Killer in High Heels (28 page)

At least that explained the gunshot I’d heard. “Then what happened?”

“I promised Hank I wouldn’t tell anyone if he’d put the gun away. We went back to work like nothing had happened. Then three days later, Hank got pushed off the roof.” His eyes teared up again.

“Do you think it was Monaldo?” I asked slowly, watching Felix out of the corner of my eye. His expression was placid but I’d bet anything he was mentally taking notes like a fiend.

Larry nodded. “Who else would it be? He must have killed them both.”

I chewed on a fingernail, the hamster running overtime in my little wheel as I tried to digest all he’d said. I could see Monaldo wanting to silence Bobbi. Advertising their counterfeit merchandise on eBay probably wasn’t good for business. But it sounded like of the three, Hank was most happy to keep his mouth shut. So why go after him? I admit, so many pieces of random information were swirling through my brain that I was having a hard time connecting the dots.

And then Larry gave me another one to add to the mix.

“That’s not all,” he said. “Monaldo called me.” He paused, his eyes shifting to Felix again. “And he wants me to do another drop for him.”

“Another drop?” I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Larry nodded. “Uh huh. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Monaldo left me a message a couple of hours ago. I don’t know what to do.”

“When is it?”

“Tonight.”

I bit my lip. “You have to tell the police, Larry.”

He shook his head, his red wig swishing back and forth. “Unh uh. No way. I wouldn’t last a second in jail. Look at me!”

He had a point. I’d seen
OZ,
I knew what those places were like. Inmates weren’t exactly the most tolerant bunch of people around.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to go to jail,” I reasoned. “Ramirez said if you testify against Monaldo, you could be put into some kind of protective custody.”

“Ramirez?” he asked.

Oops. I shifted my gaze from Felix (who had suddenly become much more interested in our conversation) to Larry. “Uh, he’s a police officer I kind of know. Not important. Point is, if you go to the police they can protect you.”

Larry looked down at himself. Then up at me. “I don’t think I’d exactly blend into witness protection, do you?”

I wrinkled my forehead. “Well maybe if you…” I looked down at his shoes. Pink Mary Janes. Okay, bad place to start. I moved my gaze upward. “If you just changed the…” Pink pleather skirt? Ruffled white blouse? Sparkly red two-tone nail polish?

I sighed. Forget it. He was right.

As much faith as I had in Ramirez, it would take a Lance Burton—sized illusion to hide Larry from Monaldo. I mean, how many six-foot-tall red-headed drag queens were there? Besides, once Larry went into protection it was out of Ramirez’s hands. And into the hands of the Feds. After the way they’d handled this case so far (not to mention shortchanged me on my tax return the last two years in a row), I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in
them.
All it would take was one little slip and my dad would be flying off a building or stuffed in with the frozen peas.

As much as I’d had a martini shaker of mixed feelings about Larry in the last few days, seeing him sit across from me—his pantyhose run, his mascara smudged, and his love handles drooping out the side of a too-tight girdle—I wasn’t ready to let some Mafia shoe runner rob me of the chance to get to know my dad. Instinctively I leaned over and caught him in a hug so fierce it surprised even me.

“Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll think of something.”

Larry pulled away, shock mixing with a faint smile on his face.

“What?” I asked.

“That’s…” He paused, his voice choking up. “That’s the first time you’ve called me ‘Dad’.”

He was right, it was. I hugged him again, feeling that warm, fuzzy Hallmark thing wash over me again.

Only this time, it was mixed with dread.

After promising Larry we’d find a way to get him out of this, I sent him into the bathroom to shower, change, and (denial, denial, denial) touch up his makeup. Felix booted up his laptop, his fingers flying over the keypad as he typed out the story of his career. Visions of tacky headlines danced in my head, but there wasn’t much I could do to stop him at this point. Instead, I pulled out my cell and dialed Dana’s number, filling her in on where I was and giving her the abridged version of Larry’s monologue. She assured me she had Mom and Mrs. R. under control, showing them the finer points of blackjack while Marco bought everyone “Viva Las Vegas” T-shirts.

I hung up and stared out the window at the shapes of the Excalibur, the MGM Grand, and the Luxor shining in the distance. Everything about this town seemed larger than life. Including its problems. I watched the endless stream of tourists glide down the moving walkways as I mulled over Larry’s options, all the while listening to the constant hum of Felix’s keyboard.

“Some story, huh?” I asked.

Felix didn’t look up. “Uh huh.”

“What if I could give you an even better one?”

He cocked an eyebrow my way. “I don’t quite see how it could get better than this.”

I paused. See, here’s the thing: As Ramirez had said over and over again, it all came down to proof. If Larry wasn’t willing to testify about being the missing link between Monaldo and the Marsuccis, we needed some other proof of what had gone on. Like pictures. And I knew one person who had a knack for snapping photos of the unaware.

“What if I promised you an exclusive?”

“An exclusive?” He looked up, giving me his full attention now.

I nodded. “If…”

“Aha. I knew there was a catch.”

I ignored him. “If you help me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Help you do what?”

“I’m going to do the drop for Monaldo.”

“Pardon?” he said, giving me the “this chick’s crazy” look.

“I need you to call Monaldo and pretend to be Larry. Tell him you’ll do his little errand for him. Only you’re really going to be taking pictures of me while I dress as Larry, go get the bag from Monaldo, and take it to the Marsuccis.”

“Who?” Felix asked, scanning his notes.

I bit my lip. I felt a little bit like I was making a pact with the devil himself, here. I weighed the possibility of Larry being wed to a cellmate named Bubba versus the amount of Spanish I was going to have to learn to translate the onslaught of Ramirez’s curses when he saw my name splashed across the
Informer’s
front page. Again.

I looked from the steamy bathroom door to Felix.

What the hell.

“The Marsuccis are an organized crime family,” I said.

Felix did the one eyebrow raise again. “As in Mafia?”

I nodded. Then, to the tune of his fingers furiously typing out his golden story, I told him everything Ramirez had shared about the dead customs agent, the Fed’s investigation, the containers of counterfeit shoes, and the link to Monaldo’s club.

“I knew there was something fishy about that Bruno,” he said when I’d finished. “You didn’t strike me as a bouncer’s girlfriend.”

“For the last time, I’m not his girlfriend. I’m just his…Look, that’s not important. What’s important is that we have enough pictures to hand over proof of Monaldo and the Marsuccis’ connection so that Monaldo goes to prison and Larry doesn’t end up doing a pancake impression on the asphalt. Are you in?”

Felix stuck the end of a hotel-issue ballpoint in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “It sounds a little dangerous,” he finally said.

I put my hands on my hips, thrust my chest out, and put on my best tough-chick voice. “Look, I’m a grown woman. I can handle this. Why is it everyone thinks I’m just some girly little shoe chick who can’t do anything except wait for the big boys to work this stuff out? I left it to the big boys. Look what happened. Hank’s dead, Bobbi’s dead. I am not—you hear me?—N-O-T,” I spelled out for him, “going to sit around while my dad gets picked off like some sitting duck in heels just because you think it’s too dangerous for the girly blonde. Well, let me tell you something, pal. I’m no little girl. I’m a big bad woman!”

Wow, that felt good. Okay, so it might have felt even better had I actually been saying it to Ramirez, but I had a picture of his face in my head the entire time, so it was sort of like he was there. I could feel all my anger and frustration disappearing, leaving a big bubble of confidence that I could feel filling the entire room. I was woman, hear me roar!

That is, until the corner of Felix’s mouth began to quirk upward.

“Actually, love,” he said, laughter escaping him, “I was thinking it was a bit dangerous for
me.
”

Pop. There went my bubble.

“Oh. Right.”

“But,” he said, actually making an effort to control his giggles, “if you’re that determined—”

“I am.”

“—and you really do agree to an exclusive, complete with pictures and everything—”

I cringed, hoping at least he used my own body to go with my head this time. “I do.”

“—then, you have yourself a deal. I’ll be your photographer.” He stuck his hand out. I shook it, half expecting his hidden horns and forked tail to come popping out.

I didn’t waste time, knowing Larry would be out of the shower any minute. I quickly dialed Information and got the number of the Victoria Club.

“You can do an American accent, right?” I asked, handing the number to Felix.

He grinned. “Ya’ll don’t have nothing to worry yo’ purty little head about, darlin’,” he drawled, doing a bad John Wayne.

“Uh, maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all…”

“Just give me the phone,” he said, snatching my cell.

I held my breath as he dialed, crossing both fingers and toes and saying a little prayer to the saint of deception and fake accents. Luckily someone up there was listening, as Felix did a perfect Californian into the phone. Okay, so maybe he was a tad more Keanu Reeves than Larry’s natural voice, but it seemed to pass muster with Monaldo.

I kept one eye on the bathroom, where steam from Larry’s shower was still seeping under the door, as I listened to Felix’s side of the conversation. It was brief and to the point. Basically a lot of “uh huh”s and “I’ll be there”s. My stomach played host to a butterfly convention as Felix asked Monaldo to remind him of the address, taking down the information on a pad of hotel stationery.

Finally Felix hung up.

“Well?” I asked.

“Tonight. Eight o’clock.”

The butterflies formed a conga line.

Chapter Eighteen

Since I had less than four hours to transform myself from a five-foot-tall woman into a six-foot-tall woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman, I needed help. If anyone were up to the job, it was Marco. I found him downstairs in the I Love NY, NY gift shop, eyeing a pair of novelty shot glasses.

“Maddie, dahling!” he cried when he spotted me, going for a two-cheeked air kiss. “Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick about you!”

“Ramirez caught me. Handcuffed me in his backseat.”

“Kinky.” Marco wiggled his perfectly waxed eyebrows up and down.

“Humiliating was more like it. Anyway, I need to ask you a favor, Marco.”

“Anything for you, sweetie,” he said, thumbing through a stack of postcards.

I briefly filled him in on Larry’s troubles and my plan to save his Prada-wearing hide. When I got to the part about needing platform shoes and a wig, Marco clapped his hands with glee.

“Ooooh, this is gonna be so fun. A drag makeover!”

Necessary, yes. Fun, I wasn’t so sure about. “I only have until eight tonight,” I warned as he grabbed me by the arm and headed straight for the Off Broadway Costume Shop.

Two hours and three dozen bad wigs later, I was decked out in true Drag Queen Chic. I stood in front of the mirrored closet doors of Marco’s hotel room staring at my reflection. He had gone with a long black skirt that covered my slightly-less-stocky-than-Larry’s (thank god!) legs, a long-sleeved corset-waisted red top that covered my slightly-less-hairy-than-Larry’s (thank god!) arms, and a long red wig that was almost the exact duplicate of Larry’s (which honestly didn’t look half bad on me; who knew I could do redhead?). Knowing that even in the highest heels I couldn’t fake nine inches, Marco chose a clingy lycra material for the skirt which, along with the V-neck top, gave the illusion of longer lines. And I’m happy to report I did manage to add at least five inches to my frame with a pair of truly hookeresque patent leather platforms.

Marco offered to use some charcoal eyeliner and putty-like cover-up to “age” my face to match Larry’s, but I declined, instead going for a huge pair of black J Lo sunglasses and a gauzy black veil that reached down to my chin. Though I did let Marco cake on some thick foundation and blush a hint of five o’clock stubble onto my chin. All in all, it was as close to fifty-something transvestite as I was ever going to look (thank god!).

“Honey, you look divine!” Marco stood back, clasping his hands to his breast as he admired his work. “That wig is so you.”

“Let’s just hope Monaldo thinks it’s so Larry.”

“So,” Marco said, leaning in close, a co-conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. “What’s the plan, spy girl?”

I adjusted my butt-length wig in the mirror as I recited the directions Monaldo had given to Felix over the phone.

“The plan is we drive to the Victoria, slip backstage and look for a red crocodile handbag sitting at Larry’s makeup station. Then Felix and I take the cash out into the desert for our rendezvous with the Marsuccis. I’ll drop Felix off a few yards away to set up surveillance, then I’ll continue on to the warehouse and hand the payoff over to the bad guys while Felix takes pictures of it all.”

Hmmm…somehow saying it out loud made it all sound so improbable. Rendezvous? Surveillance? Payoff? Who did I think I was, James Bond?

Though Marco didn’t share my misgivings. “This is so freaking James Bond! I love it! Wait until I tell Madonna about this.”

“No!” I spun on my platforms to face him. “No, you can’t tell anyone. If Ramirez finds out about this, he’ll skin me alive. Not to mention what my mother would do. Good god, can you imagine her traipsing after me with stun gun in hand? You have to promise me you are not going to tell a soul.”