Film Strip by Nancy Bartholomew

want to be on his bad side, and yet, I couldn’t pull away. Every instinct I had was screaming “Get out! Now!” but I couldn’t move a muscle. Instead, my mouth took over.
    â€œSo, did you have this effect on Venus Lovemotion, too?”
    His eyes narrowed and sharpened. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œWell, Venus and Frosty are imported talent, porn stars or what have you. I figured maybe you have this effect on all the movie stars.” It was as clumsy as it sounded, so I went for damage control. “Or maybe you just have this effect on all women,” I breathed. Then I gave him a look like maybe, just maybe, we had a short future in front of us.
    Alonzo shifted in his seat, moving back and bringing his hand up to caress the side of my face. This was a definite no-no in Bruno’s book, but at a glance from me, he stayed back. I was sitting just like that, with Alonzo’s fingers leaving trails of fire down the side of my neck, when John Nailor walked into the club and out of my life.
    Nailor and I had an understanding about my work. He knew my parameters, and he knew I didn’t take any man’s attention seriously. However, he also knew I had a hands-off policy. He knew they could look but not touch, and here one sat, touching me.
    I don’t know how long he’d been watching when I looked up. It wasn’t for lack of Bruno and Vincent trying in their own clumsy way to alert me to the fact. Vincent had a coughing attack and then tried to use Bruno and himself as human shields, but Nailor isn’t stupid. By the time I dragged my eyes off Alonzo and brought them to focus on Nailor, he had started walking away, out the door and into the night.
    There was no sense in following him. He wouldn’t have listened. He was too angry, that much I knew. And I would’ve blown my cover with Barboni. I was trapped.
    â€œSomeone you know?” Alonzo asked.
    I stared helplessly at the door, saw Nailor look back and confirm that I had seen him and not attempted to pursue him, and then watched as he melted away into the parking lot.
    â€œNo,” I said, looking back at Alonzo Barboni. “I don’t know him.”

Fifteen
    I was a traitor. Worse than that, a Judas. Here I was, after months of working up to it, maybe about to fall in love, the real kind, not the make-believe, too-good-to-be-true kind, and I’d screwed it all up, as usual. I was thinking this as I sat with Alonzo, leading him to believe that I was genuinely interested. I’d done such a good job I’d even convinced myself for a moment. What a crock.
    Alonzo Barboni was the kind of bad news I thought I’d outgrown—tough, seductive, in charge, and morally bankrupt. In the olden days, back in Philly, I’d fallen for his type over and over again, finally culminating in my long-term affair with Tony the Married Mobster. Tony walked out on me. Well, not exactly; he’d gotten himself whacked outside of a local restaurant after eating a Sunday dinner with his wife and kids, the very wife and kids he’d denied ever existed. He left me alone and pregnant. The baby never made it, probably because of the grief that I allowed to ruin my body. I left Philadelphia on account of men like Alonzo Barboni, and now, like a true idiot, I’d allowed one to screw up the one good thing I’d found in Panama City.
    I let myself wallow in my trough of self-pity for all of three minutes before I realized that I had to get next to Alonzo. All the sorrow in the world wasn’t gonna help me now. I could clear Marla of murder, hand Vincent back his income, and then explain the real story to John. Hell, wouldn’t he have done the same in my situation? Hadn’t he done the same in the past? I threw it off like a heavy quilt on a summer night, and got back in the game.
    â€œSo, you’ve never been to Panama City before, huh?” I asked. “Well, you’re in for a big