The Miracle Strip (3 page)

The sound of thunder in a tunnel continued, and now Fluffy, who had been sleeping on the pillow beside me, woke up and started barking furiously.

“What in the hell?” I grabbed my purple chenille robe and hopped off the bed. The trailer park was not known for tranquillity, but this was ridiculous. I ran over to the window, pushed up a few miniblind slats, and peered out into the bright sunlight. My trailer was currently surrounded by at least a hundred bikers—okay, maybe ten bikers, but they didn't have baffles on their tailpipes, so it sounded like a hundred. Only a few of them wore helmets, those spiky ones that look like World War I German helmets. The rest had bandannas tied around their heads. All of them had long hair and beards.

“These friends of yours?” I asked Fluffy.

Fluffy smiled and I took that for a “maybe.” As the bikers didn't show any signs of leaving, I decided it might be best for me to meet them head-on. I stepped into my high-heeled slippers, the ones with the pink feather stuff across the top, and went to the door.

It was boiling outside, one of those late April afternoons in Florida when the temperature spikes up and the heat shimmers off the roofs of the metal trailers. The Lively Oaks Trailer Park is arranged in such a way as to make all the trailers line up like cemetery crosses. There are no oak trees, as the name implies, only sandy patches of ground interspersed with weedy grass. Everybody could see everyone else's trailer, and I was sure they were all watching mine right now.

I stepped out onto the stoop, feeling like the Statue of Liberty; all I needed was a cup of coffee to hold up like a torch. I waited to see what was going to jump off next. The bikers were staring at me, making gestures to one another and snickering. The guy closest to my steps seemed to be the one in charge of this little mission. Unlike the others, he had hair that was fairly short, and a dull brown, but he had a mustache, a Fu Manchu, that dripped off the sides of his jaw. He was big, a beefy kind of man, but I didn't think much of that was fat. His bike glimmered in the mid-afternoon sun, and black leather fringe hung off the handlebars, like a kid's trike.

All the bikers wore leather vests with some kind of emblem on the back, so I figured they belonged to one of the local clubs, the Warlocks or the Pagans or something. That worried me a little bit, but I tried not to show it. At a signal from the front man, the bikers began turning off their engines, one at a time, until at last there was relative silence.

“Are you Sierra?” the big guy asked. He was wearing leather gloves with the fingers cut off, leather chaps, and scuffed biker boots. I was figuring that after a few more minutes in the sun, he was going to smell pretty ripe.

“Who wants to know?” I answered.

“Denise sent me,” the big guy said. Then I recognized him. He'd been into the Tiffany a couple of times to pick up Denise after work. She'd told me she was seeing someone new.

“And you are?” I asked, still not moving.

“Frankie.” The big guy smiled, and I noticed a dragon tattoo on his arm.
FRANKIE,
it said in big letters underneath it. He saw me staring and laughed.

“So I don't get wasted some night and forget,” he said.

“I'm assuming you was wasted when you did that.”

The others snickered again, and Frankie silenced them with a look.

“Denise wanted me to come by and tell you she's okay. The cops kept her talking for most of the morning, but she cut out of there around lunchtime. I told her to get some sleep and I'd come check up on you.”

Pretty friendly for a biker, I was thinking.

“Where is she?” I asked. Inside I could hear Fluffy hurling herself at the door in an attempt to get out. I stepped back and turned the knob. Fluffy tore outside, barking and growling. She raced down off the stoop and lit right into the guy next to Frankie. Her teeth sank into his boot, and before I could move, the guy kicked Fluffy into the air. She landed with a thud on the concrete parking pad.

“You fucking douche bag!” I screamed. Fluffy stood up slowly, shaking her five-pound body. I was off the steps and over to her side. Frankie was off of his bike and in between me and his friend.

“Bitch,” the other guy said, “I'm gonna skin that dog and tack its head to your door if it tries that again.”

He was starting to move, but Frankie stood right in front of him. “It's a fucking mouse dog, you goddamn idiot,” he said calmly. “It's teeth won't even cut through your pants.”

The others laughed.

“Hey, Rambo,” one yelled, “you afraid of a mouse?” The others thought this was hilarious. Rambo, however, didn't think anything was funny. His face reddened and his eyes took on a wild glare, like maybe he was inches from losing control.

My heart was pounding and I couldn't move. I wanted to get up in his face. I wanted to hurt him, but I was also weighing the odds of surviving. Whatever was going to happen wasn't going to come from me—not then, at least.

“Back off, man,” Rambo said to Frankie. Frankie didn't move.

“We don't have time to waste on some pissant dog,” said Frankie. “We've gotta get back to the clubhouse. We got something to take care of.”

The others were starting up their bikes and turning around. Frankie stepped back, still watching Rambo. Rambo started his bike, pulled a wheelie, and was gone, roaring down the trailer park street and out onto the road. Frankie turned to me.

“Is your dog all right?” he asked.

I was hopped up on adrenaline, my heart was pounding, and my ears were ringing. I wanted to hurt somebody, anybody, and Frankie was the closest. I stood up and launched myself at him, all in one movement. I slammed into the side of his nose with the heel of my hand, almost catching him unaware.

Just as quickly, he grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back. We stood there like that, him maintaining pressure on my arm until I was almost bent double, and me trying to move.

“I'll let you go when you calm down,” he said. He didn't sound angry, just matter-of-fact. Beside us, drops of blood began dotting the grass. His nose was bleeding and inside I felt good.

Behind us, across the narrow trailer park street, I heard a screen door slam. Then I heard Raydean, my next-door neighbor.

“Son,” she said softly, “if you don't want to meet your maker right now, today, I suggest you unhand that young woman and take a giant step backward.”

Raydean stood on her trailer steps aiming a shotgun at Frankie. Raydean had leaned her frizzy gray-haired head along the left side of the gun and was eyeing Frankie down the barrel. Raydean was dressed in her pink flowered housedress, her knee-high nylon hose rolled down to her ankles, her white saggy legs and arms rippling when she moved ever so slightly to keep Frankie in her sights.

Frankie slowly let go of my arm and I straightened up all the way. Fluffy was standing where I'd left her, growling. Raydean followed Frankie through the sight of the gun.

“Sugar,” she called to me sweetly, “you want I should blow his testicles to kingdom come now?”

Raydean was a sweetheart, but she was also batshit. Raydean was fine as long as she made her trip to the mental-health center every three weeks for an injection of Prolixin. If she missed that appointment, within two weeks she'd be seeing little folks who weren't there and calling the cops to say that the Flemish were invading the complex. This would soon be followed by Raydean shooting out the window at invisible soldiers, then being carted off by the cops to the state hospital. So I wasn't real sure if Raydean thought Frankie was Flemish, or if she had an accurate read of the situation.

Frankie didn't know any of this, but he still looked plenty nervous.

“How's about this, Raydean,” I said, eyeing Frankie and praying he didn't try to run. “How's about we let him go this time, but if he ever tries anything like this again, then you can shoot him.”

Raydean thought for a moment, lowered her gun slightly, and looked at me. “He ain't one of them Flemish, is he?”

“Nah, Raydean,” I answered. “He's a biker.” This seemed to satisfy her.

“Go on, then, son,” she said.

Frankie moved slowly to his bike and climbed on. I took a few steps toward him, careful not to aggravate Raydean. The adrenaline rush had gone.

“I'm sorry I lashed out at you,” I began.

Frankie looked a mess. Blood was still running down his face and had stained his shirt.

“It's all right,” he said. “Shit happens. Rambo's an asshole.” He sighed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Denise's in Room 320 at the Blue Marlin, but don't call till after six. She needs to sleep.” He turned the key in the bike's ignition and pressed the electric start button. The Harley roared to life. In an instant he was gone.

I turned around to Raydean, but she, too, was gone. Fluffy stood in the middle of the driveway, staring after Frankie. She wasn't smiling.

Five

They call the beachfront in Panama City the Miracle Strip. In the two years I'd lived there, I hadn't latched on to what the miracle was. Maybe it was a miracle that any one town could attract so many young rednecks. More likely, the Chamber of Commerce wanted the tourists to think that this particular stretch of beach was the best the Panhandle had to offer. I'd given up trying to figure it. I was now sitting on the far western edge of the Miracle Strip, enjoying a piña colada on the deck that runs across the back of Sharky's.

It's hard to miss Sharky's Beach Club. It is a faded gray, thatched-hut sort of joint that juts out along the edge of Front Beach Road, its sign screaming to passersby. And if that's not enough to grab your attention, there's always the giant shark hanging out in front of the entrance.

I was looking at the sunset and the people wandering up and down the beach in front of the back deck bar. A couple of young guys in white shorts and shirts were lowering the blue beach umbrellas and hauling equipment up to a nearby hotel for the night. This was the time of day I liked best in Panama City, the brief lull in the action, when sunburned nymphets napped and tired men showered, preparing for another round of partying.

It was hard to believe that less than ten miles away, at the Blue Marlin, life had turned ugly just before dawn. Now the sun was sinking and people went on about the business of excess, oblivious to the rest of the world.

“I got here as soon as I could.” Denise had slipped onto the stool next to me and I hadn't even heard her coming. She was wearing dark glasses and her thick red hair was pulled into a severe topknot. Her face was pale, despite the makeup she'd carefully applied. The only color on her at all were her huge gold and amethyst earrings.

“I thought we oughta talk before we go in tonight,” I said.

I had an agenda. Denise and I had hung around with each other for a year, and what really did I know about her? Everybody got to know Arlo, but who really knew Denise?

“I thought about it, Sierra. I'm gonna try and reason with them. I don't have a hundred thousand dollars, anybody oughta know that. Maybe somebody thinks I'm somebody else.” Denise shook her head and shrugged like it was all a mystery, but her hands shook when she reached for an ashtray.

“Are you?” I asked.

“Am I what?”

“Are you somebody else?”

Denise looked irritated.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” she asked. She fumbled in her oversized black leather bag for her cigarettes. I signaled the bartender for another piña colada.

“Well, I see it like this, Denise. I've known you since you moved here a year ago, and what do I really know?” I paused as my piña colada appeared. “You're twenty-eight, grew up in Miami, got divorced about a year ago, and now you got a dead guy lying in your place and your dog's gone. So I'm thinking: How well do I know you?”

A cool breeze was blowing in off the Gulf. Denise turned her head away, shielding her face as she tried and failed to light her cigarette. Exasperated, she flung the lighter on the counter and turned back around.

“Man, you and the cops.” Her tone was bitter. “Everybody wants my fucking history. There's no way to get a break and start over, is there?”

“Cops is one thing, Denise, but I thought we were friends.”

Denise pulled off her dark glasses. Her eyes were red and swollen.

“We are.” She sighed. “But I don't know what kind of friends we'll be when I tell you about me.”

“Denise, everybody's got something they don't want anybody else to see, something they're ashamed of. You're not so different from the rest of us.”

“I know that. It's just … Well, all right,” she said, apparently making up her mind to get it over with. “Here goes. I was married to this guy, Leon, for five years.” She looked over at me and I nodded. “At first everything was wonderful. He was so good-looking. He always had money and nice things. The part of Miami where I grew up, nobody had nothing. He treated me like I was a queen, for a while. Then I really saw what he was like, how he made his money. That's when I started getting scared. He was a real bad person, Sierra.”

“He hit you or what?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said matter-of-factly, “that was part of it, but he was connected.”

“Connected—like to the mob, right?”

“Right,” she said, “and he was kind of on the low end of things.” She stopped, fooling with her cigarette lighter again.

“And?” I prodded.

“And well, he was a pretty big dope dealer. He started to make me help him—you know, make connections, hold the money sometimes. He got popped three years ago and that's when I decided it was safe to leave him.”

“What do you mean ‘safe to leave him'?” I asked.

“Well, he would've beat the living shit out of me if I'd left and he could get to me, but with him in prison, I could go. He was mad, but at that point he thought he was looking at a lot of time, so he signed the papers. I moved here and decided to start over.”