Film Strip (29 page)

“Marla,” I whispered, “are you in there?”

I paused, listening with my ear against the door. I couldn't tell. I thought I heard a slight scrabbling sound.

“Honey, it's Sierra,” I whispered again. “I'm going to get you out of here. Just hang on.”

I turned around and found Gordon standing in the doorway, a plate with a sandwich in one hand and a gun in the other.

“Oh, Sierra,” he whispered, “I wish you hadn't done that.” The plate slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, shattering into pieces. “You know I can't let you leave. You're all mine now. We'll never go back.”

“Gordon, no.” My throat went dry and my heart was beating so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

He walked toward me, a heavy, slow step that seemed to drag him forward, almost against his will. He reached me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me to the bed.

“We'll always have each other,” he said softly, and raised the gun to my head.

“Gordon, wait!” I said, trying to keep my voice down, trying to hide the panic. “We're not finished.”

Gordon was listening.

“There are things we can do here on Earth that we can't do in eternity.”

I shifted my body toward him, turning my head so I could look at him, ignoring the barrel of the gun.

“Gordon, you can't shoot me. You wouldn't shoot Lori.” I was grasping for something, anything, to help me stay alive long enough to get help. “Talk to me, Gordon,” I whispered.

His eyes flickered and I began to unbutton my blouse with one hand.

“Help me, Gordon.” I moved closer, offering myself to him. The knife hidden in my other hand comforted me, offering me the only hope I had.

Gordon's hands shook. The gun trembled but barely moved. He slowly raised his free hand and stretched out his fingers to touch my breast.

“I want you, Gordon,” I said softly, and began to move toward him. “Put down the gun, baby.”

“Not yet.”

I pulled off my shirt and unfastened my bra. While he sat there watching, I stood up before him, moving in between his knees. “Touch me, Gordon. Put your face right here.”

As I pulled his face toward my breasts, I slipped the Spiderco open, its razor-sharp blade cold against my palm. As I began to push him backward onto the bed, straddle his thighs, and climb on top of him, I heard the dim wail of sirens turning onto his street.

Gordon snapped back up, shoving me to one side as he listened.

“See?” he said. “Just like Lori. You didn't listen to me. You called them.”

He didn't wait for me to answer. He pushed me off of him onto the bed and sprang on top of me, his face suffused with rage. With a trembling hand he raised the gun, pinning me down with one hand as he pointed it first at his head, and then at mine.

I moved, reflexively, swinging my arm up and into the pressure point inside his arm. He fell heavily on top of me and the gun exploded with a deafening roar as we began to fight.

I couldn't move him, and I couldn't let him kill me. I lashed out, kicking and screaming, hoping someone would hear me but knowing they wouldn't.

Gordon brought his hands up, free of the gun, and began to choke me. He rose up, bringing the full force of his upper body into his effort to kill me. I hurt. I couldn't breathe and I was terrified.

Get your money's worth.
I heard Nailor's voice ringing inside my head.

With one last burst of energy, I forced my hands up, inside his arms and lashed out, but this time I used the knife, slashing deep into his arm as I pushed him over. I screamed and ran, ignoring the howl of rage and pain that followed me.

I got as far as the door, fumbling with the lock, before he reached me.

“No!” he screamed. He slammed into me, pushing me into the hard wooden door. I bucked backward, lashing out with the knife at any portion of his body I could reach. He shrieked and jumped backward, and I ran, picking up the vase of roses and hurling them out through the living room window.

Gordon ran back into the bedroom and returned an instant later. He'd found the gun, but I'd found the window and was jumping out as he ran after me, trying to aim, trying to make his bleeding arm cooperate.

I fell out the window, not at all gracefully, and began to run. Behind me a gun exploded. In front of me another gun exploded, but I couldn't see. I was running for my life, sprinting the short distance toward the other house and the swirling lights of the patrol cars.

“How about that, eh?” someone said.

Someone grabbed me, pulling me to the ground behind a squad car. “Jesus, Sierra,” Nailor said, his body shielding mine.

There was total silence for a brief second, and then Packy Cozzone's voice rang out. “Hey, you Ninjas,” he called. “I shot the little fucker, you can quit pointing them rifles like you are actually serving a purpose. He's dead. I saved your miserable little butts.”

Nailor, sensing an impending second death, raised his head. “All right,” he said, “hold your fire.” He looked back at me. “We found the kid that Gordon paid to deliver the flowers, caught him in a drug raid. I've been trying to reach you all afternoon to tell you. We would've had Gordon in a matter of hours. Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked.

I shook my head. “He was by himself, but his bedroom closet door's locked. I thought I heard something in there, but—”

He didn't let me answer. “Search the house,” he said. “There may be a hostage in the bedroom closet.”

Panama City's finest, with weapons drawn and fierce, fierce looks on their young faces, strode past us into the tiny bungalow. Nailor followed and so, unbeknownst to Nailor, did Vincent Gambuzzo and I. For a brief moment everyone was silent. That's when we heard the thumping in the bedroom closet. That's when Vincent lost his head and pushed right past a young kid with the Colt M-16 fully automatic rifle, and pulled open the door with a force that ripped the fragile lock right out of its frame, oblivious to the police commands to “stand back!”

Vincent knelt down and pulled a bruised and bleeding Marla out into his arms. She smiled up at him softly and then began to cry. Vincent Gambuzzo took her up onto his lap and sat on the floor cradling her, his big puppy-dog eyes filling up with tears, even while he tried to smile his reassurances. Marla looked at him as if she'd never really seen him before, and stretched out her hand to wipe away the lone tear that escaped down his cheek.

“It's going to be all right, baby,” she said. “The Bomber's back in business.”

Thirty-two

The thing I like about the South is this: It's not really any different from Philly, except it's cleaner. Back when I was a kid, we lived in a brick-and-siding row house. The front yard was concrete and the backyard was a postage stamp of green grass, flowers, and a huge old walnut tree.

In the summertime, the old people, my parents and their parents, would drag out green metal chairs and position them under the tree. On Saturday nights Ma would set up a card table with a worn white tablecloth on it, and the next thing you knew, it was a party. She'd stick candles in old Chianti bottles and the party would break up as the last nubs burned down and out. I remember lying up in bed, hearing the grown-ups talking and laughing outside under the walnut tree, and feeling safe and loved. I just knew the whole world was a happy place.

My trailer has a tree out back, a scrawny old pin oak, with branches that reach out into the little square of burnt grass they call the common area. I put my own chairs out there. In the summer, me, Raydean, and Pat will sit out for hours on an off night, listening to the whine of bug zappers, and sniffing the scent of citronella oil that wafts out of the tiki torches I stuck into the hardened ground.

The Saturday after Gordon died, three days after it all came to a head, my friends began to gather in the backyard. It was a way to bring closure to the horrible events that had taken place, a way for us to begin healing. The table was bigger than Pa's, but his Chianti bottle had its customary place of honor in the center. Everybody cooked, even Francis, who tried and failed to re-create Ma's cannoli. Pat brought a seven-layer salad and fish for the grill. Raydean pulled a few of her famous consolation casseroles out of the freezer and heated them up just before we served.

Marla and Vincent came. Marla was still limping, walking like she hurt and nursing her broken arm. Vincent practically carried her out back and put her in a soft chair that he'd bought especially for her for the evening. He went back to his car and returned with big containers of pasta salad and his famous lasagna.

Packy Cozzone even showed up, accompanied by Guido and Hamm, his sidekicks. Packy, good New York family boy that he was, didn't want to come empty-handed. He had hoagies flown in from New York, thick with Capocola ham and Provolone cheese, bursting with fresh tomatoes and shredded lettuce. Guido and Hamm tugged a keg of beer out under the tree and packed it in ice. Clearly they expected to stay for a while.

Ernie Schwartz arrived a little after eight, walking up the driveway in a Hawaiian shirt with his ukulele tucked under his arm. His wife trotted along quietly by his side, sniffing disapproval, and carrying a box of Godiva chocolates.

“So pleased to meet you at last,” she said, sticking the candy in my hands so we wouldn't have any physical contact. “I've heard so much about you.”

“I'll bet,” I said, and turned to watch a familiar car nose its way slowly down the street, a light blue Lincoln Town Car.

“Francis,” I yelled back over my shoulder, “tell me you didn't!”

He walked up, looking all innocent, a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. “What can I say?” he said. “I messed up the cannoli. You can't have a party without cannoli.”

Pa and Ma rushed out of the car, the trunk sprang open, and I just knew what was inside. Ma had brought cannoli all right, and every other commodity not found south of the Mason-Dixon line.

“Sierra!” she screamed, making a beeline straight for me. “You look hungry! My poor baby!”

Francis smirked and danced around her, heading down the driveway, prepared to tote groceries for hours until the bottomless pit of a trunk was finally emptied.

What none of us counted on, and certainly no one expected, was the reaction Packy Cozzone had to meeting Pa.

He and his men raced down the driveway, terrified looks on their faces. They stopped by the trunk of Pa's car and stared. When Pa turned around and smiled, Packy dropped to his knees, seized Pa's hand, and kissed his wedding ring. Guido and Hamm followed suit before Pa could react.

“What the hell kind of—” Pa started to ask, but Francis cut in.

“Pa, these are friends of the family, Packy Cozzone out of New York, and his colleagues Hamm and Guido.”

Pa stared hard at them for a moment and then said, “Pleased to meet youse guys, but no more kissing, all right? We're not in the old country.”

Packy backed away, his arms now loaded with brown paper sacks. “Gesture of respect, Mr. Lavotini, that's all.”

“Oh, Pa,” Ma shrieked, “they was raised right. That is so beautiful.”

The music got louder, flooding the street and capturing the attention of my parents, who stopped under the streetlight, frozen with memories and smiling.

“Come here, you,” Pa said, grinning at Ma. “When's the last time you heard this one, eh?”

Ma smiled, like the whole world had suddenly shifted, dumping her back into another time and place. “Oh, Pa,” she cried. “Remember? It was the night before Sierra was born and I couldn't sleep. You took me out into the kitchen and…”

Ma stopped talking and began to cry. Pa pulled her to him and slowly they began to dance. Pa was humming to her and smiling as they whirled around the empty street.

Nailor picked this moment to arrive, cutting the lights on his brand-new black Crown Victoria, and coasting to a stop behind Ma and Pa's car. He sat there for a second, watching my parents dance, and then quietly slipped from his car without them even noticing his arrival. He walked up and stood behind me, his arm resting across my shoulders, a smile on his face, watching. Then slowly he pulled me around to face him, moving me gently into his arms as we began to sway with the music. I closed my eyes and listened very carefully as Nailor started to hum. In the distance Packy said something and Raydean cackled. Fluffy yipped and Francis spoke to her. I settled in and nestled my head against Nailor's shoulder.

“You know,” he said softly, “this could be going somewhere.”

“You think so, do you?” I murmured.

“Yeah,” he answered, whirling me around in an imitation of Pa's fancy turns.

I pushed back and looked him straight in the eye. “Well, then, you'd better hang on tight, 'cause it's going to be a wild ride.”

Nailor's laugh echoed down the length of the street as his arms tightened around me.

“I wouldn't want it any other way,” he said.

We stayed like that for what seemed like hours, but must have only been minutes. He smelled so good and I felt so safe in his arms. When Francis touched my shoulder, his face tight with some unnamed tension, I jumped, startled and reluctant to leave Nailor's arms.

“Francis, can't you see I'm busy here?”

Francis was holding the cordless phone and he wasn't smiling.

“Call for you,” he said, his eyebrows going up like I should catch on to something.

“So tell 'em I'm busy,” I said, and turned back to nestle my head on John's chest.

“Sierra! No can do. Take the call.” He spoke slowly, each word a bullet. What was with him?

“All right, all right! Damn, Francis, lighten up! You're on freakin' vacation.”

I snatched the phone from his hand. “Hello?”

“Miss Lavotini,” a deep rasping voice said. “This here is your uncle Moose.”