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I whacked ineffectually and he stared down at me, his eyes meeting mine. “Oh, come on,” he whispered. “Get your money's worth. Hit me.”

I hit, hard, and he half fell onto my chest. “All right,” he said, “use your leg, roll over and off.”

I hurt. I was tired. And like I said, I wasn't in the mood. Something inside me snapped and I heaved, using my leg to push him off balance. Over he went, but just as quickly he was back, lunging over top of me and positioning himself above me. This time his legs were outside. He was getting ready to teach me yet another of his little techniques, but I didn't wait. I brought both knees up, hitting him squarely in the most vulnerable area of his body.

He grunted. I hit his right arm, pushed him off balance with my left arm, and rolled away. Fluffy went ballistic, this time attacking Nailor's thick shoes.

I stood up and stared down at him. “Any questions?” I said. The adrenaline was surging through my body and I wanted to take him out. It took every effort not to kick him, but some last vestige of civilized behavior took over. He was, after all, only trying to help.

Nailor started to laugh, lying back on the kitchen floor, with my dog doing her best to kill his shoe.

“Hey, Fluff,” I said, “you can knock it off now. He gives up.” Fluffy looked at me, her teeth still gripping Nailor's shoe. “Want a doggie treat?” She dropped the shoe and came trotting over.

Nailor lay there for a moment, watching, then struggled to his feet and walked toward me, the smile fading slowly from his lips.

“Sierra, you know this is serious. It's not a game. Venus Lovemotion wasn't the victim of a drive-by or any other random act. Your friend Marla has never played on your team. She doesn't like you. For all I know, the bullet was intended for you and hit Venus only by accident.”

“You think I don't know that?” I asked. “If somebody, and it wasn't Marla, wanted to hurt me, then I got all the more reason to find out what's going on.”

Nailor shook his head. “I can't stop you, but it's suicide. I wish for once in your hardheaded lifetime you'd let someone take care of you.”

“Yeah, well, I haven't had a great record with caretakers. And I find taking care of myself works out a whole lot better. I like a relationship built on a more solid foundation than one person needing another.”

Nailor sighed. “It's not about that, Sierra. I'm in a position to help you out here. It's something I do for a living.”

I walked over to him, slipped my arms around his waist, and kissed him gently on the lips.

“How about this, 'cause you know I'm not walking away: I nose around my way, you investigate your way, and we both watch each other's back.”

He didn't like it. He thought I was playing with him, but what could he do? He pulled me closer and kissed me harder. His hands slipped up under my shirt, investigating. Things were starting to heat up when the phone rang. It was Little Ricky, his slick, weasel voice oozing through the receiver.

“Hey, Sierra, I want to see you. I think maybe I know something that can help Marla.”

I choked off a thousand sarcastic responses and told him to meet me at the club. Nailor, sensing a change in the disposition of his afternoon, sighed and straightened his tie.

“You could meet me here later,” I whispered, running my fingers across his shoulders and looking deep into his eyes. I had plans for this man, and they didn't include learning how to defend myself.

His pager answered for him, shrilling out into the quiet of my kitchen, instantly pulling his attention away. He looked at the little box, shook his head, and then looked back at me.

“Duty calls,” he said.

Fluffy had had all the excitement she could take for one day. Without warning, we both heard the unmistakable sound of water hitting the floor.

“Oh God, Sierra!”

I looked down at his shoes. Fluffy had finally claimed them as her own.

Ten

I reached the Tiffany Gentleman's Club by four o'clock in the afternoon. The parking lot was bright with reflected sunlight that bounced from the white stucco walls to the windshield of my car. In Florida, sunglasses are more than a fashion statement; they are a necessity.

I walked across the parking lot and stepped into the dark recesses of the Tiffany. It was that awkward time between the lunch crowd and the after-work crowd, when no one but losers sit on the barstools and only the lowest-ranking dancers vie for the customer's attention. It was naptime, and business was slow.

The bartender was grumpy from lunch and not looking forward to the after-work crush. The waitresses sat at the end of the bar talking among themselves, irritated if a customer tried to interrupt them with a drink order. After all, they'd done lunch with its hustle and bustle of impatient customers all trying to beat the clock and get back to the office.

Little Ricky sat with the losers. Wedged in between a fat telephone repairman and a bearded truck-driver type, he looked even seedier than usual. He spotted me instantly, almost before I could identify him. He was up and off the stool, making just enough commotion for his companions to notice that he was approaching me like an old friend.

“Sierra, honey!” he cried, and every head in the half-deserted bar turned to look at us.

“Don't touch the merchandise,” I said, trying to smile and fend off his unwelcome hug at the same time. “I mean, I'm still in a lot of pain and I can't take it.”

Little Ricky never knew a social cue, but the look in my eye told him to back off and do it quickly.

“Come on over here,” I said, trying to make my voice sound both friendly and interested. It was a stretch. I led him to a booth, the same one the Italian Stallion had occupied the night before. Ricky slid across the seat and patted the leather space next to him. I pretended not to notice and slid in across from him. I had the advantage. He'd called me before I'd had to call him.

“So, you said you had something to tell me about Marla?”

A confused look crossed Little Ricky's face, then he smiled, as if remembering.

“That I did,” he said, “but let's relax a bit first, get to know each other.” He raised his arm and snapped his fingers in the direction of the waitresses. They were not impressed. One of them recognized me and stood up, wandering slowly toward the table.

“Ricky,” I said, “etiquette demands that you do not snap your fingers at the barmaids. A, it is rude. B, one of them might decide to hurt you, as a morality lesson to other customers. And C, you don't know what they do when they make your drinks and they're pissed.”

Ricky took this in, not sure at first if he should believe me, but finally deciding I might know more about barmaid habits than him. When the girl stepped up to the table, she found a humble Little Ricky waiting on her.

“Darlin',” he said, “I don't know what came over me there. I did not think. See, I was in New York City yesterday, promoting my new professional wrestling video, and I guess I got swept up in northern rude behaviors that are far from my own gentlemanly manners.”

The waitress, a short blonde with a tiny chest and a wad of gun stuck in her mouth, regarded him as if he were a common species of toad.

“Bullshit, Little Ricky,” she said. “I seen you in here yesterday afternoon and you were just as rude. Now whatc'hu want?”

Little Ricky looked nervous, thinking about his personal safety and drinks that were the least prone to staff tampering.

“Well, honey, bring me a long-neck, twist top, but don't open it. I need the exercise.”

The waitress nodded and turned to me. “What're you doing here?”

“Slumming.”

The little barmaid nodded again, looked at Ricky, and smiled back at me. “You want coffee or somethin'?”

“Coke'd be nice, if it's no trouble.”

“Uh-uh,” she said, “it ain't no trouble at all.”

She flounced off and Little Ricky watched her, his eyes tracking the way she moved, calculating the odds of ever improving his options.

“You got one hope,” I said.

Ricky looked back, puzzled.

“Tip her more than the cost of the beer and you might be safe.” He frowned, then smiled. After all, what was a three-dollar tip when you might get lucky later?

“Now, tell me about Marla.”

Ricky knew he was on the losing end of getting to know me better, so he retreated.

“Marla couldn't have killed that girl,” he said finally.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“Because I had her gun. She asked me to hold it for her so she wouldn't shoot nobody.”

The music cranked up and another new girl strutted out onto the runway and began to work the pole. She was obviously a stripper; dancers have routines, they think about their art. This girl was doing her best impression of a work for hire, later, in a sleazy hotel room.

“What?” I said, trying to be heard over the music.

“Yeah, I held her gun because she was mad at that Venus for coming on to me. I took it because I know about her temper.”

“Well,” I said, “all right. At least we can give the gun to the police. They'll test it and see that it hasn't been fired, and Marla will be clear.”

The day was looking up. The barmaid appeared with Ricky's beer, opened of course, and my Coke, complete with straw.

Ricky's face went blank, then fearful. I assumed it was because his beer had been opened, but I was wrong.

“Sierra, I don't have the gun.”

“What do you mean, you don't have the gun?”

“Well, I went out to my car to get it and it was gone.”

This was not news that I wanted to hear. In fact, it was the very last thing I wanted to hear.

“All right, Ricky. When did you last see the gun and when did you remember to go look for it?”

Ricky's foot slid slowly across the floor and bumped mine. When he didn't move it away, I moved my leg. The idiot was trying to come on to me and hang Marla, all at the same time.

“Ricky!”

“All right! I put it in my glove box directly after Marla threatened Venus. I went out to her car, took it, and put it in my car. I didn't recollect about it until this morning when Marla said the cops were looking for her gun and she couldn't find it. I said ‘Well, baby, don't you remember I took it and put it in my car?'”

My heart sank. “Marla thought you still had her gun?”

Ricky nodded eagerly. “But Marla don't have it. It's gone.”

The sap couldn't figure it out that the cops would just think Marla took the gun, used it, and lost it. Or, a second and third explanation arose, that Little Ricky or someone else took Marla's gun and used it to kill Venus Lovemotion. Better yet, maybe Marla's gun wasn't used by the killer at all. It would just help if we had it, then we could rule her out. But I had a feeling. When something can go wrong, it usually does, so the gun that killed Venus and winged me was probably Marla's. It just figured. It was just the way things tended to run in life.

I looked back at the worm and tried my best not to let my true homicidal feelings seep out. Ricky found my leg again and rubbed his foot up against it. He had kicked off his shoes and was running his sweaty, smelly toes all over my calf. I waited a second, until I knew for certain where his other foot rested, and then jabbed the point of my heel into the meaty flesh of his big toe.

Ricky screamed with pain and gained an audience. Even the stripper who was doing her best to wrap her tits around the pole had to stop and stare.

“Oh God, sugar,” I said, “was that your foot?” Ricky couldn't answer. He was clutching his foot, pulling it up into his lap and moaning. I guessed steroids didn't dull one's pain threshold.

“I am sooo sorry. I thought that was the table base. Oh, is it bleeding?” Steroids did not add IQ points to Little Ricky's marginal intelligence. He looked up at me with big cow eyes, believed me instantly, and said: “That's all right, baby. I'll be fine.”

But his foot was swelling and he couldn't slip it back into his fake leather cowboy boots. When he tried to signal the waitress and have her fix him an ice bag, she ignored him. I stood up, looking very concerned.

“You sit right here, Ricky,” I said, “and I'll try and find something for you.”

Ricky sat there like a big, hurting baby as I turned and walked off, right through the back hallway, out the back door, and to my car. The little blond waitress said later that when he asked for me, she told him I had run out to the drugstore and probably gotten into an accident while trying to rush back. This was right before she handed him a supersized condom from the men's room, filled with crushed ice, and told him to stick it where it could do the most good.

Eleven

Marla lived in a high-rise condo right out on the Gulf of Mexico in the center of the Miracle Strip, Panama City Beach's tackiest few miles of souvenir shops, bars, and gooney golf emporiums. Unlike me, Marla liked to flaunt that she made good money. She drove a hot red convertible and ate out every day. She was a local fixture, well-known in the tackier dress shops, the kind that sell clothing covered in beads and sequins.

I took the glass elevator up to her apartment, my stomach lurching with each floor. It was a long way down and I have trust issues with man-made equipment.

I pounded on her door and listened to her singing along to a Cher track. She sang off-key and loudly all the way to the door, and only stopped when she realized her caller was female.

The door swung open and she stood there in a flimsy white dressing gown trimmed with fake ostrich feathers. In the daylight, even with her makeup on, Marla is a scary-looking creature. I think it's all that makeup and the way she tweezes her eyebrows so that they're kind of triangular, like Dr. Spock's on
Star Trek.

“What?” she asked. “Is it all over?”