Film Strip (11 page)

I stepped over to close it, still with my mind on my next act, but the shrill sound of Frosty Licks's high-pitched giggle forced me to snap back to the present moment's reality. I pushed the door open a little farther and peered out onto the dimly lit back stoop. There was Frosty, happily ensconced on Little Ricky's lap.

“You are the cutest thing!” she was saying. “I could just eat you with a spoon! You can't really be a wrestler. You wouldn't hurt a flea!”

Ricky must've thought that the heavenly gates had opened and ushered him right on in, because he was sighing and running his hands up and down her body like he might never pass this way again.

“Ricky!” I snapped. “Do you just never learn?”

Ricky jumped up like a thief, dumping Frosty once again on her perky little behind.

“Sierra, now, it ain't what it seems.”

Frosty was glaring at me, slowly struggling up and brushing gravel and dirt off of her little baby-doll nightie.

“It is every bit of what it seems, sport,” I said. “You're thinking with your dick, Big Man, and that'll mess you up every single time.”

“Who do you think you are?” Frosty whined.

I was about to answer her, but at that moment something flew past me, knocking me into the heavy metal door. Marla had finished her act. Apparently, seeing the three of us in conversation, and Frosty in a see-through negligee, had brought back traumatic memories of Venus Lovemotion and Little Ricky. Or maybe Marla had finally wised up to her skunky snake of a boyfriend. Whatever the reason, Marla had totally lost control and had launched herself into battle.

A catfight between two well-endowed exotic dancers is the stuff male fantasies are made of, until you actually witness the real thing, with spit and blood and hair pulling. It is not a turn-on, not even to a pervert. Little Ricky stood back, clearly horrified, his knuckles jammed in his mouth. I was standing there, kind of dazed from my run-in with the door, still too unsteady to move. It was Bruno and little Rusty who broke up the action.

Bruno took Marla, and Rusty tried to grab Frosty. Marla gave Bruno a good tussle, but Frosty had nothing left to give Rusty. She buried her face in his scrawny little chest and bawled like a baby. Ricky, aware now that he'd been buttering the wrong side of the bread, came to Marla.

“Baby,” he gushed, “you done took it all wrong. I wasn't doing nothing but minding my own business when this she-vixen came out and leaped at me.”

Marla wasn't any too sure who to believe. She stood, her arms pinned behind her by Bruno, her massive chest heaving like two mountains in a full-strength earthquake. She was sweaty and her lower lip was beginning to swell.

We were starting to draw a crowd as customers in the parking lot wandered over to watch. This brought Gordon out from the front door, Vincent and several of the girls behind him.

Frosty seized her moment and turned it on for the audience. “Is this the kind of place you're running, Mr. Gambuzzo? A girl can't even make a decent day's wages without her life being endangered? Is this what you're offering when you say I could be a Tiffany girl?”

Vincent turned bright red and started stammering. Tiffany girl? Had Vincent offered Frosty Licks a job working with us? What was he trying to do here? And what kind of package had he offered?

Marla heard the same thing I did. Her face darkened and she went ballistic all over again.

“You mean to tell me you offered this slut a job?” she said. “Working here? With real talent?”

Frosty didn't know when to keep her mouth shut. “Real talent? With a movie star in the house, Panama City will finally see what exotic dancing is all about. You girls are just little backwater lowlifes. I was classically trained. I studied in New York.”

“Oh, you gotta train to flat-back it?” Marla sneered. She tried to wrench herself free from Bruno's ironclad grip, but found it impossible.

Gordon stood next to Vincent, worrying the tip of his little goatee. “You really offered her a job?” he asked.

Vincent, seizing the opportunity to save face, began to stammer. “Well, now I, er, um, I merely said that, um, it was somewhat of a potential thing. Of course, that was only if Miss Licks pulled in a substantial increase in door take.”

Gordon pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Well, we made a ton of jack this week, but I think that's only because of the killing and the fans concern for Sierra's, er … well-being. After all, she's the star.”

I flashed Gordon a smile and promised myself to do him an extra-special favor sometime real soon, like maybe making him a pan of Ma's Italian ziti. Gordon blushed and looked like the babe in the woods I knew him to be.

“Besides, this ain't nothing like what they make up in Atlanta.” Gordon looked at Frosty. “I used to work Club 69. We made more than this on a weeknight.”

Vincent glowered at Gordon, then regained his self-control and took over. “All right, all right! The last time I checked, my name was on the lease saying I own this place and I am in charge. I sign your paychecks, so what I do and whom I employ are not your concern. Right now I'm telling you to get back to work. And if there is one further incident, the entire lot of you will be seeking employment elsewhere!”

He looked like a black barrel about to bust. He was wearing his black wrap-around sunglasses, but they still couldn't hide the nervous twitch that starts up on the left side of his face when he knows he's out of control and we've bested him once again. His black silk shirt collar seemed to choke him, because his neck and face were a brilliant red. This was not Vincent Gambuzzo's best day.

Frosty stormed off, muttering something about her agent. Marla was staring at Ricky like she'd just uncovered a cockroach. Rusty scampered on into the building, his mind on the next act. Vincent turned to walk off, saw the gawking customers and dancers, and made a flapping motion with his arms, kind of like a big black goose trying fruitlessly to take off.

“Show's over, folks. Let's go inside where the real action is.” One by one they turned and walked away, all but Gordon. He stood rooted to the spot, his hand inside his pocket groping the wad of door money.

“Gordon, you all right?” I asked.

“Man,” he said, “Mr. Gambuzzo's making a big mistake if he hires that girl. She's nothing but trouble. I heard her talking to her agent. She has it all sewn up in her mind. She thinks she's gonna be the star here.”

Poor Gordon looked worried, like he thought maybe she could do it. I shook my head. Didn't he know these kind of things happened every day in the business? Frosty Licks was no threat to me. There'd always be somebody breathing hard on one's heels, but true talent won out every time.

I watched him for a moment, then checked out the parking lot. Maybe Nailor hadn't left. Maybe he was sitting in his car, watching the action. I scanned carefully, hoping, but there was no Nailor. He was gone.

Sixteen

I danced my ass off. I spent the rest of the night pulling out all the stops, ignoring the warning signals my body was sending. It didn't matter that Alonzo Barboni was watching me, smiling as if we shared a secret. All I wanted was to hurt so bad I would forget about Nailor and Venus Lovemotion and sorry Vincent Gambuzzo's financial and legal problems. I wanted to be far, far away in a land where I called all the shots.

It got so bad at one point that I went out to the payphone by the dressing room and tried to call Ma. The phone rang longer than it should have, had she been home, and then clicked over to my parents' latest attempt at technology, an antiquated answering machine that Pa had picked up at a flea market.

“Hey,” Pa's gruff voice barked, “leave your message. We ain't here.”

The wait was endless, and then the long, shrill beep sounded. “Ma, it's Sierra.” I don't know what took over then. I guess it was the kid in me, 'cause I started to cry. “I just wanted to … oh, shit, Ma. It ain't no big deal.”

She was probably down at the Sons of Italy Social Club with Pa. Hell, that's where they had to be. It was bingo night. Ma would sit next to Pa, their cards in front of them, looking all serious. Pa would keep asking Ma to repeat the numbers on account of he couldn't hear too well. Years of fire calls and sirens had finally taken its toll on the Chief.

Ma would act all irritated, but on the sly, she felt needed when he did that. Pa would drink Chianti while Ma actually watched the cards for both of them. She'd allow herself one small glass of wine, and that was only if the band was gonna play afterward and there'd be dancing. Ma loved to dance, but she lacked courage.

I stood there, holding the receiver and thinking of them dancing. Pa is a real tough guy, but not when he holds Ma in his arms out on the floor. She has a way of nestling her head right in the crook of his shoulder. Pa wraps his big arms around her and holds her in close. She whispers to him when they dance, all her little secrets and thoughts. And I've noticed Pa don't seem to have any trouble hearing her. He leans in close, his eyes closed, and there's a soft smile on his face. He's listening.

Nobody at the Sons of Italy Social Club bothers Pa when he's dancing with Ma. It is an unspoken contract between him and his buddies, a bond that transcends all the times they bitch about their wives. Pa's buddies look the other way when he's loving Ma, because if they ever acknowledged how good Pa has it, they'd have to examine their own relationships. They'd come up short, and for all their bitching, Pa's buddies long for a love like he has with my mom.

I stood there, holding the receiver, tears rolling down my cheeks, so homesick I thought I would die. Then I realized that the machine was still on and recording my nervous breakdown. “It's just love, Ma. I just … needed to talk I guess.”

There was a click and then a voice broke in. My oldest brother, Francis, had been sitting there listening.

“Sierra,” he said, for once sounding gentle and sincere, “is there something wrong, honey, 'cause Ma's not here.” I knew Francis felt desperate. He was cut from the same cloth as Pa, a fireman, all brawn, no emotion.

“Hey, Francis,” I said, my voice weak and husky with tears. “I'm all right.” I meant for it to sound definitive, like I was truly sure, but instead I only started crying all over again. “It's just one of those days, I guess. You know, you want things to go one way and they end up all jammed into a big mess.”

Francis didn't know what to do, but he gave it his best shot. “Honey, did someone hurt you? Are you in trouble again?” Again. Francis assumed I lived in a perpetual state of trouble. He hated the fact that I danced. I had tried to explain it to him, but he always felt embarrassed. His sister was a stripper. He couldn't see that I was a performer working a trade and doing a damn fine job of it.

“No, Francis, I'm not in trouble. I'm just going through some stuff with a guy, that's all.”

“He'd better not be hitting you!”

“Francis, give me some credit! Do you really think I'd date a lowlife beater?”

Francis didn't answer for a minute, because either he didn't know or he didn't know what to say.

“Francis,” I said, “just tell Ma I called. And thanks for the vote of confidence.” I hung up. I know it wasn't right, but I felt too messed up just then to do anything but escape. I'd call him back and apologize, later.

“Sierra, you're on next!” Rusty was standing at the end of the hall, calling me. There was no more time for thinking about home or love or anything other than dancing. After all, what better way to forget about my troubles? Dance, and if that didn't do it, dance harder. Work the crowd, take control, and make money.

I ran into the dressing room, grabbed my jungle Jane costume, and threw it on. Then I looked in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and swollen and my face was all red, streaked with tears and smeared makeup.

“Thank God for pancake and concealer,” I muttered. I coated my face, pinned up my hair, and ran back out just as the deejay cued up my music.

Rusty grabbed my kimono and looked up at me. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You know, if you're hurting, Vincent will understand if you don't go on. You shouldn't push yourself like this.” He blushed beet red and looked embarrassed, like maybe he'd overstepped the bounds of our working relationship.

“I'm all right,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for asking.”

“Sierra, I'm telling Vincent to let you go home early.”

I shook my head and walked past him, up the steps and onto the stage. Rusty wasn't going to tell Vincent Gambuzzo anything. I was the only one in the club who got away with that, and that was only on account of him thinking that I was connected to the “Big Moose” Lavotini arm of the Syndicate.

I cleared my head of anything but the music, letting the beat lure me out onto center stage. I surveyed my audience, picking out the big wallets and the first-timers. I smiled slowly, like I needed coaxing, and began the routine.

Alonzo Barboni was still in his booth, but he was angry. Barry Sanduski sat across from him, listening, now and then offering a word or two with his palms raised up as if saying “What could I do?” or “This is all I can offer.” Alonzo was speaking in a low voice, leaning forward, his dark eyes boring into Sanduski. A vein pulsed out on the side of his head. His face was reddening, yet his features appeared calm and impassive. I tried to watch, but I had to dance at the same time, so I missed it when Sanduski left. Alonzo was suddenly alone, leaning back, not even noticing that I was onstage. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone. It was a brief conversation, and when it ended Alonzo Barboni stood up and walked out of the club.

I had stripped down to my tiger's head G-string and was following Barboni's progress by strolling down the runway. I tried to see him walk to his car, but the door swung shut too quickly and Gordon blocked what little I could see of the parking lot.