Film Strip (21 page)

No “please” or “could you,” just “you'd better,” as if I were in charge, not him. Of course, I was in charge. I could get them motivated when he couldn't. But still, a “please” would've been nice.

“Is Marla in jail?” I asked.

“Not the last I heard. Nobody knows where she is. Do you think you could round them others up and get them out front?” Ah, there was Vincent's “please,” or the closest he could come to the actual word.

Rusty wandered up, wanting Vincent for something. I brushed past them and decided to check out the front of the house first. Was it as bad as Vincent seemed to think? It was early yet. The customers wouldn't begin filing in until after nine, and anyway, the curiosity factor would draw in a lot of newcomers as well as the regulars and the press.

Gordon stood watch over the door, collecting money and carding the questionables. I stood next to him for a few moments, watching the roll of bills that flashed in and out of his pocket every time he collected a cover. Gordon looked tired and strained. His face was pale and his eyes sunken in his head. Bruno was working the stage area, so it was only Gordon covering the front.

“You not getting any sleep?” I asked him.

Gordon turned to me and smiled softly. “Gambuzzo worked me two straight weeks without a break. I called in sick last night because of my stomach, and he still made me come in at midnight. He said it didn't matter if I was dying, none of the others were here. Bruno can't cover it all.”

“What's wrong with your stomach?” I asked. He looked bad.

“Ulcer.” He turned and took two covers off of a businessman and his friend. “Can I buy you breakfast when we close?” Gordon asked. He looked so pitiful.

“Well,” I said, “let me see how the night goes. I'm still a little sore and my brother's visiting. I might just be too tired.”

He nodded and seemed to lose hope. “Some other time, then,” he said, and turned back to the door. I walked off through the paltry crowd, past Bruno, who only grunted, and the waitresses, who watched the exits with nervous eyes. The place was coming apart, all right. They were scared and desperate.

There was only one person who seemed to be not bothered at all by the tension that hung over the club. He reached out as I walked by and pinched my ass, just by way of saying hello.

“Sierra!” Little Ricky yelled. “Gotcha!”

I whipped around, smarting, and glared at him. “Pinch me again, asshole, and I'll rip your short hairs out one by one.”

Ricky drew back on his stool protectively and smiled. “Where you been, baby? We've all been missing you, haven't we, boys?” He turned to include the others sitting near him, but they ignored him. No one wanted to be caught dead with Little Ricky.

I took a step closer, lowered my voice, and spoke to him again. “Where's Marla?” I asked.

“My lips are sealed,” he said, straightening on his stool and raising a smug eyebrow.

“Ricky, I'll seal your freaking lips to your ass if you don't tell me.” Sometimes tough is the only approach that works.

Ricky looked hurt but not frightened. “Honey, I'd tell you if I knew, but she done run out on me too.” Well, who wouldn't, I thought?

“Ricky, you do know that the cops have a warrant out for her arrest, right?”

He nodded, then favored me with a sly, cockeyed look. “Your boyfriend's one of the main ones looking for her. What makes you think me and Marla would trust you?”

“Oh, that's the pot calling the kettle black,” I said. “As soon as Marla turns her back, and sometimes even when she's staring straight at you, you've got your dirty little hands all over anything that wears a skirt. Oh, you're real upstanding and true, Ricky. I make no bones about the fact that I don't particularly like Marla, but at least I'll tell her to her face. I'm helping her out because we dancers stick together, no matter what our personal feelings are. You, you swear up and down you love her, but you can't be left alone for a minute.”

Ricky ducked his head but just as quickly brought it back up. “I've got a problem with intimacy,” he said, like maybe it was a badge of honor. “I'm working on it.”

“Oh, really and truly bite me, Ricky! Don't hand me that psychobabble.”

He swept his ball cap off his head and tried to look hurt. “Obviously you haven't read
Men Who Can't Love Enough.
It would explain everything.”

“No,” I said, “but maybe you should read
Women Who Don't Give a Shit About Total Idiots.
”

I walked off and left him. He was worthless.

The dressing room was practically empty. The strippers were there, the girls Vincent kept on only for a body count, the ones who worked the pole for a buck and never thought about having a routine or style. They were there because they wanted money more than they valued their lives. They were working to support a habit or a drug-addicted boyfriend. I kept trying to get Vincent to quit hiring strippers, but he kept telling me good talent was hard to find, he had to supplement. With strippers you don't look for talent because all you get is trouble.

I ignored them and went to the phone. It took me twenty minutes to convince three of the regular dancers to agree to come in, and that was only after I guaranteed them a bonus from Vincent. He wouldn't be pleased about that part of things, but then, he authorized me to take charge. After all, with a full house and a bevy of real dancers working the crowd, Vincent would more than make up the amount of any bonus he shelled out. It was good business, pure and simple.

I started lining up outfits for the evening. I figured I'd be doing twice as many numbers as usual, so planning was essential. We don't have a house mother at the Tiffany like a lot of the clubs do. They keep on an older dancer to help out, to keep the girls in line and train the new ones. At the Tiffany, I filled the role even though I was by no means an older dancer.

I brought out my newest costume, Princess Leia, and started gathering my accessories. I figured to do a salute to
Star Wars
and let the gentlemen imagine themselves with only their trusty light sabers and me, alone on a spaceship. Vincent walked into the dressing room just as I started to change.

“Okay,” he said, “what you got?”

“Jolene, Tonya, and Markie are coming in. How about you?”

“Barry Sanduski is sending some bimbo named Candy Barr. He swears up and down she's one of his biggest acts, but who knows what that means?”

I stepped out of my jeans and began pulling my T-shirt off over my head.

“So when will she be here?” I asked.

“He said he's putting her on the ten o'clock flight out of Atlanta. He wants me to make sure somebody meets her at the airport on account of he don't think she can manage to take a cab here.”

I grabbed the costume off the hanger. “He said that? He said she couldn't even find her way out to the cab stand? I mean, Vincent, come on, the airport's tiny.”

“No, that's not what he said, but that's what he meant. See, he said she oughta have an escort. He said he was worried for her safety, and with good reason since the last two girls he sent ended up dead.”

“So why's this one coming and why did he send her?”

Vincent shrugged. “She's coming on account of she probably can't breathe and chew gum at the same time. Remember, she's from Atlanta. Up there, they got murders two and three a day. Whacking a dancer ain't no big deal. It's more an occupational hazard. Barry's sending her because money talks and because I told him the police had issued a warrant for Marla's arrest. I told him she did it and the club was safe.”

I whirled around. “But, Vincent, that's not true.”

Vincent wouldn't look at me, not even through his dark glasses. “We don't know that for certain,” he said. “Maybe it's time to start believing the police. They got her fingerprints on her gun. She's got a past history of losing her temper and popping off. She could've thought her job was in jeopardy. You just don't ever really know with these things, Sierra. If we could tell a murderer just by looking at him, if they all had certain and true profiles, then we could lock them up before a crime ever occurred. But you watch the news. How many times have you heard some killer's neighbor interviewed? What do they always say? ‘He was such a nice guy … so quiet … who would've thought?'”

Vincent walked over to the makeup table and started fingering the doodads I'd laid out to wear as Princess Leia.

“Sierra, Marla acts like a murderess on a good day, even I gotta admit that.”

He sighed deeply, like it hurt him, and I knew it did because I was realizing something else about Vincent, it was written all over his pudgy little face. Vincent Gambuzzo was in love with Marla the Bomber.

It was suddenly clear. Vincent making her a headliner, even when she had little true talent. Vincent sticking up for her, even when everyone else was against her. Vincent never taking someone else's side against her in an argument. It had to be love, true-blue, all-American, Cinderella love. I was shocked, but go figure.

I walked up to him, put my arms around his neck and gave him a big hug. Hugging Vincent was kind of like bouncing off Teflon, but I hung in there and eventually felt his arms attempting to encircle my waist.

“You don't believe she killed them people,” I said softly into his ear.

He smelled like sweat and the remnants of strong cologne. I could feel his big heart beating against his chest like he'd climbed twenty flights of steps.

“I don't want to believe it, Sierra, but I don't want to be taken for a fool, either.” He broke away and struggled to maintain his tough side. I knew what he meant to say. He meant to say that nobody takes Vincent Gambuzzo very seriously, that he comes off like a big buffoon most of the time. He meant to tell me that he didn't think Marla would ever love him back, if indeed she ever knew. He just couldn't bring himself to voice those fears. If it were up to Vincent, Marla would never know his true feelings. He would love her for the rest of his life and never let on that he cared.

I felt part of my heart break for him. He deserved better than what he'd set himself up to take.

“Vincent,” I said, “you can't give up on her. You owe her that much.”

Vincent cocked his head and gave me a look. “How you figure I owe her?”

“Look at it from a pure business standpoint,” I said. “She brings in the bucks. Up until this business happened, she was here every night. She was giving more than a hundred percent. She always takes your side in a fight. She's loyal to you, Vincent. I don't know why, given what a grouch you are, but she's loyal. Now, are you gonna walk away from that?”

He didn't even hesitate. “No,” he said, his voice stronger than it had been. “A Gambuzzo don't run out on loyalty.”

“Good,” I said, braiding my hair into a Princess Leia head-wrap. “Then we won't have any more discussions about turning our backs. Call the attorney and line him up. I'm going to finish proving she didn't do it.”

Rusty saved us from any further display of emotion and affection by walking in and yelling, “Sierra, you're up!”

“Help me, Obi-Wan,” I muttered under my breath, and walked out of the locker room.

I adjusted my gown, patted my hair, and walked backstage. The
Star Wars
music started up, the smoke machine belched, and Princess Leia went into action. I stepped out onto the stage flanked by some aging cardboard cutouts of Storm Troopers. I've seen the video of the number, and believe me, it's impressive: life-sized, three-dimensional-looking men with guns, and me, in a see-through gown.

I walked to the edge of the runway and let her rip. “Help me, Obi-Wan,” I said, stretching out my hand in an exact replication of the movie, but then I couldn't remember what came next. “They're after me,” I ad-libbed.

A farm boy, obviously too young to remember the original movie, stepped up to the edge of the stage, concern filling his eyes. I smiled softly and tossed him a garter. He turned to his companion, an older man, weather-roughened by work and more time spent in the fields. “I told you them girls are white slaves,” he said. “Lookit there. Prime example.”

His buddy looked at him and laughed, then handed him a bill. “Slip that in her other garter,” he said, “maybe you can help buy her freedom.”

The boy looked uncertain, then took the bill and held it up. I pulled the Velcro tab at the top of my gown and let it slip to the floor before I stepped up to him. He blushed and averted his eyes.

“Hey,” I said, moving to the pulsing throb that Rusty slipped in to replace the movie theme. “I'm up here.”

The men who heard me laughed. The farm boy glanced at my leg, just long enough to zero in on the garter, and stuck his hand out to slip the bill under the elastic.

“Hey!” I said again. He looked up, trying to keep his eyes on my face, but losing the battle as Sierra, Princess of the Night, took over. “Don't you like me?” I said softly.

He stuttered. “It isn't … I shouldn't…”

I chuckled like we were sharing a secret. “Oh, yes, you should,” I teased. “Come on, baby, it won't hurt you to take a little peek.”

He was at war with himself. All of his shoulds and shouldn'ts were in the way.

“I like it when you look at me,” I said, my voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Look at me.”

From that moment on, he was mine. “You're beautiful,” he breathed.

“Have a little fun, sweetie. Look all you want. Sierra's gonna take good care of you.” Before he could look away, I unhooked my bra. The man next to him slipped a five-dollar bill into my garter, and I wiggled down into a half-crouch. “Am I the best girl you've ever seen?” I asked.

“Oh Lord, yes!” my farm boy cried.