Film Strip by Nancy Bartholomew Page A

time, Mr. Barboni, cause I know places even the locals can’t find.”
    Barboni smiled. “I’ll bet you do,” he whispered. “Why don’t we start with your place.”
    Freakin’ snake. He’d see my place when hell froze over. I looked at him like an innocent, offended virgin, and he backed right up. I guess he figured I was worth playing.
    â€œI mean, I’m sure you have a lovely home. It must be in a beautiful location.”
    Yeah, right, if you considered a trailer park romantic, then you were on the road to nirvana. The Lively Oaks Trailer Park was pretty much devoid of oaks and devoid of charm, but we were lively all right.
    â€œWell, I’ll look forward to showing it to you … sometime.” Mae West couldn’t have done it better.
    â€œSierra!” Vincent Gambuzzo had finally had enough. He stood just three feet away, beckoning like I was supposed to jump up and run through a hoop.
    â€œDuty calls,” I said to Barboni. “Don’t be a stranger.”
    â€œCan I call you?” he asked.
    I looked down at him, reached across the table and into his inside pocket. At first, instinctively, he flinched, protecting his gun. Then he relaxed and let my fingers wander inside his jacket pocket. The predictable pen was there, a silver Cross. I reached for Barboni’s hand and slowly wrote my number on his palm. I put the pen down and folded his fingers shut.
    â€œShhh!” I whispered. “Let this be our little secret.”
    â€œSierra!” Vincent called, impatient now. I whirled around and glared at him, reminding him that Sierra Lavotini moves at her own pace. I am not someone’s trained show dog.
    Bruno stood next to Vincent, chaffing to get to me. “Sierra,” he said, as I walked up to him, “don’t go messing with that guy. Word is he’s—”
    I cut him off. “I know exactly what he is and I know exactly what I’m doing.”
    Vincent frowned. “Then you didn’t see him come in.”
    I looked him dead in the eye for a long moment. “No, I was watching the front of the house.” I said, “I didn’t see him until…”
    Vincent was watching me with something that might’ve passed for compassion mixed with a healthy dose of confusion. I think he knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t blow Nailor off without a damned good reason. He just couldn’t figure out the rest of the puzzle.
    â€œWell, if you’re back in the club, then I expect you to work. Get your ass into costume and cue the deejay. I don’t have no prima donnas in my place.” That was a joke and we both knew it.
    â€œSpeaking of which,” I said, “where’s Marla?”
    Vincent frowned and looked over at Bruno, who frowned and shrugged.
    â€œBut she isn’t under arrest or anything like that?” I asked.
    â€œNo.” Vincent sighed, pulling out a black handkerchief and wiping his damp brow. “She ain’t managed to get herself hauled in. I would’ve gotten a call. I guess she’s just running late.”
    As if she’d heard him, Marla suddenly slipped through the curtains and began her act. She was dancing to a country tune: “I Want to Be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart.” This time she had herself all dolled up in a white cowgirl outfit, complete with hat and six-shooters. In light of the charges looming over her head, I thought the act was in poor taste and said as much to Vincent, but he just shook his head. To him, it was enough that she’d shown up.
    I looked over at Alonzo. Marla had his complete and total attention. He even allowed himself a small, tight smile. Who knew? The Italian Stallion was human after all. Marla didn’t miss his reaction. She homed in on it like a pigeon coming in to roost. She was playing him for the big money. Too bad she hadn’t heard what a lousy tipper he was.
    I would’ve stayed