Film Strip (19 page)

Nailor reached out and touched my shoulder. “When we find her, she'll be arrested and arraigned. She's going to need a good lawyer.” He looked back over his shoulder in Francis's direction. “Why don't you just try and put this out of your mind for the day? Take some time off with your brother. If I need any more information about last night, or if we apprehend her, I'll let you know.” He pulled me closer and wrapped me in his arms. “Don't wander off too far,” he said.

I had other plans, but there was no point in telling him that, either. Instead I walked him to the door and kissed him good-bye. A patrol car sat just behind my car, so I made it a good kiss, just in case there was any question in the young officer's mind about what the detective had been up to. Nailor laughed and walked off.

“I'll call you later,” he said.

I watched the car pull out and drive off, visuals from the night before running through my head. I could still feel his fingers on my skin, the way he felt as he moved inside me, the way he sent me screaming out of control when the orgasms shook my body, one after another. It was going to be a long day and, hopefully, an even longer night.

Francis didn't let me linger. He stepped up behind me, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. “Here,” he said. “Thought you might need it.”

I looked across the street and saw the curtains flutter in Raydean's living room. Pat's truck was still sitting in the driveway, so I figured the team was sending smoke signals.

“So what's going on here, Sierra?” Francis asked. “You call home, crying to Ma. You get us all worried. I come down here and what do I find? You with a guy in your bed. Is that the guy that made you cry? 'Cause if that's him, I gotta wonder what's up.”

The questions were coming in a steady stream. I took a large swig of my coffee and tried to come up with a policy statement. Fortunately for me, my response was delayed by the phone.

“Ms. Lavotini?” The voice rumbled like the train coming in to Reading Terminal.

“And you are?”

“Let's say I'm a friend of the family.” The way the voice said
family
made a chill start at the base of my neck and work its way down my spine.

“A friend of what family?” I asked. Francis stopped drinking and looked up with a frown.

“The family representing the newly deceased, Alonzo Barboni. We would like to speak with you and your visiting cousin at your earliest convenience.”

My throat went dry and my head started to pound. How did this person know about my “visiting cousin”? Barboni was the only one I'd told. Then I flashed to Barboni's last phone conversation in the parking lot of Michael's. Had he called New York?

“Which cousin would that be?” I tried to sound innocent.

“Don't fuck with me, girlie,” the voice continued. “I am giving you the opportunity to speak with our affiliates and explain how Mr. Barboni died. Because of our respect for your family, we are asking that Little Moose be present. We want to assure him of our good intent. We merely need information.”

What choice did I have?

“All right,” I said, “here's the setup. Meet me on the deck at Ernie's this afternoon at three. I'll have my cousin with me, but understand your business is with me. If he declines to come, you've still got me.”

“If he declines to come, we'll
have
you.”

Shit! What was with this guy? Surely they didn't think the Lavotini syndicate was looking to take out whatever group Barboni had represented? This was just what I needed, a family holy war.

“How will I know you?” I asked.

“You won't,” he answered, “but we'll know you.” The connection went dead and I turned to look at Francis.

“Okay,” I said. “You've probably got some questions about that, so I'm going to give it to you straight up: I'm in trouble and you're the only one who can help me.”

Bingo. Francis tried not to look pleased, but he stuck his tongue inside his cheek, a childhood thing he always did when he wanted to appear cool and was secretly excited.

“What's up?”

I told him, leaving out minor details. I tried to play down the entire thing, but in the end, he caught on.

“So basically, you're saying you want me to act like Big Moose Lavotini's son. You want me to keep you from getting your ass kicked by muscle from New York?”

“Right. See? It's simple. You say the Lavotinis have no beef with whoever it is in New York City, and before you know it, we'll be on our way home.”

Francis stood up and slammed his coffee mug down on the table. “Bullshit, Sierra! Nothing's ever that simple with you. There are parts you've left out, things you've covered over, and just plain lies here. But, yeah, I'll do it. I'll do it because you'll wind up dead if I don't. They'll assume this is a family war, then.” Francis shook his head and walked to the coffeepot. “Honest to God, Sierra, you need professional help.”

“All right, granted I owe you big for this,” I said. “But there are reasons and explanations you don't even get here. I owe Vincent a helping hand. He gave me a job. He took me in when I moved here and he made me the headliner. We were raised to help people who help us, Francis, or didn't you come up in the same family? And Marla? She's an asshole, but she don't got nobody to help her out.”

Francis wasn't saying anything.

“You look down your nose at me, Francis. You think I've got a cheap profession. You think it's next to whoring, and nothing I can say will change your mind. Be that as it may, but you're wrong. I'm an entertainer and a therapist and a priest to the men I dance for. I'm their sister and their mother and their wife. I'm the one who listens when nobody else will. And they think they own me. No way. I'm good, Francis. This is what I do. So, yeah, I'm in a scrape. But tell me you never got in a situation before.”

Francis drank his coffee, his eyes clear and dark. He was listening.

“It's funny,” I said. “Nobody respects a dancer, but you come watch us. You tell us your secrets, your hopes, your failures, and you feel better for it. So what's that about, eh? And don't tell me you never visited the Beaver Club in Upper Darby, 'cause I know you have.”

Francis put down his coffee mug, stretched his hand out across the table, and took my hand in his.

“Truce,” he said softly. “I'll do it and you don't owe me. I'm your brother and I love you. You know how I feel about this dancing thing. I don't approve, Sierra. But maybe it's not my place to give approval. Still, I don't understand it. I don't like the way they look at you.”

“They can look any way that they want, Francis,” I said. “I'm the one who empties their wallets. I'm the one who walks off the winner.”

He shrugged and I let it go. We sat there for a while, drinking coffee and staring out the bay window at the empty street. Finally, he spoke again.

“So, what's your basic wardrobe for a New Jersey mobster on vacation? Were you thinking Hawaiian shirt and dark glasses? Or were you wanting a suit and tie?”

He laughed and I did, too. Then I got up from my chair, came around the table, and hugged him.

“I love you, Francis,” I said, my voice muffled by his shoulder.

“I love you too, honey,” he said.

Twenty-five

Ernie's Restaurant and Bar sits touching the waters of St. Andrew's Bay. It is a small, well-heeled watering hole that caters to the local business population. It is nestled close to the in-town old Panama City homes and draws a crowd of locals who come for good food and microbrews. The tourists overlook it, making it all the more attractive to those in the know. It is a favorite of mine, but that's not why I chose it for the meet.

I picked Ernie's because at three o'clock in the afternoon it is well-lit and sparsely populated. Less chance for a large loss of life should there be gunplay, and less chance for gunplay because a lot of the local law-enforcement officers stop by for an afternoon beer on their way home. We could sit outside, overlooking the water, and discuss business with relatively few worries. At least, that's the way I hoped it would run.

Francis chose a suit and a pair of aviator-style dark glasses for his first, and in my best opinion, only appearance as Little Moose Lavotini. He walked up the wooden steps and through the doors of Ernie's like a man who knew where he was going and was used to being in charge. He stopped just inside the door, took stock of the main room, and then breezed right on through and out onto the deck. Once there, he looked out at the water, took in all the possible routes of escape, and settled for a table that faced both the front door and both exits. Something told me Francis had been watching TV all of his life, just waiting for a moment like this.

I was wearing a bright little sundress splashed with tropical colors, a royal blue, big-brimmed straw hat, and a matching pair of high heels. I looked the exact opposite of the way I felt. Francis looked tough. When the waitress approached, he ordered coffee and I ordered a mai tai. A stupid drink, I know, a waste of alcohol, but it matched my outfit and this was a time when appearance counted more than desire.

The drinks arrived and I had worked my mai tai halfway down the glass before the New York contingent showed. They pulled up in a dark black rental, tinted windows, the whole incognito bit played to the hilt. But the guy who stepped out of the car didn't look the part. He had greasy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, wore moccasins without socks, faded blue jeans with worn-through spots in the appropriate places, and a polo shirt. He looked like a Hollywood producer more than a family man.

The car stayed by the front door with the engine running, so I figured the true muscle was sitting behind the wheel and maybe also in the backseat. Francis tensed and took a long draw of his coffee. From the looks of it, Mr. Hollywood wasn't carrying. This was a good thing, as Francis and I weren't armed either.

Hollywood spotted us and walked directly through the bar and out onto the deck. He walked to the table, rested a hand on the back of a vacant chair, and smiled.

“You look a little like your picture,” he said. It was the voice from the phone, ugly and deep, no match for the smiling man who stood looking down at me.

He turned to my brother, who rose slowly and stuck out his hand.

“Mr. Lavotini, it is an honor.”

Francis looked at the outstretched hand and ignored it. “And who might you be?” Francis asked.

“Packy Cozzone, out of—”

Francis interrupted. “I know where you're from. Have a seat.”

He waited until Packy sat down, then sank back into his own chair. Packy didn't seem at all uncomfortable with Francis. If I'd been on the receiving end of my brother's behavior, I'd have been shaking, knowing I was on thin ice.

“Let's get this little matter cleared up, shall we?” Francis said. “You're disturbing my vacation. You've added more unpleasantness to what is already a traumatic situation for my cousin, and you have cast a pall over an otherwise lovely afternoon. So what is it, exactly, that you think Sierra can help you with?”

Packy stretched and signaled to the waitress. He ordered a dry martini, onions, straight up, then he turned his attention back to us.

“Alonzo Barboni was here to conduct a little business survey for me. He called me from the parking lot of a restaurant last night to complain about his tires being slit and there being no one available to rectify the situation. He was hoping we could do something from New York, but of course we don't have connections in such an isolated part of the country.” Packy turned and looked at me. “That's when Barboni mentioned your name. He wondered why Little Moose here was really coming into town.”

Packy looked at Francis. “Imagine our distress when an hour later our friend is killed. Put yourself in our place. You'd have to wonder. Two New York families with overlapping interests, and suddenly one of the families sends a representative into the other's territory. So I start thinking maybe somebody wants to squeeze us out of an area, such as the Panhandle. I'm thinking maybe it's you and your family.” Packy's eyes were ice cold and his voice thick with anger. “So you can see why I needed to speak to you.”

Francis betrayed no visible emotion. He took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and stared through his glasses at Packy. My brother was a natural. I was starting to wonder why he hadn't taken up acting as a professional venture.

“What exactly was Barboni sent here to do?” he asked.

Packy's eyes glittered. He probably figured Francis knew all about Barboni and was playing him for a fool, testing him.

“Same thing he did in New York,” Packy answered. “He was just insuring our investment in Florida. After all, we wouldn't want anything to happen to our actresses when they go out on tour. It costs money to provide protection. A few of the girls happened not to understand that. Barboni was only in town to explain it to them. To cut their fucking tits off if they didn't come around.”

The last sentence was so harsh and so unexpected that I jerked at the raw venom in Cozzone's voice. He assumed we knew. He probably figured that was how the Lavotini Syndicate dealt with holdouts, too.

Packy looked up as the waitress approached, took the martini, and flipped her a twenty-dollar bill. She went away pleasantly surprised.

“Now, to cut through the bullshit here, I figure the Lavotinis want a piece of the travel circuit, but Panama City's ours, as is Pensacola, as is Tallahassee. That's the way it's been for two years. Why're you choosing to fuck with the arrangement now?”

Francis leaned back in his chair and merely stared at Cozzone. The silence grew and with it went whatever peace of mind I had left. I sucked down the rest of my mai tai and hoped for a buzz. All I got was a fruit-juice aftertaste.