Drag Strip by Nancy Bartholomew Page B

live in this dump woulda made off with my tires. Jesus, Mother Mary, and the saints, it’s hot!” With that, Vincent Gambuzzo entered my trailer.
    He looked around, almost visibly sniffing the air, trying to figure out with his nose what had been up and who’d been saying what to whom. Then, without asking, he strode over to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, standing there as the cool air hit him in the face.
    â€œWhat? You don’t got nothing in here, Sierra. Friggin’ mineral water! Fruit friggin’ salad! What is this shit?”
    â€œI knew you were coming, so I hid the good stuff,” I said. “Are you here to eat or talk?” With Vincent, there was no separating the two.
    â€œAha, there it is.” Vincent had finally stooped low enough to find the cannelloni and the leftover ziti.
    â€œHelp yourself,” I said, but the sarcasm was wasted.
    After he’d popped a plate in the microwave, Vincent got down to business.
    â€œI been in the trade a long time, Sierra, and I ain’t never lost a dancer.” He paused and shook his head slowly back and forth. I knew what he was saying wasn’t exactly the truth. Vincent hadn’t been in the exotic emporium business more than the five years he’d been in Panama City, because I’d done my homework and I knew the facts. Vincent had worked for his father in Miami before he’d made the move to the Panhandle. His father was a small-time bookie and used-car dealer. The Tiffany was Vincent’s attempt to make it on his own, but he didn’t want any of us to know how little he knew about the business. To challenge Vincent was to ask for him to swell up with machismo bravado and make a fool of himself and perhaps do something rash at the expense of face-saving. I didn’t want that, so I stayed silent.
    â€œShe was beautiful, Sierra,” he sighed. He pulled his piping-hot plate from the microwave and gingerly carried it to the kitchen table. “Nobody should die that young.” He sighed again and began to eat. “Them cops,” he said, his voice choked with ziti and emotion, “they ain’t gonna take this seriously. Not like us, eh, Sierra?”
    I was starting to have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Vincent was heading somewhere, and I didn’t think I was going to like it.
    â€œYeah, Vincent,” I replied cautiously, “this isn’t good.”
    â€œThem cops, they’re gonna blow this off, being as how she was a dancer and such. It’s gonna get the wrong sort of publicity in the papers. They’ll say she was a young girl, lured into the dangerous world of exotic dancing. You know where it’ll go from there, don’t you?”
    I nodded, but I had no idea where he was heading.
    â€œThey’ll start saying it was bound to happen. That dance clubs are full of the criminal element, and before you know it, they’ll be putting a black eye on the whole profession.” Vincent was fired up now, his chin covered with red sauce, the muscle on the side of his jaw twitching the way it always did when he was agitated. “Next thing you know, Ruby’s memory will be trashed and the Tiffany will be at the bottom of the barrel with them other trash-heap strip joints. Now, Sierra, we can’t have that, can we?” Vincent’s voice was at a roar, bringing Fluffy bounding into the kitchen growling.
    â€œVincent,” I started, but got no further. He had pulled off his dark glasses, a sure sign we were in for a long diatribe.
    â€œIt ain’t right, Sierra. You know it ain’t right!”
    â€œNo, Vincent, it ain’t right,” I agreed.
    â€œThen we gotta act, and we gotta act now.”
    Vincent stopped shoveling food into his mouth and set his plate down on the floor for Fluffy. She glanced warily at him, and then decided to throw caution to the wind and commence chowing down on ziti. Vincent and Fluffy