Film Strip (16 page)

I took my opportunity and looked Barboni right in the eyes. “Nobody should cross a Lavotini,” I said. “Nobody.”

Barboni refilled our glasses and raised his in a toast. “Here's to not crossing any Lavotinis without mutual and informed consent.”

I tossed mine back, never taking my eyes off his face. “So,” I said, “are you here on business or not?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something white moving, just behind Barboni, outside the porch, level with the floor. My team had arrived. I smiled and sat back, waiting for Barboni's answer.

“Like I said, and I mean no disrespect to you and yours, but ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.”

He wasn't budging, not for the Big Moose or for the little one. Oh, well.

“Just like you got the word wrong about my cousin, I thought you would welcome the opportunity to set the record straight on the rumors about you.”

“What rumors?” Barboni asked.

“Like that you're here to teach a lesson to certain circuit girls who won't pay to play, so to speak. I hear you're the muscle to enforce a certain, shall we say, insurance policy.”

Barboni's face reddened.

“Word has it, sometimes you gotta do that to set the others straight. Sometimes, when you're looking after people, you've gotta keep them in line.”

Barboni seemed to be wrestling with himself. He sat there, a faraway look in his eyes, and said nothing. When he roused himself, he looked back at me and shrugged.

“Everybody needs insurance,” he whispered, and drained his flute dry. “If my company has a customer and they don't pay for the service we provide, well, sometimes I have to step in. I guess you could call me a customer-relations sort of guy. Likewise, if my customers are in need of assistance, I'd be the man to call.

The waitress picked that moment to arrive with our steaks, effectively cutting off any response I could've made. At least I had him on the run. I was one of
those
Lavotinis.

Twenty

Dinner was lovely, so long as you didn't think about the company or the circumstances of said dinner. The mousse was lighter than air, but it was the key lime pie that did me in. A dancer is not supposed to indulge in indiscretions like dessert, but I've never had to worry about my figure. It takes care of itself; the Lavotini genes, I guess.

Barboni was having an equally nice time. He smiled continuously, at everyone, including me. Every now and then his beefy hand would slide over and rest on my thigh. After a couple of glasses of champagne, I began to think I rather enjoyed the attention. By the time he paid the bill and we started to leave, I was having ideas that maybe I wouldn't mind kissing him. Crazy, I know, since I was fairly certain he was a hired killer working to ensure that the visiting porn stars paid their cut to their mob protectors.

We stepped out onto the porch and he slipped his arm around my waist. We walked at a leisurely pace toward the car. I could practically taste the man, so that was an indication of my level of sobriety. I was chalking it up to the Courvoisier we'd had with our coffees. He stopped just short of the Boxster and grabbed my arm. Here it comes, I thought, and turned to face him.

“Holy fucking shit!” he yelled.

This was not exactly the effect I had worked to engender, but then, different men react differently in the throes of passion. However, I did open my eyes. He was staring at his car. It had four flat tires.

I knew they'd heard him from inside, but I guess the little blond hostess knew it wasn't her job to deal with an irate expatron. The door remained firmly closed. We were in the middle of almost nowhere, with four flat tires and no hope of salvation. So when the tow truck pulled into the driveway mere seconds after our discovery, I was not only shocked but delighted. The fact that the tow truck was the twin of Pat's pickup, with a yellow flashing light hastily stuck on the roof, only further peaked my euphoria. The team was working.

Pat hopped down from the truck, left it running, and strode forward. She was wearing her work clothes: faded overalls, a bleached-out ball cap, and a tool belt. She walked up to the Boxster, kicked one of the tires, and turned to face Barboni.

“Reckon you don't have four spares, huh?” she asked.

Barboni barely stopped himself from exploding. I squeezed his arm and stepped in front of him.

“No, ma'am,” I said. “Can you help us out?”

Pat grinned. “Sure can,” she said. “My sister's on her way with a cab. Way I see it, we gotta call for a flatbed from over in Destin or P.C. Cain't get aholt of one before tomorrow morning. We'll have you good to go by then. In the meantime, Geniveve'll run you on home. You folks staying nearby?”

I managed to look disappointed. “No, we're at the Moongazer back in Panama City.”

Pat just nodded and looked at the car. Barboni stepped away and pulled out a tiny cellular phone. We watched in silence as he paced back and forth across the lot, talking, gesturing with his hands, and venting. He paused, he listened, and finally he gave up, slamming the little phone shut and walking back to face down Pat.

“This is the best you can do?” he said, as Raydean's Plymouth Fury pulled into the lot. “You don't even got a real tow truck?”

Pat nodded. “That's right,” she said. “Best we can do this time of night. See this?” she said, motioning to the winch mounted onto the bed of the truck. “That's my multipurpose tourist-hauler. I can pull you outta the sand when you attempt to four-wheel. I can haul you outta the water when you're fishing and don't know the tide tables. And I can haul you back to the garage when you break down. But I cannot haul a fancy foreign car with four flat tires. What're you people doing out here anyways? Ain't no restaurant worth paying a gagillion dollars for food that don't fill a plate. And to drive twenty-something miles just to get here?” Pat shook her head. “Why that's just asking for trouble.”

Raydean pulled up beside Pat, stuck her head out the window, and spit. At least she'd lost the curlers. It was taking a hell of a chance that Barboni wouldn't recognize her as it was. But it was dark, and to some men all old ladies look alike.

“Geniveve's Giddy-Yaps,” she called cheerfully. “You two need a ride?”

“Can you take us to the Moongazer in P.C.?” I asked.

“That place is overrun with aliens,” she said, “but, yes, if you insist, I can take you there.”

Barboni looked at the mint-condition 1962 Plymouth Fury and scowled. It was not a limo. It was not even the yellow cab I knew he was used to, but it was transportation. He didn't give Raydean more than a cursory glance.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” he muttered.

We slid into Raydean's backseat and I quickly pulled on a seatbelt. Barboni, never having ridden with her, didn't. Poor baby. Raydean floored it, chirped the tires out onto Highway 98, and took off like a bat out of hell. With one hand she reached over and switched the radio to a country station and cranked up the volume.

“You lovebirds enjoy yourselves,” she yelled from the front. “Nothing like country to put you in the mood.”

“Can you turn it off?” Barboni boomed.

“What?”

“Turn it off!”

Raydean reached over and turned the volume up. “Anything you say, sir!”

Barboni groaned and leaned back against the seat. His evening was clearly ruined. Tammy Wynette started crooning “Stand by Your Man,” and I laughed.

“Aw, lighten up, Barboni,” I said. “Look at it like this: you're in the backseat of a car with a beautiful woman on a lovely evening. Relax.”

Barboni took my advice. He turned to me, slid his arm around my neck, and started to pull me toward him.

Raydean jerked the wheel and Barboni lurched sideways.

“What the fuck?”

“Possum!” Raydean yelled.

Barboni tried again. This time he cupped my chin with his fingers and tilted my head. His lips brushed mine and Raydean ran off the road, onto the shoulder. We bounced around like rubber balls as Raydean fought to regain control of the car.

“Antelope,” she called back to us. “Feisty little critters.”

“Don't you mean armadillos?” Barboni asked.

“Nope,” Raydean answered. “Have a nice day.”

It took Barboni only three tries to figure that whenever he made his move, Raydean would be watching. If she was watching us, she wouldn't be watching the road. He gave up.

We rode along with Raydean humming to the golden oldies, country-style. Now and then I peeked through the rear window and saw a comforting pair of headlights following us. My team was working their magic.

Raydean slowed down as she approached the edge of Panama City Beach.

“Y'all sure you want the Moongazer?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” Barboni said. He was counting down the seconds until he would escape the backseat of the Fury.

Raydean drove on, making a beeline for the hotel. She turned into the sweeping expanse of cobblestoned driveway, narrowly missing the fountain itself, and screeched to a halt in front of the revolving doors. She then jumped out of the front seat and pulled my door open, bowing like a servant as I stepped out of the car.

“How much I owe you?” Barboni growled, pulling some twenties from an overstuffed billfold.

“How much you got?” she asked.

“I don't think it works that way,” he said, and stuffed four twenties into her outstretched hand.

“Charity,” Raydean muttered. “I'm working for charity.”

Barboni didn't hear her over the noise of the traffic out on 98-A and the loud splashing of the fountain. He was darting back and forth, scoping out the front of the hotel. His hand slid into his jacket and pulled out an ugly black gun. Then he moved to the edge of the fountain and leaned forward, shielding himself in a crouch behind the fountain, staring intently through the multicolored lights that tinted the spray. My heart started pounding against my chest and my body was needled with a pepper spray of anxiety. What was going on? What was with the gun?

Barboni straightened abruptly and seemed to try and duck behind the tiers that stood in the center of the water. There was a popping noise, like firecrackers, and I realized someone was shooting. I froze, unable to make my body respond to the sensory input that my brain was receiving. We were in danger. I needed to get away, but I couldn't move. As I watched, Barboni jerked and fell forward into the fountain, his body dancing like a dolphin as it was riddled with bullets.

Twenty-one

I screamed. Everyone was screaming, running away from the entrance to the hotel, away from the awful sight that was playing itself out just in front of us. I grabbed Raydean, pushed her head down, and shielded her with my body as I propelled her around the Plymouth and took cover.

Raydean had seen everything, the way the bullets stitched across Barboni's chest, the way the water in the fountain turned to a dark red. She was beginning to shake, trembling in my arms as the waves of fear overtook what tender hold she had on sanity.

“Ohhh,” she moaned. “Oh God, Sierra!”

I couldn't leave her. Even though the shooting seemed to be over, I couldn't risk running to try and help Barboni. It didn't really matter now anyway. He was dead.

In the distance the sirens began to wail, drawing closer in response to the hotel's 911 call. The hotel security guards, four of them wearing navy blazers with gold buttons and carrying guns and walkie-talkies, came blasting out of the hotel, running for cover behind the brickwork that sheltered the building. Fat lot of good those goons would do. The gunplay was over and whoever had shot Barboni wasn't hanging around just on the off chance he might take out a hotel security guard.

I looked up and down the strip for Pat, but I didn't see her. If she'd been there I could've sent Raydean home, saved her from the questions that were bound to follow. As if reading my thoughts, the first patrol car squealed into the drive, sealing it off. Five other cars followed, closing off the driveway and preventing escape. It would only be a matter of time before the brown Taurus showed up. If the first detective on the scene wasn't Nailor, the second one would be. All he'd have to hear was my name, or Raydean's license plate number, and he'd be across town and down my throat.

Raydean started to cry softly. I stroked her hair and pulled her closer as the first uniform walked up to us. We must've looked pitiful because he squatted down next to me, his eyes blue pools of concern.

“You aren't hurt, are you, ma'am?” he asked softly.

I looked over her head at him. “She saw him get shot,” I said. “It was a shock.”

He nodded. He was tall and lean, with thick black eyebrows. I figured him to be in his mid to late thirties, too old to be a rookie.

“Why don't we get her inside. We're going to use one of the meeting rooms for our interviews. She might be more comfortable there.” He looked over at Raydean again. “I'd sure feel better if an EMT looked her over.”

I nodded, starting to feel a little cold and shaky myself. “That's very kind of you.”

We stood up, each of us taking one of Raydean's arms. In my high heels, I was almost as tall as he was. So intent was I on walking Raydean inside, that I almost didn't notice Nailor's arrival. But it's like a sixth sense with me. I don't have to see him actually pull up; I feel him long before he's there.

The cop led us through the door of the hotel and I felt Nailor watching me walk away. I turned back and saw him standing by the fountain, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and issuing orders. He'd be inside soon enough; in the meantime I had Raydean to attend to. I also needed to think fast about how much Nailor needed to know of the events of my evening.

I let the uniform lead us to the meeting room. The hotel staff was bustling around, hauling in chairs. Someone offered us coffee and I looked at Raydean.