The Miracle Strip (6 page)

“What do you mean, problem with Denise?”

“She seems to be missing,” Nailor said. “She seems to have walked out of the hospital and vanished into thin air. No one has seen or heard from her in two days.”

There was a moment when time seemed to freeze. I couldn't comprehend what he was saying. Denise couldn't be gone. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and goosebumps ran down my arms.

Nine

The hospital and I reached the mutual conclusion that it was time for me to go. From their side of things, I had no insurance and, hence, might not be good for the tab. From my way of seeing it, hospitals are bad places to hang around. You go in for one problem, and if you stay too long, they start finding other stuff. A person could die in one of those places.

Pat came and got me in her faded blue 1957 Chevy pickup. Raydean was riding shotgun, so to speak. After the two of them had gently deposited me in the front seat, Raydean climbed up and looked back at the concrete-and-glass hospital.

“They run them electrical shocks through you in there?” she asked. Obviously, this was Raydean's experience of hospitals.

“Nope,” I muttered, “they were more into the emotional kind of shocks.”

Raydean grinned wisely. “I know the kind you mean. They set you in a bunch of chairs and some young social worker starts off talking about how your mother is the cause of your problems. Shit”—she spat tobacco juice out the window—“it's them Flemish is what the problem is. Didn't nobody ever wonder how a human could survive in all that cold?” Raydean was due for her Prolixin, that was for sure. Pat and I looked over Raydean's frizzled head and made eye contact.

“We're on our way there after we drop you,” she said.

“On our way where?” asked Raydean, peering anxiously at Pat.

“To pick up your medicine,” Pat answered calmly.

“They ain't human,” Raydean answered. I wasn't sure if she meant the Flemish or the mental-health center staff. “Aliens is what they is.”

My head was pounding as we drove through the blinding sunlight toward the edge of town and the Lively Oaks. I couldn't wait to see the trailer, to fall into my bed and sleep for a week.

“Sierra,” Pat was saying, “somebody called from your work while I was over feeding Fluffy last night. They said not to worry, folks'd be taking turns staying and taking care of you until you're on your feet.” Not if I can help it, I thought.

Pat pulled into the drive and cut off the engine. Someone's shiny red Corvette stood on the concrete pad. None of the dancers I knew could afford that car; besides, none of us would have been caught dead driving a Corvette. My friend Archie, a sociology professor down at the community college, says men who drive those cars have small penises. I couldn't believe it when he said that, but he said the Corvette looks like a guy's thing, and it's full of power, so it's kind of a wishful-thinking car. I wondered who was wishing on a star in my trailer.

Pat was holding my arm like I was going to break. We weren't even to the steps yet and I could smell something wonderful. Inside Fluffy was barking her tiny head off, but the sound was almost drowned out by another, more hideous, noise. Longhair music.

I hate longhair music, especially opera. Nothing's worse to me than a bunch of people all wailing as loud as they can about somebody killing themselves. Whoever was inside my trailer had the music turned up as loud as it could go and was wailing along with it. My head started pounding in time to the music.

Raydean opened the door and stepped inside. The music stopped almost instantly, as did Fluffy's barking.

“I know what you were doing!” Raydean screamed. “You were calling the mother ship!”

Pat and I hurried up the steps but it was too late. Raydean was off, communicating with the extraterrestrials, and Vincent Gambuzzo was caught wearing one of my aprons over his black silk suit, holding a baking dish containing perfectly done lasagna, and wearing two red oven mitts like gloves. For the first time ever, I saw fear in his face. Raydean had grabbed a butcher knife and had him backed against the oven.

“Raydean!” I shouted. “It's all right. He's my boss.”

Raydean hesitated and cut her eyes over at me. Pat took the opportunity to move up behind her and grab the arm that held the knife. Raydean started to struggle, but Pat was much stronger.

“Raydean,” she said calmly, “Sierra ain't up to this. Leave the nice man be, and let's us go on.”

Raydean pouted, or else still had quite a wad in her jaw. I sighed and looked over at Vincent. The pan with the lasagna shook ever so slightly.

“Beware the Ides of March,” Raydean said cryptically. Pat led her gently from the kitchen and out the door.

Vincent slowly backed away from the oven and put down the lasagna.

“I'm sure you're tired,” he said, trying to act like Raydean hadn't shook him. He looked ridiculous in my apron, but I didn't say anything. I was tired.

“If you want to go lie down, I'll bring you something to eat in a little while.” He looked embarrassed. “It's my mother's lasagna,” he said, nodding toward the pan. “She swears by it, an old family recipe.”

“Vincent,” I said, suddenly wanting to cry, “that's decent, thanks.” I headed toward my room with Fluffy at my heels. “There's no place like home, Fluffy,” I said.

Whatever the deal was with Denise and Arlo, I'd done as much as I could. It was time for somebody else to take over and leave me out. When I found her, that was just what I was going to say. That is, once I knew she was all right.

Fluffy leaped up on the bed and stood on her pillow watching me undress. I had to move slow, pulling each arm gently out of my blouse, careful not to disturb the stitches on my right forearm or jar the wrenched shoulder on my left side. I was covered with bruises and scrapes. I stood for a moment and stared at my reflection in the mirror on the back of my closet door. My long blond hair needed attention, but it hurt to lift my arms to brush it. My usually tan, thin body looked pale and scrawny, and my legs were covered with black-and-blue splotches. I wouldn't be dancing for a couple of weeks.

“So how're we gonna pay the bills, eh, Fluff?” Fluffy growled deep in her tiny throat. She was worried about her dog chow. “Hey, I always take care of you, don't I?” Fluffy eyed me cautiously. “Have I ever left you hanging?” Fluffy barked and I took that for agreement. We'd get by, but it'd be lean for a while.

I slipped into my
SAVE THE EARTH
nightshirt and crawled in between the covers. They'd given me another painkiller before I left the hospital, and I could feel it drifting up behind my eyes and pulling me down. I fell asleep and had the strangest dream. Denise and I were riding on her Harley, with Arlo on the handlebars. Frankie and Rambo were passing us on their bikes, going in the opposite direction. Rambo was leering at me but Frankie was screaming, his mouth wide open and blood trailing behind him. His eyes were fixed and filled with terror. Denise tried to reach for him as he flew past, but I pulled her hand away, forcing her to stay on the road.

*   *   *

I woke up to the sound of Vincent rumbling through the trailer, coming down my tiny hallway. When he reached my closed door, I could hear him shifting a tray filled with dishes.

“Sierra?”

“Come in,” I answered, hitching the covers up to my armpits.

Vincent stood in the doorway. The apron had vanished and he carried a tray. Fluffy was gone from her pillow, outside I assumed.

“What time is it?” I asked. Vincent set the tray down on the edge of the bed and consulted his gold Rolex watch.

“Four-fifteen,” he answered. I pushed up further in bed and motioned toward the one chair in my room, an old cane-bottomed piece I'd found at a garage sale. It was taking a risk, but I figured it could hold Vincent.

“Take a load off,” I said. Vincent looked uncertain but did as I asked. The chair groaned. I held my breath and waited. Nothing broke.

“Vincent, I appreciate what you did here. You didn't have to do that. It isn't like we've been the best of friends or nothing.” I paused, trying to think of what to say next and how to say it. Vincent took that problem right out of my hands.

“Sierra,” he began, “don't think I don't know how you and the others talk about me. I got my ways of knowing what's going on.” I didn't doubt that; he probably had tape recorders stuck in the dressing room. “But you girls gotta understand, the Tiffany means a lot to me. I gotta be tough to keep you guys in line. That don't mean I'm gonna sit by and let one of you get hurt. And you being Moose Lavotini's daughter…” His voice trailed off and he gave me a look of significance.

I felt bad, because I wasn't going to correct his belief that I was Big Moose's daughter. I needed that hold, and I wasn't going to give it up just because he was here making me lasagna. For all I knew, he was trying to get in good with Big Moose. So I laid back against the pillows.

“But I need to know what's going on, Sierra,” Vincent said. “Don't think I don't know something's up.”

“What are you talking about, Vincent?” I asked innocently, stuffing lasagna in my mouth. Vincent's mother's recipe was a killer.

“Arlo hasn't been to work with Denise in five days. She's walking around crying her eyes out and you're whispering to her every opportunity you get. Then some dead guy turns up at her place. Someone shoots at you two in the parking lot, thereby making it my business, and now Denise ain't been to work or called in for three days.”

“And all that means what to you, Vincent?” I was avoiding looking at him. Instead, I stared at his mother's lasagna.

“Don't act dumb with me, Sierra,” Vincent snarled, back to his nasty disagreeable self. “I want to know what's going on with you two. I got rights here, you know.”

Fluffy picked that moment to go off. She came scampering through the doggie door and down the hallway, barking to alert me that we had company and they weren't friends of hers.

“Better see who that is,” I said to Vincent. He didn't like it. He wanted to stay and hear me answer his question, but Fluffy upped the ante by barking louder and jumping all over him.

“Get off me, you mutt,” Vincent growled. He stood up and looked out the window. “It's that cop that came to see you at the club. He's got some woman with him.”

“That's Agent Terrance.” I sighed, my heart suddenly picking up the pace and forcing the lasagna to stick in my throat. “Look, you put them in the living room and tell them I'll be right there.” I'd be damned if they'd catch me looking like hell again. If I was going to jail, then I'd go in style.

Most people don't know much about double-wides and trailer parks. Some people have the preconceived notion that trailers are flimsy and trashy, that those of us who reside therein don't have taste. That couldn't be further from the truth. My trailer is real nice. It isn't new, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it's bright and filled with sunlight from the bay windows in the kitchen and the living room.

If you come in off the parking pad, then you'd come in through the kitchen. In the eat-in area I've got a round, high-topped table and four barstool chairs that I got from a club that was going out of business. The kitchen cabinets are a light maple and the walls are white. I've got all kinds of doodads that I collect at flea markets and the like. I keep them on the pass-through bookshelves that divide the kitchen from the living room.

The living room is filled mostly with plants and my stereo. I've got a futon sofa and a couple of armchairs, but it's where I practice my routines, so I keep it clear in the middle. I keep my book collection on shelves I made out of boards and bricks. I've got a complete collection of McMurtry novels, J. D. MacDonald's Travis McGee series, some Eudora Welty, and some old psychology books, just for a better understanding of my fellowman.

After storms and usually in the winter, I go down to St. Andrews Park and collect shells. I keep them all lined up across the bay-window ledge. That's where I found Detective Nailor, inspecting my shell collection. Special Agent Terrance was writing something down on a notepad and ignoring Vincent.

Nailor smiled when I walked slowly into the living room. I ached all over from getting dressed and putting on makeup. For only a moment, he didn't smile like a cop, he smiled the way a man smiles at a woman. I don't think Special Agent Terrance saw him, but behind me I heard her notebook snap shut. Nailor looked at her for a moment, then back at me.

“Your story checked out with the truck driver,” he said. “He woke up yesterday and we saw him this morning. Also, we recovered spent bullet casings from the parking lot of the Tiffany, and Bruno backed up your story.”

I was about to heave a sigh of relief when Terrance decided to get in on the act.

“That doesn't mean we couldn't make a case against you for reckless driving, driving while intoxicated, and reckless endangerment,” she said, her voice a husky rasp.

“Then why don't you?” I said, spinning to face her. Vincent had wandered over to the kitchen and he coughed like he was voicing the opinion that I should quit while I was ahead. Something about Terrance irritated me and I couldn't put my finger on it.

Special Agent Terrance took a step closer. I didn't back off. If I hadn't hurt so bad, I might have considered adding the charge of assaulting an officer to her list of possibilities, but as it was, I was doing well just remaining upright.

“Where is Denise Curtis?” she snapped.

“You tell me,” I answered. Vincent coughed loudly. Terrance looked past me and over at Nailor.

“I didn't come all this way to have some two-bit stripper give me a hard time,” she said. “I say we take her in. Screw doing things the nice way.”