Eight

Where I come from, in the suburbs of Northeast Philly, when somebody dies from the neighborhood, we all attend the funeral or drop by the funeral parlor. It’s a sign of respect and, sometimes, more often than we’d like to admit, curiosity. When I arrived at work the second day after Ruby’s death, I was heartened to find out that dancers operate on the same level of personal principle. Either that or Vincent Gambuzzo was a public-relations whiz kid.

“Sierra,” he called as I came rolling in through the back entrance. “It’s about friggin’ time. I gotta talk to you before you go on.” I looked at my watch. It was only seven o’clock. I was early.

“Vincent, I’m not late,” I said impatiently. As I got closer I could see the jaw twitching. Vincent was in a state.

“Did you reach him?” he asked.

“Vincent,” I hissed, looking around in mock paranoia. “Don’t be running your mouth here. I told you I’d take care of it, and I did.”

Vincent nodded. “Now listen, that’s not all. I got some extras here tonight. Some of the other clubs sent over representatives. You know,” he said, trying to prompt me, “for the tribute. The PDA.”

“What? They did what?”

Vincent puffed up like a rooster. “Yeah, I was talking to some of the guys, and they were all offering their condolences. When I told them about the tribute and asked if they wanted a part in it, they were all right on board. They sent their best girls.”

I had to give the guy credit. This was a public-relations coup. The best talent in town, from every club, all packing in the Tiffany. There wouldn’t be a man in the area who’d miss this. The strippers with hearts of gold and the G-strings to match.

“I want you to coordinate things for the evening. Get the girls lined up. Tell them what you want and how long they have onstage. Set the tone, Sierra.”

“Vincent, you are friggin’ unbelievable.” On the one hand, I wanted to slap him for exploiting Ruby’s memory to his advantage. On the other hand, it was going to save the Tiffany from becoming “the place where that murdered girl worked” and turn it into “that club that cared so much about that poor murdered girl.” It was brilliant and disgusting all at once. And damn it, it was up to me to turn it into the real tribute I knew it should be.

“So you’re saying I get free reign here to do it like I want?”

“Anything you say, Sierra.”

“Good,” I said, turning and heading for the dressing room door. “Then stay the fuck away from us until I tell you different. I don’t want you messing it up.”

Vincent was fuming, but he was also remembering that he owed me now and he really couldn’t afford to piss me off.

“You got two hours, Sierra,” he growled. “Have your ass out onstage at nine o’clock and don’t keep us waiting.”

I didn’t dignify it with a response. I had two hours to put on a really fine memorial tribute and that was what I intended to do.