at its best.

The hostess pulled the table out and waited for us to sit down before she pushed it back, trapping me against the wall. Barboni sat beside me, a foot away, turned slightly so he could face me. The way I figured it, I was right where he wanted me.

“Bring us a bottle of Taittinger,” he said, smiling at the hostess and slipping a bill into her hand. Funny how the guy tipped everywhere but the Tiffany.

I studied the porch. There were bookshelves behind us, filled with old novels. An elderly ceiling fan whirred, producing the barest breeze, pulling in warm sea air. Glass windows were folded up like shutters waiting for the truly hot weather of summer, or the occasional thunderstorm. In any other circumstance, this would be my kind of place. Tonight, however, it seemed two-dimensional, a façade that, should I allow it, would lure me into a false sense of security.

A waitress returned with the champagne and two flutes. She popped the cork slowly and poured, all the while rattling off the evening's specials. Barboni waited until she finished.

“Just bring us two good salads with a balsamic vinaigrette, two filets, medium-rare, two baked potatoes, fully loaded, and then finish up with two coffees, regular, a piece of key lime pie and”—he looked over at me appraisingly—“a chocolate mousse. You got that?”

The tiny waitress nodded, her dark-haired bob jumping up and down. How New York provincial, I thought. Order your usual, don't consult the lady, just take charge. Whatever. I needed to arrive home alive. What was making a stink over steak and potatoes compared to my personal safety?

Barboni watched the waitress walk away, picked up his glass and then motioned for me to do the same. I figured he was going to make some crass toast and was surprised when he didn't. Instead he drank thoughtfully for a moment and then looked over at me.

“Sierra,” he said, “I like your style. You're a liar and you make no apologies for it. Even your explanations are lies. Fair enough.” He took another sip of champagne and I fairly gulped mine. “You and I come from the same background. Things aren't always what they seem and you learn not to ask a bunch of questions that might cause an otherwise lovely evening to turn ugly. Am I right?”

I nodded. I was listening, but I was also casting about for my eventual response. I needed a don't-fuck-with-me policy, something that would ensure my safety.

“So, here's how it's gonna work,” Barboni continued. “No questions. No lies. Just a good time had on a casual basis between two consenting adults. It ain't gonna last because I'm not sticking around this hellhole any longer than I have to, and if you were looking to return up north, you would've done so by now. Understand?”

I nodded, took a sip of my champagne, and prepared to knock his dick in the dirt. I set my flute back on the table and turned toward him.

“I'm guessing we come from the same, shall we say, family structure?” I said. “And just so's you can feel more at home, I should tell you that my family has a long connection with New Jersey.” I looked at him like he should be catching my drift and saw that he was listening carefully. “To be specific, my uncle Moose lives in Cape May.”

Ah, the lights were on and the Barbonis were home. His eyes widened a little. I saw him thinking that he'd been about to mess seriously with a member of another family, a family that would not take kindly to someone hurting their little girl in any way, shape, or fashion.

“Your uncle is ‘Big Moose' Lavotini?” he asked.

I shrugged like maybe he was slow on the uptake. “What do you think?” I said. “In fact, his son's due in town to visit me tomorrow. You know, take in the sights, relax a little. That might jam up my free time a bit, but I could still probably work in a lunch or something.”

Too late, I saw the wheels turning. Little Moose would be due in tomorrow; that left all of tonight.

“Actually,” I said, sneaking a peak at my watch, “he says tomorrow, but he's so precise. I figure him to arrive in town sometime shortly after midnight.”

If I didn't miss my guess, Barboni gulped. What was it about that syndicate that scared the piss out of everybody? Someday I'd have to do some more careful research into those Lavotinis, but for now, it was enough that I used them to bail me out of any and all difficulties where a mobster would be a helpful contact.

“Of course,” I said, eyeing the waitress's approach, “I'm sure you got family back home, too. Have you met my uncle?”

Barboni laughed. “Ain't nobody seen Big Moose. Not for years. Word is, after the big one, he decided it was better to lay low.”

What big one was that? I wondered.

“Aw,” I said, “I saw him just last year. I was up for the holidays. He's big on family togetherness.”

Barboni was looking at me like I had two heads. “Your dad must be the other brother,” he said softly. “The one the Moose didn't kill.”

Shit. What could I do? I nodded and dug into my salad. I had a very dangerous family.

“So, set me up to meet Little Moose,” he said suddenly.

I dropped my salad fork, sending it crashing to the floor between us. “What?”

“I'd like to meet your cousin,” he said. “Maybe we share some common interests.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” I said. “He's a quiet guy. He don't even drive fast. Besides, when he comes to see me, he just wants his rest and relaxation.”

Barboni laughed. “That's not what I hear,” he said. “Word is Little Moose does his thinking with the little head and not the big. I figure he's coming to see you so's he can try the variety at the Tiffany without having to pay for it. I hear he ain't big on relationships. I hear he's left a trail of dead pros. I hear he wears them out and then…”

Barboni stopped, probably realizing he shouldn't be talking about my cousin in such a cavalier fashion. He was right.

“Little Moose ain't like that,” I said. I was starting to warm to my role. “Little Moose may have his problems with the opposite sex, but that is because he's a thinker. He don't spend a lot of time with feelings, henceforth, he misconstrues the signals his women give him. If he's turned to pros, it's on account of he don't want to get hurt any further. Little Moose is a sensitive guy.”

Barboni chuckled softly. “If you say so,” he said. “I've just seen the mess he leaves when he's on a tear, and believe me, it ain't pretty.” He raised his left hand in defense. “No disrespect intended, understand. I'm just saying, people shouldn't cross him, that's all.”