Read Online Film Strip by Nancy Bartholomew - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œDuty 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.
    â€œOh 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.
    â€œSierra, honey!” he cried, and every head in the half-deserted bar turned to look at us.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œSo, you said you had something to tell me about Marla?”
    A confused look crossed Little Ricky’s face, then he smiled, as if remembering.
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œRicky,” 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