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I was starting to have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Vincent was heading somewhere, and I didn't think I was going to like it.

“Yeah, Vincent,” I replied cautiously, “this isn't good.”

“Them cops, they're gonna blow this off, being as how she was a dancer and such. It's gonna get the wrong sort of publicity in the papers. They'll say she was a young girl, lured into the dangerous world of exotic dancing. You know where it'll go from there, don't you?”

I nodded, but I had no idea where he was heading.

“They'll start saying it was bound to happen. That dance clubs are full of the criminal element, and before you know it, they'll be putting a black eye on the whole profession.” Vincent was fired up now, his chin covered with red sauce, the muscle on the side of his jaw twitching the way it always did when he was agitated. “Next thing you know, Ruby's memory will be trashed and the Tiffany will be at the bottom of the barrel with them other trash-heap strip joints. Now, Sierra, we can't have that, can we?” Vincent's voice was at a roar, bringing Fluffy bounding into the kitchen growling.

“Vincent,” I started, but got no further. He had pulled off his dark glasses, a sure sign we were in for a long diatribe.

“It ain't right, Sierra. You know it ain't right!”

“No, Vincent, it ain't right,” I agreed.

“Then we gotta act, and we gotta act now.”

Vincent stopped shoveling food into his mouth and set his plate down on the floor for Fluffy. She glanced warily at him, and then decided to throw caution to the wind and commence chowing down on ziti. Vincent and Fluffy had a tenuous truce that consisted of a system of bribes. Vincent supplied the food and Fluffy agreed not to bite him.

“We take a two-pronged approach,” he said, rising from his chair and striding back toward the refrigerator. “First an appropriate PDA.”

“What?” He was losing me. He'd moved away from the refrigerator to go poking into my cabinet; he was hunting for sweets.

“Public display of affection,” he said. “We all loved Ruby. Her public needs a chance to mourn, and I don't mean at no funeral, although I think we should be visible there, too. I mean, the club ought to do something out of respect. Dedicate an evening to her, or wear black armbands like they do in the military.”

“Maybe cover our pasties in black, like the cops cover their shields.” Once again my sarcasm was lost on Vincent, who'd discovered my chocolate stash.

“Yeah, something like that. Tasteful.” He popped a handful of chocolate chips into his mouth. “Something that says we're grieving while at the same time pointing out that dancers got hearts and a standard that others should look up to. See what I'm saying?”

I saw only too well. Vincent was concerned with the bottom line. Don't get me wrong, I think he had feelings for Ruby, but Vincent's true love was the Tiffany.

“Then we come to part two,” he continued. Vincent's voice had dropped an octave, and he carefully put the chocolate back into the pantry before turning to face me. There was a terrible look in his eyes, one I'd never seen before, a frozen, arctic glare.

“Part two is we find the bastard who did this and we dust his ass.” Vincent paused for a second, letting his words hang in the air. I felt a chill and pulled my purple chenille robe tighter. “You know them cops can't find the guy like we can. Anyway, we got a message to send. The Tiffany, i.e., Vincent Gambuzzo, don't let nobody fuck with its dancers and get away with it.”

So far, he hadn't said anything I disagreed with. I was just troubled by the use of the word “we,” as if I were somehow a part of Vincent's retribution.

“So I'm thinking you should make a call, and I'll make a call, and then we'll just see whose people can get the job done first.”

“Vincent,” I said, “I don't mean to act stupid here, but what are you talking about? What call?”

Vincent gave me a frosty, don't-be-coy-with-me look and put his dark glasses back on.

“Sierra,” he said, his voice a warning, “you know who I mean. Call the Moose and let him know you need a favor. You're family. This is pigeon shit to a guy like that.”

Sister Mary Margaret told us there was always a payback when you lied. She drummed it into our heads every day of our long Catholic-school education. Somehow I'd always thought she meant God would pay you back, not Vincent Gambuzzo. Here I was, about to reap the consequences of having told my boss that he couldn't mess with me on account of I was connected to a syndicate so big that if Vincent even dared to make me so much as uncomfortable, his entire club would cease to exist. Up until this moment, the implied connection had always done the trick and kept Vincent off my back. Now it was about to blow up in my face.

“Vincent,” I said, “I don't know about calling Moose. This is a local matter. I'm sure your people would be more appropriate. Besides, they're local.”

Vincent shook his head. He was bluffing. He didn't have any “people,” local or otherwise. No, we were down to the moment of truth. If I didn't produce the Moose, then I would be chopped liver around the Tiffany.

“All right, Vincent, I'll make the call. But I'm not making any promises. Panama City is out of their jurisdiction. And while it's a huge matter to me, Moose may not see it that way.”

Vincent picked up the phone and shoved it toward me. “Call him.”

I stared at the phone and back at Vincent, my heart pounding and my face slowly turning red. Then I laughed.

“Vincent, I am not going to call him with you standing here. First off, we talk in Italian, and second, if he so much gets a whiff of someone, not a family member, within earshot, he would have my ass. Besides, you don't just dial direct. I gotta dial a number, leave a coded message, and then wait. It could take hours.”

Vincent's jaw was twitching and he didn't pull the phone away. “Dial,” he said.

I grabbed the phone like I was pissed. “Turn away,” I demanded. “I don't want you to look.”

Vincent sighed heavily and turned back to the pantry and my chocolate stash. I knew he was listening to me punch in the members, so I did the only thing I knew to do given my situation. I called my mother.

“Hello?” Ma always answers the phone like she's expecting the cops or a funeral home to be calling, and I guess given that Pop and three of my brothers are firemen and my baby brother's a cop, that's a fair expectation. Still, it's disconcerting to hear the panic in her voice.

“This is Sierra,” I said.

“Oh, Sierra.” She sighed with relief. She inhaled as if she was about to ask the 480 questions she always asks, but I cut her off at the pass.

“I need to get a message to Moose,” I said. I glanced over at Vincent. He'd turned and was paying close attention.

“Moose? Who in God's name is Moose?” my mother cried. “Sierra, what's the matter with you? Who's Moose? Should I know?”

“No,” I said, “that's fine. If it's not until tomorrow, well, I understand.”

Ma was getting frantic now. “Let me call your father to the phone.” There was a squishy noise as she pressed her palm over the phone, then the sound of her muffled shouting. “Frank! Frank! It's Sierra. I think she wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks so much,” I said quickly. “I'll wait to hear from you tomorrow.” I hung up and looked over at Vincent, then let my finger slide up to click off the ringer. In about two minutes my parents would be dialing my home like it was the winning lottery number wanting to know what in the hell was going on. Vincent was smiling.

“That's a good girl,” he said. “Now we're gonna see some action.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Vincent,” I said. “You may be in for more action than you were planning on.”

Vincent nodded like he knew all about it. “These are desperate times, Sierra,” he said. “I will make myself and the club available to whatever Moose Lavotini needs. You tell him I'm grateful and that Vincent Gambuzzo knows how to repay a favor.”

Vincent got up and hustled toward the door, puffed up with the importance and self-satisfaction of knowing he'd brought in the mob to avenge a moral outrage. I closed the door behind him and wandered over to the full-length mirror in the living room.

“Hello,” I said gruffly into the glass, lowering my voice as deep as I could. I grabbed the barre. “I'm ‘Big Moose' Lavotini, at your service. Now, about that favor you need…”

Eight

Where I come from, in the suburbs of Northeast Philly, when somebody dies from the neighborhood, we all attend the funeral or drop by the funeral parlor. It's a sign of respect and, sometimes, more often than we'd like to admit, curiosity. When I arrived at work the second day after Ruby's death, I was heartened to find out that dancers operate on the same level of personal principle. Either that or Vincent Gambuzzo was a public-relations whiz kid.

“Sierra,” he called as I came rolling in through the back entrance. “It's about friggin' time. I gotta talk to you before you go on.” I looked at my watch. It was only seven o'clock. I was early.

“Vincent, I'm not late,” I said impatiently. As I got closer I could see the jaw twitching. Vincent was in a state.

“Did you reach him?” he asked.

“Vincent,” I hissed, looking around in mock paranoia. “Don't be running your mouth here. I told you I'd take care of it, and I did.”

Vincent nodded. “Now listen, that's not all. I got some extras here tonight. Some of the other clubs sent over representatives. You know,” he said, trying to prompt me, “for the tribute. The PDA.”

“What? They did what?”

Vincent puffed up like a rooster. “Yeah, I was talking to some of the guys, and they were all offering their condolences. When I told them about the tribute and asked if they wanted a part in it, they were all right on board. They sent their best girls.”

I had to give the guy credit. This was a public-relations coup. The best talent in town, from every club, all packing in the Tiffany. There wouldn't be a man in the area who'd miss this. The strippers with hearts of gold and the G-strings to match.

“I want you to coordinate things for the evening. Get the girls lined up. Tell them what you want and how long they have onstage. Set the tone, Sierra.”

“Vincent, you are friggin' unbelievable.” On the one hand, I wanted to slap him for exploiting Ruby's memory to his advantage. On the other hand, it was going to save the Tiffany from becoming “the place where that murdered girl worked” and turn it into “that club that cared so much about that poor murdered girl.” It was brilliant and disgusting all at once. And damn it, it was up to me to turn it into the real tribute I knew it should be.

“So you're saying I get free reign here to do it like I want?”

“Anything you say, Sierra.”

“Good,” I said, turning and heading for the dressing room door. “Then stay the fuck away from us until I tell you different. I don't want you messing it up.”

Vincent was fuming, but he was also remembering that he owed me now and he really couldn't afford to piss me off.

“You got two hours, Sierra,” he growled. “Have your ass out onstage at nine o'clock and don't keep us waiting.”

I didn't dignify it with a response. I had two hours to put on a really fine memorial tribute and that was what I intended to do.

Nine

A fine mist of smoke blew gently across the stage of the Tiffany Gentleman's Club at precisely nine
P.M.
I'd made Ralph, the stage manager, change our customary red backdrop curtain for a black velvet one, and at 9:01 the curtain slowly parted to reveal me standing center stage, dressed in a black velvet sheath, my blond hair piled high upon my head.

It was a packed house, thanks to Vincent's full-page ad in the local paper. The cover charge had been jacked up out of sight, with ten dollars out of each admission going to the local women's shelter, another Gambuzzo finesse. When I stepped slowly out to the front of the runway, the crowd fell silent.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “welcome to the Tiffany. We have gathered here tonight to pay tribute to one of our own, a young dancer who I'm sure most of you have seen on this stage. A woman of extraordinary talent, who shared her gift freely with those who could most appreciate it.”

There was an anticipatory stir among the men.

“Tonight, those of us who share Ruby's love of dance have assembled to pay our respects and to honor her life essence. We hope that by bringing joy to you we can remind ourselves that, while Ruby's song is over, her melody lingers on.

“Owen,” I called suddenly to the bartender, “pour everyone a shot of Wild Turkey.” This was clearly not in Vincent's good-hearted scenario, and the dirty look he sent me confirmed it, but what did I care? A few of the restless shouted out, “All right,” but I signaled for silence.

“Gentlemen, if you would refrain from drinking, for a moment, I would like to propose a toast.” Incredibly, they did. They stood silent, waiting as the topless barmaids handed out shots, thanking them respectfully, and not once hooting or attempting to pinch fleshy bottoms.

When everyone in the house had a glass, I raised my own.

“Here's to the road we all must go down. Here's to the gift that brought her to town. Here's to a life cut short in its prime. Let's honor our friend, 'cause, boys, it's showtime!” With this, I yanked at the slender Velcro strip that held my dress on, letting it fall to the floor, revealing my black sequined G-string and tiny black pasties. A large fake ruby glittered in my navel. I poured the shot back, letting the fiery liquid slide down the back of my throat.

“All right, girls!” I yelled. “Let's give them what they came for!”

The curtain slowly pulled back again, this time revealing twenty-five of the best exotic dancers that Panama City, Florida, had to offer, all dressed in tiny black G-strings and minuscule black pasties, all with red rubies glittering in their navels.