Drag Strip (14 page)

I might've said any one of a thousand things, but I didn't. I let the little snip believe I was another wife there to collect her husband's money. I looked at John one last time and managed to gasp out “Fine,” before I turned and walked away. Give him the benefit of the doubt, my head said. Kill the bastard, said my heart.

Fifteen

I had just passed the Dead Lakes, heading for Chipley, when I noticed the car in my rearview mirror. I was going fast, but it was moving even faster. It was a black sports car with tinted windows, the kind you expect to roar past you with the thumping beat of a bass line throbbing out over the sound of the engine. A hothead. A young kid with a big stereo, always in a hurry, zooming up behind you and then pulling out across the double yellow line and passing you in a blaze of speed, never mind that there might be a car coming from the opposite direction.

I didn't need the aggravation, so I accelerated, pushing the Camaro out to almost eighty, expecting the kid to follow at a distance. It didn't seem to phase him. He kept up, creeping closer, until his bumper was a few feet from mine.

“Asshole,” I muttered into the rearview mirror. “If that's the way you want it, the road's all yours.” Gradually I slowed down, but he didn't pass. He stayed on my tail, almost touching me. I slowed down more, until I was doing under forty, but he stayed on my tail. I rolled down my window, motioning for him to pass me, but he didn't. When I slowed to thirty, he hit me.

It was a jarring tap to my rear bumper, just enough to force me to fight the wheel. Before I could pull over to let him pass, he hit me again. This time he hit harder, punching my left rear bumper, shaking the car so hard that the wheel jumped from my hands. I was out of control, the car flying off the side of the road, narrowly missing a stand of pine trees.

“Son of a bitch,” I yelled. The car roared past, screaming toward Chipley. I sat there, my head resting on the steering wheel, fighting tears. It was not my day. Hell, if you wanted to be technical, it wasn't my week. Run off the road by a psycho teenager, brushed off by a man I was realizing I knew less and less about, my friend murdered. What was left? What kind of screwy life was this?

“Am I just doing something wrong here?” I was falling back on my Catholic upbringing. When all else fails, and you can't explain current events, it can only mean one thing: You pissed off God. “All right, I thought we reached an agreement. I come to church on the big days, I confess my sins to you on a semiregular basis, and you agree to cut me some slack. This don't feel like slack here. Not to be disrespectful or nothing, but I could use a break. One little break, that's all I'm asking.” I listened. There was only the sound of crickets or locusts whining in the heat.

I threw the car into reverse and carefully backed out onto the macadam road. I'd had enough for one day, and I still had to go to work. I was not looking forward to that. The rest of the day was a wash, as far as I was concerned. I was going to lock myself inside my trailer, pull all the blinds, and go to sleep until I had to crawl out of bed and go to work. I thought about my bed the whole way home. It was about time that I took control of my universe, I preached to myself. No more little Miss Passive. Not Sierra Lavotini. A new day was dawning and I was the sun.

How God must have enjoyed listening to that. How She must've been laughing Herself silly. Fate was waiting on my parking pad when I got home—in the form of a late-model dark blue Lincoln with Pennsylvania tags. Slightly salt-rusted, not from the ocean, I was sure, but from the harsh Philadelphia winters and the overly zealous street crews that throw salt everywhere in their attempt to fight off winter's snow and ice.

“No,” I moaned. “Not them. Not now.” There was no avoiding it. It was my parents' car. As I pulled into the driveway, I could see two heads, one just hitting the headrest, the other, taller, commanding the driver's seat. The doors flew open as I pulled up the parking brake, my mother jumping out of the car in her rush to get to me.

“Sierra!” she yelled, her voice a high-pitched shriek. “It's me!”

No, it's freaking Elvis, I thought uncharitably.

She grabbed me in a bear hug, her gray curly head reaching up to my shoulder. As I wrapped my arms around her, I was suddenly aware that I was glad to see her. My mother always smells faintly of freshly baked bread and olive oil. I bent my head, resting it gently on top of hers. For a moment I was home, back in Philly, and the problems of the world had all gone away.

The sound of the car door slamming made me look up again, expecting to see my father, and instead looking into the clear brown eyes of my baby brother, Al, the policeman.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

“Sierra,” my mother said, her voice muffled by my shoulder, “you never called us back. You call up and say those strange things about needing a moose. What was I to think?” Behind her back, my brother rolled his eyes.

“Ma, don't tell me you drove down here to see if I was all right?”

My mother pushed herself off of my shoulder, grabbed my arms, and stared up at me. “Are you telling me not to worry about my baby?” Behind us my brother stifled a laugh with a cough. “Don't tell me what I did was wrong, because I get enough of that from your father and your brothers.” Al coughed again and Ma whipped around to glare at him. “That'll be enough out of you, Mr. Have-No-Respect-for-His-Own-Mother!”

Al turned scarlet. “Ma, I drove you here, didn't I? I took off work for you.”

“Humpf,” Ma snorted. “A big-shot police officer. The fire department wasn't good enough for him. The girls I introduced him to weren't good enough for him. No, he's gotta go across town to date a college girl. And to what avail, Mr. Lovelorn?”

Ma didn't wait for an answer. She turned back to give me a piece of her mind. “Your father thought I was crazy coming down here like this. Your brother Francis tried to back him up. It isn't enough Francis Xavier's following your pa's steps to be chief, no, now he's gotta stick his nose into your father's and my relationship.”

This was pure vintage Ma. The longer it's been since she saw you, the longer the opening lecture. We all knew not to take it too seriously. She would let you know for sure when she was really angry. You wouldn't be standing in the room with Ma when she was seriously mad. Dishes flew, pots, glasses. She'd only been angry a time or two in my life, and this wasn't one of them. This was just her way of saying hello. The last time Ma had been angry, really angry, was when a certain waitress down at the Sons of Italy Social Club decided to move in on Ma's territory with Pa. Now, that was a pretty picture, I hear, although I was not there to witness the confrontation of one Leonora Mostavindaduchi.

“… and so I should have cause to worry,” Ma was saying. “You lost weight. You're not eating. And look at those circles under your eyes. Alfonso,” she said, whirling on my brother again. “Why do you stand there like an idiot? Start unloading the groceries. Can't you see she's starving?”

Al smirked and turned to the trunk of the Lincoln. As the automatic lock clicked and the trunk lid began to sigh open on its hydraulic hinges, he reached in and started grabbing what can only be described as the entire interior of Little Frankie's Italian Market.

Fluffy, who had not yet run out of her doggie door to welcome me home, now stuck her head out for a look-see. She got one glimpse of my mother heading like a runaway train toward the door and knew this was no place for a chihuahua.

“You still got that little rat-dog, eh, Sierra?” Ma huffed. “A girl like you, she don't need something you might trip over and squash. You need a good guard dog, that's what.” From behind the door I heard Fluffy growl.

I rushed ahead of Ma and unlocked the door, dreading her initial reaction to my trailer. At least when you have little furniture, the place stays neat.

“Oh, my,” Ma said, sighing and stepping into the kitchen. She took a moment and stood, with me and grocery-laden Al behind her. She looked at the kitchen, clean and white, with its elevated table and barstools by the bay window. She edged slowly over toward the living room, examining the knickknacks on the shelves above the pass-through counter that divided the two rooms.

“Oh, my,” she said again as she stopped in the entrance to the barren living room. Slowly her gaze swept around the room, taking in the mirrored wall, the lone futon, and the stacks of books that ringed the walls.

“This is where you practice, eh, Sierra?” Her voice was softening. She nodded her head like she was drinking in my life and understanding.

“Yeah, Ma,” I said, “this is my living room. See, I've got my stereo here, and my books, too, so I can read when I want to.”

Ma laughed. “Still with them books, eh? You were always one with the books.” She gazed down the hallway toward the bedrooms but apparently decided against a full inspection. “I'll look down there later,” she said. “Right now, we gotta get some food in you. Looking like a stick, Sierra,” she said, turning and walking into the kitchen. “That ain't good in your profession. Right, Al?” she called out the back door. Then I heard an abrupt “Oh,” and Ma whirled toward me. “Looks like you got company, honey.” Al came through the door, toting more groceries, and behind him, also heavily laden, was Detective Wheeling.

Wheeling set the groceries down on the counter and smiled at Ma. She was instantly charmed and smiled back. Al looked guarded. He smelled a fellow police officer and knew from experience that a police officer in his sister's life usually spelled trouble. He was making a mental “Aha, I knew she was in trouble again” to himself.

“Detective Wheeling,” I said, “this is my mother, Mrs. Lavotini, and my brother Al.”

Ma wasted no time filling Wheeling in on her priorities. “Good,” she said to him, “another mouth to feed. What's with you people down here? All I've seen so far is skinny people.” Ma was poking her head into bags, pulling out jars and cans and big bags of celery and tomatoes. “I can't talk to you right now because I've gotta start cooking, but you young people go sit, talk, and pretty soon we'll eat.”

Wheeling opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. Instead he smiled at me, knowing I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Talk to him, or make a scene and face my mother.

“Ma, I don't have a lot of time,” I said. “I've gotta leave for work soon.” Not exactly true, I had an hour, but Wheeling didn't need to know that.

“Nonsense!” Ma shouted. “That's the problem with you people. You never take time for what's important. Always rushing, you are.” Wheeling was grinning now.

“Let's talk,” he said. His tone didn't allow for any other options. He stepped past me into the living room. Al went outside and returned with two suitcases, slowly walking past us and heading down the hall. He was straining to overhear, I knew. It was a Lavotini trait. I glanced back toward the kitchen. Ma was chopping onions, but she wasn't humming like she always does when she cooks. She was trying to listen in, too.

I led Wheeling over to the bay window. I didn't like the look in his eyes. We were headed for trouble and I knew it.

“All right,” I said, taking the offensive, “cut to the bottom line. I don't want you here asking questions and getting my family into this. I answered questions at the station. I'll be happy to come down there again.”

Wheeling just stared for a moment and when he did talk it was in a low, deadly serious tone. “You're in big trouble, Ms. Lavotini,” he said. A chill ran up my spine. I was aware of Al, listening in the hallway, and knew that Detective Wheeling knew my brother was listening, too.

“Hey, you think telling me I'm in trouble is gonna frighten me?” I said. “You didn't grow up in Catholic school. Every day some nun was telling me I was in big trouble.” I tried to laugh, but it fell flat. “They always wanted you to confess to some sin you hadn't committed. Just like you, eh?”

Wheeling wasn't smiling. “You want a bottom line? Here's your bottom line: I know John Nailor was in this house last night and I know he was at the racetrack this morning when you were there. I want an explanation.”

“For what? He can't come see me? I can't bump into him in public?” My heart was racing and I could feel my neck start to flush. “Why don't you go ask him why he was here?”

“Oh, I intend to,” he answered. His voice was tight, controlled, and underneath, very angry. “But right now, I'm asking you.”

“You know what I think?” I said. “I think you've already talked to your partner, and now you're double-checking. Otherwise, it makes no sense, you coming to me before you go to him. Or can't you find him?” I saw the flicker in his eyes and knew I'd scored. “You can't find him. Well,” I said, throwing up my hands in mock surrender, “what can I say? He's a friend. He stopped by to visit.”

“And left by the back window?”

“Hey, that's all you get. You can ask your partner if you want more.” Why didn't Al step in and run interference here? I wondered. “And while we're at it, why don't you go ask Nailor's ex–old lady what's what?”

Wheeling looked genuinely puzzled, then angry.

“Miss Lavotini, you put Detective Nailor at the scene of a murder. Now he's sneaking in and out of your house in the middle of the night. Then he's back at the scene today. I've got to wonder if I don't have a dirty cop in my department. I've also got to wonder if I've got all the facts about a homicide I'm working. Now, here's how it goes: You tell me what's going on between you two, and you get honest, or you may find yourself charged as an accessory after the fact in a murder. And if I find out that your story and Detective Nailor's don't fit, you may be looking at a much more serious charge.”