Killer in High Heels (11 page)

“
Italian-American,
” Marco corrected me.

“You know,” Dana said, leaning in to do a pseudo-whisper, “I bet you this whole place is crawling with wise guys.”

I looked around at the suspicious number of size thirteen pumps. I seriously doubted it.

“Look, I’m going to go talk to the owner. Who I’m sure is a perfectly nice, normal Italian-
American,
” I said with emphasis. “You two stay here.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with?” Dana asked. “I took Rico’s interrogation and intimidation course. Rico uses the same techniques as the CIA. They totally work, Maddie.”

“No! I said I was going to go talk to him, not interrogate him. Sheesh.”

Dana pouted. “No stun gun, no interrogation. You’re no fun at all.”

“Look, you two just…enjoy the show,” I said, gesturing to the stage where Marilyn was breaking into a rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

I left Dana still pouting and Marco still gazing starry eyed after his Madonna as I weaved in and out of club goers toward the hallway. I peeked around the corner. Three doors to the left, a pair of restrooms to the right. I did a quick over-the-shoulder glance and ducked to the left. The first door was marked
SUPPLIES
. The second two had the word “private” painted on them. I knocked on the first door. Nothing.

I moved on to the second door. I paused, hearing muted voices inside.

There were two of them. One was deeper and slower. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, just a low rumble on the other side of the door. The other voice was higher and more urgent. And, luckily, louder. Hearing my Irish Catholic grandmother’s lectures on eavesdropping echoing in my head, I put one ear to the door.

The words “moron” and “jerk” vibrated through the wood. The guy with the higher voice was pissed. “Merchandise” and “Lola” followed. Then the word “gun.”

I stifled a gasp, adrenaline quickly surging through me. I pressed my entire body up against the door, straining to hear more.

The low talker mumbled something in response, and the first guy got angry again. This time I had no trouble hearing his response. “I don’t care how you do it. Just take care of him.”

I froze. The way he said “take care of him” didn’t sound like he meant a pampering foot massage. Suddenly Dana’s
Godfather
scenario wasn’t feeling so farfetched. Take care of whom? Larry? My mouth went dry and my heart started racing faster than a car chase on the 101.

The voices went low again and I strained to hear more. All I could hear were footsteps. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize they were moving toward the door until it was too late. It swung open, catching me squarely in the face.

“Uhn.” The door slammed into my nose, smacking my head against the wall behind me as I crumpled to the floor. I blinked, dazed. Then I looked up to find two men staring down at me. One was huge. He seemed to fill the entire hallway with his bulk. And it wasn’t fat. This guy was built like a linebacker. He had a long scar cutting across his face and one thick unibrow that hovered over his eyes like a hairy caterpillar.

But it was the second guy who creeped me out. He was smaller, his features sharp and precise. He was impeccably dressed in a dark designer suit with closeclipped dark hair and olive skin, slightly flushed from his previous shouting match. His eyes were small and black, staring down at me with a kind of cold calculation that sent a shiver up my spine. I’d bet my Blahniks this was Monaldo.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice tight with a restraint I could easily see snapping.

“I, uh, was looking for the bathroom.”

He looked to the right at the restroom sign, blinking in two-foot-high neon. Then he looked back at me and raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow.

“Huh,” I said. “Guess I had the wrong door.”

He narrowed his small eyes. “Wrong door, huh?”

“Sorry, I’ve, uh, had one too many cosmos tonight.” I scrambled to my feet and didn’t even have to fake the stumble as I lunged for the ladies’ room door.

I locked myself in a stall and sat down, taking big breaths. Ow. Big breaths hurt. I gingerly touched my fingers to my nose, hoping I hadn’t broken it. I did a ten count, then came out of the stall to inspect the damage in the mirror. Red, but it wasn’t bleeding and it didn’t look terribly swollen. Okay, maybe a little swollen, but at least not Marsha Brady sized. I pulled out a tube of concealer and dabbed some on the red parts as I mulled over what I’d heard.

It was obvious the creepy little guy was pretty pissed at Larry. But why, I wasn’t sure. Did it have anything to do with the gunshot I’d heard last Friday? A terrible thought occurred to me. Maybe instead of getting shot, Larry had shot someone else. Maybe that’s why Monaldo was so mad. I had a hard time picturing the decked-out Lola taking a potshot at Monaldo while his goon looked on, but I had to admit it wasn’t impossible.

After doing the best I could with my rapidly swelling nose, I snapped my compact closed and gingerly peeked out the bathroom door. The hallway was empty. I could see Unibrow and Mr. Creepy standing at the bar. I quickly slinked out of the bathroom and skittered down the hall. I closed my eyes and silently prayed to whichever saint looked after those who committed breaking and entering for really good reasons, and opened the office door. Empty.

I mouthed a “thank you” at the ceiling and jumped inside, shutting the door behind me.

Okay, so maybe breaking into the office wasn’t my smartest idea ever. In fact, it might even be pretty low on the list. But I was fresh out of smart ideas so I went with the only one I had. I didn’t quite know what I was looking for. Maybe a gun, or a written statement saying Monaldo had pushed Harriet off the roof. Some detailed plan about how they were going to…I mentally cringed…“take care” of Larry. Most of all, I guess I was just looking for some clue as to why Larry’s roommate was in the morgue and said roommate’s boyfriend was going around shoving guns in people’s faces. (Okay, and I guess a teeny tiny part of me was actually looking for some kind of plaque that said “Honorary Mob Member.”)

A desk sat in the middle of the room, flanked by two armchairs in front and a cushy office chair behind. Bookcase to one side, a few framed photos, some official-looking documents on the wall stating they could sell liquor, and three side-by-side file cabinets. All in all, your typical office. I started with the file cabinets. Locked. Damn. I moved on to the desk drawers, turning up rubber bands, paper clips, and a dirty magazine. Nothing terribly helpful there. Except the fact that Monaldo apparently liked his women big and buxom.

I checked the bookcase next, randomly pulling out volumes of employee manuals, binders, and books, checking for anything out of the ordinary. No such luck. I turned my eye to the photos on the wall. Lots of pictures of Creepy doing big cheesy smiles with his arm around people—mostly men in suits I didn’t recognize, which didn’t mean a whole lot. I was usually more apt to flip on
Seinfeld
than the news, so these could have been anyone from politicians to former Mob dons. In fact the only person I did recognize was Larry, in a pink leotard fringed with peacock feathers. I looked down at his shoes. Silver spangled strappy sandals with a butterfly clip. Mental forehead smack. No wonder I’d passed as a drag queen.

Next to Larry was another man in pink, shorter and chubbier than Larry, with curly blond hair. He had his arm around Larry’s shoulders and I wondered if this was the unfortunate Hank. Beside them stood Monaldo, doing a big “cheese” at the camera and pointing up to the Victoria Club sign.

Since staring at a picture of my father in heels and feathers wasn’t totally in line with my denial theme, I shook my head and moved on. The only place in the room I hadn’t checked yet was the trash. A wire basket sat in the corner of the room, bulging in a way that said Monaldo wasn’t much of a housekeeper.

As a general rule, I don’t go pawing through people’s trash. It’s rude, invasive and downright icky. But I was out of options. And quite possibly out of time before the gruesome twosome came back to argue about what kind of cement shoes to order Larry. So I closed my eyes and shoved my hands into the wastebasket. Luckily, I didn’t hit anything too slimy or disgusting. Mostly just discarded papers and receipts. I quickly scanned the first few on top. Nothing jumped out at me. Until I unballed one piece of paper that looked like a computer printout of an eBay auction. That alone wouldn’t have gotten my attention except the auction, listed last Wednesday by a BobEDoll, was for a pair of pink Prada pumps. In snakeskin leather. New in box with dust bag. I felt a little drool form at the corner of my mouth as I wondered if the auction had ended yet.

I was trying to figure out why Monaldo would be in the market for a pair of pink pumps (Okay, so he did own a drag club, but Monaldo hadn’t exactly struck me as the Dude-Looks-Like-A-Lady type. He seemed more like the Dude-has-an-Uzi-in-the-closet type), when I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. On impulse, I quickly shoved the piece of paper into my purse.

Just as the door swung open.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Monaldo, a.k.a. Mr. Creepy, stood in the doorway, his black eyes flashing at me.

I froze. “Uh…wow, this isn’t the bathroom, is it?” Okay, so thinking fast in a crisis isn’t my strong suit.

He narrowed his eyes at me, his jaw clenching tightly. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked in a voice that was freakishly calm for how vividly angry his eyes were.

I bit my lip. “All right. You got me. Ha.” I faked a laugh. “Okay, here’s the truth…” I racked my brain. Quick, Maddie, what sounds truthful? “I’m, uh…with the
L.A. Informer.
A reporter. Yep, that’s me, reporter gal. Like Mary Tyler Moore. Only without the pillbox hats because the Kennedy chic thing is so overdone. Well, I mean, some women can pull it off, but I’m more of a Sarah Jessica Parker-style girl. You know—all about the shoes? Which is why I’m doing a story on…” I bit my lip again, my eyes searching his office. They landed on the photo of Larry’s strappy sandals. “Shoes! Footwear fashions for transvestites. It is such an overlooked market, don’t you think? And I thought maybe I could get a couple choice quotes from you for—”

But he cut me off. “Get the fuck out of here!” he roared.

I didn’t think it was wise to disobey. I was across the room in two quick strides. But Creepy blocked the doorway, grabbing me by the arm.

“Not so fast.”

My heart sped up to the beat of club music pulsing through the hidden speakers, threatening to pop right out of my ribs and Macarena across the floor. Creepy’s eyes bore into mine, black and oddly flat. If eyes were the windows to the soul, I’d swear this guy didn’t have one. His fingers gripped my arm so hard I whimpered. Which caused a smile just this side of sadistic to tug the corners of his thin lips.

He turned and yelled over his shoulder to one of the bouncers by the bar. “Bruno! I want you to take care of someone for me.”

There was that phrase again. I gulped.

I held my breath, panic starting to rise as Bruno worked his way through the shadowy hallway toward us. Bruno looked solid. Not as big as the linebacker, but he had the shape of someone who liked the gym a whole lot more than I did. I think I whimpered again.

Creepy got close to my face, his nose almost touching mine. I could smell a dinner of garlic and fish on his breath. “If I ever see you near my office again,
reporter
girl,” he sneered, “it’ll be the last place anyone ever sees you.”

I didn’t have to worry about my heart beating out of my chest because I think it actually stopped. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Here,” he said, pushing me backwards into the solid wall of Bruno. “Get rid of her.”

“No problem.”

I froze. I knew that voice.

I whipped my head around and this time I’m positive my heart stopped as “Bruno” and I locked eyes.

Ramirez.

Chapter Eight

Ramirez spun me around, his hands maintaining a tight grip on my shoulders as he marched me down the hallway.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered into my ear.

“Me?”

“Shhh.”

“Me?” I whispered. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“Working.”

“I didn’t know you moonlighted as a bouncer in a drag club!”

“I’m undercover.” His breath was hot on my neck and I could feel his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “A cover you could very well have blown back there.” He turned me left at the bar, muscling our way through the club patrons, heading downward toward the stage. “One little thing,” he muttered, as he shoved me in front of him. “I ask you to do one little thing. Steer clear of Vegas. Just stay home. But can you do that for me? No. Just like a woman.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re going to listen to me this time.”

Hey, if he wanted to do denial too, who was I to judge?

He steered me through a doorway in the wall and into a dimly lit backstage area. Woman slash men in various states of undress ran between guys in flannels smoking cigarettes and manning pulleys. None of them paid us any attention. I guessed they were used to Bruno “taking care” of people back here.

Ramirez pushed me to a dark corner behind one of the curtains, then whipped me around to face him.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” I said, “but I—”

But before I could finish, Ramirez’s lips were locked over mine, his body pinning me against the wall. Not that I was going anywhere. The second his mouth touched mine, any fight I might have had melted faster than a popsicle on the Venice boardwalk. Man, he was a good kisser. So good, I’d almost forgotten about that sexist comment by the time we finally came up for air.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Ramirez mumbled onto my lips.

“Do what?” I admit, my brain was a little hazy after he’d just about kissed the pants off me.

“Give me a heart attack by breaking into a family man’s office.”