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“Talk to my attorney.”

“I'm deadly serious, Miss Lavotini,” he answered. “You pull an attorney into this, and any help you might need from me goes out the window.”

My ears were buzzing. I felt hot and very scared, but he didn't need to know that.

“Detective Wheeling, call my attorney. I don't chat without him present.” Now Wheeling looked furious. “I think you should leave.” I turned and walked toward the kitchen door. “Ma, Detective Wheeling can't stay for dinner.”

Wheeling walked up to my mother, and I found myself holding my breath. “A pleasure meeting you, ma'am,” he said. Al was walking quietly through the living room and into the kitchen, standing with Fluffy by his side. They were silent, but both managed to look protective.

As he started down the steps, Wheeling looked back up at me, squinting into the late-afternoon sun. “Don't try and make this into a game. You and Detective Nailor could be in some very large trouble.”

“See you in the principal's office,” I answered.

He didn't say anything else and I didn't wait. I closed the door and headed back to the living room. Ma was cooking, but Al was standing by the bay window, waiting for an explanation.

My brothers are just like my dad. They think because they're male, it's their duty to protect me and Ma. This has led to some head-on confrontations, especially between me and the oldest, Francis. All of them do it, even Al, the one brother younger than me. He's the worst lately, maybe because John Nailor went to Philadelphia a few months back when I got in trouble and asked my policeman brother a lot of questions about me. Al and John got along, but Al didn't take too kindly to me being involved enough in a homicide that the police came asking questions.

“So, you're wondering what that's about, eh?” I asked.

“I don't think I got to wonder, Sierra,” Al said in a low voice so Ma couldn't hear us. “You and John are in some kind of trouble and it involves a homicide.” He was giving me the same hard look Wheeling had given me. “Sierra, is John a bad cop?”

“No!”

“Then why didn't you talk to that detective?”

“I didn't want … I didn't think … I hadn't…” I sputtered around for the right explanation.

“In other words, Sierra,” Al said, suddenly the police and not family, “you don't know what he is. Sierra, don't cover up for someone you don't even know if you can trust. You're hurting yourself here, kid. Don't go letting your feelings get in the way of telling the truth, 'cause the truth is going to come out, Sierra. You don't need to be caught in the middle of a police investigation.”

“Sierra, could you come here?” Ma's insistent call from the kitchen saved me from answering Al. I didn't know what was going on. Nobody was choosing to share that with me. I was just hanging out there in the wind. Maybe John was just using me. Maybe he was into something wrong. On the other hand, maybe he was working on something that he couldn't share with his fellow officers. But who was left taking the risk and trying to cover for someone I couldn't be sure I could trust? Me, Miss Doesn't-Know-When-to-Quit Lavotini.

Sixteen

It was going to be an actual relief to leave the trailer and go to work. Apparently, after Detective Wheeling stormed off, the thunderclouds began to gather over Ma. She smelled trouble and nobody was gonna rest until she'd gotten to the bottom of it.

“What's going on, Sierra?” she said, just as soon as I entered the kitchen.

“Nothing, Ma. He's got a hot temper, that's all. He's imagining things.”

Ma turned away from the stove and crossed to the sink, a heavy stockpot full of water and noodles pushed out in front of her. She dumped the pasta into the colander and slammed the heavy pot into the sink. She didn't like my answer.

She turned on the water full blast, squirted in some soap, and decided to have her say.

“Sierra, I am not about to have my own child look me in the eyes and lie!” She whirled around, staring at me, just the way she used to when my brothers and I were young. “You look here, Sierra,” she said, gesturing toward her face. “You look in my eyes and say that again. Can you look at me and say you don't know what's going on with you and the police? Is your conscience clear?”

A little twinge started up in my gut, moving fast toward my throat. I gulped. Funny as it may sound, I don't lie to Ma. I swore off it when I was eight. She is just too much of a force to be reckoned with.

Al wandered into the kitchen, led by his nose, which smelled Ma's sauce simmering away on the stove, full of garlic and butter. For a second he looked like he was going to open his mouth and save me, but then Ma reached out one oven-mitted hand and whacked him.

“Don't start!” she cautioned. “Let your sister dig her own hole. Let her lie to her mother, if that's what it's come down to.”

So I told her. What else could I do?

Ma never stopped moving. She's that way. She can't sit still, especially when she's worried about something, and Ma was plenty worried. When I got to the part about Ruby dying, Ma sucked her breath in across her teeth, the spoon she held pausing motionless over the sauce. She looked at me then, deep into my eyes, her own face filled with pain.

When I got to the part about John, and him kissing the brunette, and then him coming to the trailer and kissing me, she turned two shades of dark red. She carried the steaming platter of noodles and white sauce over to the table, whipped the garlic bread out of the oven, and motioned me and Al to the table.

“You love him, Sierra?” she asked. She was serving Al's plate, seeming to pay more attention to it than to me, but I wasn't fooled. Al was drilling a hole in the table with his eyes, trying to act like this was any other dinner conversation.

“What is love, Ma?” I said.

She reached across with one swift move and whacked me upside the head with her wooden noodle spoon.

“Ow! What'd you do that for?” There are certain rituals that human beings perform for absolutely no reason. I had to ask the question; it was part of the ritual. For my trouble, I got a second whack.

“I don't know, Ma,” I said. “I don't know him well enough to love him.”

Ma put down the spoon and looked at me, her eyes locked on mine, suddenly shiny with tears or something else.

“Aw, Sierra,” she said softly. “You got it bad.”

The room was completely still for a long moment, the air filled with steamy, spaghetti smells. Finally, Al had the good sense to choke on his pasta. Ma reached over and smacked him good-naturedly. “What's the matter with you?” she cried. “Your sister's in love and all you can think to do is stuff your face? Have a little respect!”

“And you,” she said, her attention turned back to me. “Eat!
Mangia!
You ever see a happy man with a skinny woman?”

We all laughed, the tension broken for the time being. But I knew I wouldn't have long to wait for the next round of questions. It was far better to eat and run off to the Tiffany, where there was only one question: How much money can I make them guys cough up tonight?

*   *   *

By the time I roared down Thomas Drive and into the Tiffany parking lot, I had switched in my head from Sierra, her mother's daughter, to Sierra, Mistress of the Night. No matter what was going on in the real world, me and the Fluff still had bills to pay and pasta to buy. You gotta have a good head if you're gonna rule the night.

I always notice the change in myself when I start getting ready to leave the house. I stand taller, pulling myself up by the tops of my shoulders, brining my breasts up into focus. I move slower, deliberately. I powder and wax and shine every square inch of my body, because at the Tiffany, my body is a temple and I'm looking for worshipers, preferably rich ones with loose, floppy wallets oozing money.

Don't take me wrong here. I like most of the guys I meet. I don't mind talking to them and hearing all their problems and dreams, but the bottom line is this: It's my freakin' job. No more. No less.

So, by the time I hit the backstage dressing room, I was moving to the music, zoning out on my own inner space. I was a green. Therefore, I found it only appropriate to dress like Cleopatra. I wound a little rubber snake around my arm, threw on a black wig, and wrapped my body in a toga. Simple but effective.

Ralph, the stagehand, cranked the smoke machine as I walked out. I've been trying to convince him and some of the guys to carry me out on their shoulders, but Ralph says he can't, his back would go out. I know that's not true, but I don't bust him about it. Truth is, Ralph's young and probably doesn't think he could control himself. He's afraid he'd embarrass himself onstage. So I say, what the hell, live and let live. But it would be a powerful entrance.

Instead I stood there, surrounded by smoke, and reached one hand up to make the snake on my arm wiggle, like maybe it was real. Then I started moving and swaying to the music, my hands slowly caressing my thighs. With one fast jerk, just as the music built and froze for two counts, I ripped away the toga.

There I was, standing out on the edge of the runway, wearing nothing but a gold thong bikini and a snake. That's when I noticed the boys from the racetrack. I had to notice them. Meatloaf was so excited his body was jerking and I thought he was having some kind of a seizure. Frank was leering and standing a little too close to the edge of the stage. The rest of Roy Dell's crew was right behind Frank. But where was Roy Dell?

I looked up and caught Bruno the bouncer's eye. This was a crew that didn't respond well to structure. However, Bruno was one of those structures that didn't respond well to customers touching the merchandise.

True to form, Frank was the first to make a move. He took a step forward, bringing himself right up against the twinkle lights of the runway, and reached out a thick, muscular arm.

Bruno, materializing beside Frank, slowly reached his Goliath-sized arm over Frank's shoulder and wrapped his fingers around Frank's wrist. No words were exchanged, but the look of pain that crossed Frank's face pleased me.

“Step back,” Bruno said, his voice a flat monotone of seeming indifference.

Frank didn't move, but little beads of perspiration began to pop out on his forehead. You could almost see the little kid in him want to say, “Make me.” Bruno felt Frank's reluctance and squeezed a little tighter on his wrist. The skin beneath Bruno's fingers turned a grayish white. I was starting to feel sorry for Frank.

Slowly, very slowly, Frank began to withdraw his hand from the edge of the runway. Just to taunt him, I lost my bikini top. Meatloaf started to drool, oblivious to Frank's predicament. Mickey Rhodes broke off whatever high-level conversation he'd been having with Vincent and took two quick strides over to the area where his employees were in imminent danger.

I bent at the waist and reached my arms out in front of me, slid into a slow split, then rolled onto my stomach and arched my back. Even Mickey stopped for a second to appreciate true artistry in motion. That's when I believe Meatloaf lost his entire paycheck to my thong, Frank got tossed by Bruno, and Mickey Rhodes saved half the track workforce from also getting kicked to the curb. He wedged himself between them and me, staring them down until they backed off and proceeded one at a time to offer me twenties in the most gentlemanly fashion. Like lambs led to slaughter, I sighed to myself, and who better to lead them than Cleopatra herself?

*   *   *

Marla was primping in the mirror when I returned to the dressing room.

“That big boy'll tip good if you play to him,” she said matter-of-factly.

I wasn't in the mood to hear Marla's opinion of who to work. I've got radar for that kind of stuff. I can smell a heavy tipper coming eight hundred miles away. So I ignored her.

“I saw him give dear, departed Ruby a hundred-dollar bill not two weeks ago.” Marla was sly. She was watching me out of the corner of her eye while appearing to straighten her cleavage, stuffing most of her artificial enhancements into the uppermost portion of her bra cup.

I couldn't help it. I had to know. “Which big boy are you referring to?” I asked, picking at a slice of cold pepperoni pizza that someone'd left behind in her rush to hit the stage.

Marla sighed in exasperation. “I believe you know him as Meatloaf,” she said, “but his Christian name is Albert.”

“Get out! Albert!”

Marla frowned. She fancies herself a social worker and laughing at someone's
Christian
name was like slandering them.

“Wish he'd give me a hundred dollars,” Marla muttered. “I listened to him going on and on about Ruby just the other night. You'd think Meatloaf actually thought they were an item!”

Marla had me and we both knew it. I was drawn into a conversation with her against my better judgment. Sooner or later, Marla'd want something. She didn't usually disseminate public service information without an ulterior motive.

“What'd he say about her?” I asked.

Marla gave me her that's-for-me-to-know-and-you-to-find-out look, tossed her long black hair, and pretended to ponder.

“You know, I've been thinking it wouldn't hurt you none to let Vincent put my name up ahead of yours just one time,” she said.

“Kiss my ass, Marla,” I said, cool as a cucumber. “Your name can come ahead of mine when I move on, retire, or die. Until then I headline. You don't.” I edged a little closer into Marla's personal space, something that made her acutely anxious on account of she knew it would take me no time whatsoever to wrap my hand around her hair and yank it until she cried or told me whatever it is I wanted to know. “What did Meatloaf say about Ruby?”

Marla dropped all pretense of preening in the mirror and whirled around to face me, at the same time backing up toward the stage door.