Spying in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I hated Friday nights.

  I finished my Diet Coke and hopped in the shower, washing the gym sweat off my sore limbs. I threw on a pair of jeans, a sparkly pink wrap top with little silver sequins, and brand new, totally kickin’ Ferragamo pumps. Which, by the way, had put me in debt (again) but the two inches they added to my 5’1 ½” frame were so worth it. A little mousse and blow-dry number to my naturally (mostly) blonde hair and I was ready.

  Dana picked me up in her tan Saturn and we hopped on the 10. Rush hour traffic had died down, but there were still enough cars on the road to make it light up like a Christmas tree in the early fall dusk. As soon as we pulled into the left lane a blue Dodge Neon grabbed onto our bumper and tailgated us the entire way east to the 405. I looked at the speedometer. We were doing eighty. Only in L.A.

  I glanced back to get a look at the driver but the glare from his headlights was all I saw. I sent him the universal hand gesture for ‘back off pal.’

  Only thirty minutes, two lewd truck drivers, and one cell-phone related wreck later we were parked in front of our destination.

  Sepulveda Guns and Ammo.

  “Um, what are we doing here?”

  “Shopping,” Dana replied.

  “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” I took in the barred windows, NRA posters on the door and homeless person peeing on the side of the brick building. “You sure you don’t want to go to Macy’s?”

  Dana shook her head at me. “I need a piece.”

  “A ‘piece’? What are you, Clint Eastwood?”

  “Last week Rico told the class we needed to think about protection.”

  After my ‘brush with death’ last summer, as my overly dramatic best friend called it, Dana went on this self-defense kick, immediately going out and signing up for a class at the rec center. Surveillance and Protection for the Urban Soldier. The instructor of the class, Rico, looked like a cross between Rambo and the Incredible Hulk. I could see Rico needing a ‘piece.’ The thought of Dana handling a deadly weapon was, however, mildly frightening.

  “Do you even know how to shoot a gun?”

  “Yep.” Dana smiled with pride. “Rico’s been giving me some private lessons.”

  Considering Dana’s uncanny ability to pick up men destined for short term relationships, I could just imagine the kind of ‘private lessons’ Rico had been giving her.

  “I don’t know about this.” I eyed the store again. The homeless guy zipped up and began yelling at passing cars. “I’ll buy you a Wetzel’s Pretzel with extra cinnamon sugar if we can go to the Glendale Galleria instead.”

  Dana got out of the car. “Come on, don’t be such a wimp. Rico said this place was the best.”

  I shrugged. I’d known Dana since we bonded in seventh grade over a shared crush on Corey Feldman circa Lost Boys. And I knew once she set her mind to something, I could no more dissuade her from buying a gun in North Hollywood now than I could stop her from FedExing Corey her training bra then. Besides, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a can of pepper spray.

  Dana clubbed her steering wheel and locked the car with a backward glance at the homeless guy. He was still busy shouting obscenities at a Ford Festiva on the corner.

  The bell over the door to Sepulveda Guns and Ammo jingled as we pushed through the NRA posters, prompting all eyes to turn our way. Two homeboys in low slung jeans and baseball caps were hunkered over an assault rifle in the corner, planning something I so did not want to know about. A tall guy with a greasy blonde ponytail and a shirt liberally stained with mustard stopped his inspection of a long range scope and took to inspecting us, his tiny eyes doing a slow up and down thing.

  I suddenly needed a shower.

  Dana grabbed my arm and steered me over to the woman behind the glass counter, wearing a nametag that read “Mac.” She was shorter than me, which put her near the five foot mark, with bushes of frizzy red hair that Carrot Top would be jealous of. And an eye patch. Seriously. A black, Johnny Depp style eye patch that looked like it should come with a parrot. I tried not to stare.

  “What can I do for ya’, honey?” she asked, her voice rough with years of cigarette smoke. Or maybe just trying not to inhale the homeless guy stench wafting in through the ancient ventilation ducts exposed in the ceiling.

  Dana stepped up to the smudged glass counter and did her best Dirty Harry. “I’m lookin’ to pack.”

  I rolled my eyes. Scary Gun Lady narrowed her good one at us.

  “What my friend means,” I jumped in, “is that she’s looking for a starter sort of gun. Something small. And safe. You know, that won’t go off easily.”

  Her eye narrowed further and she did a hands on hips thing. “You want a safe gun?”

  I think I heard Ponytail Guy snicker behind us.

  I looked to Dana for help but she was busy scrutinizing the display case full of deadly weapons. I knew that look in her eyes. It was the same one I got when Dior pumps went on sale. My mild fear jumped up just a notch.

  “Safe-ish maybe?”

  Scary Gun Lady gave me a once over, her gaze stopping at my sparkly pink top, which, by the way, would have been perfect for a stroll around the mall.

  “Honey, you’ve never held a gun before, have you?”

  No, but I had wicked accuracy with a stiletto heel. “Nu uh,” I replied.

  She shook her head, her red hair flying around her face like Bozo the Clown’s. Though, in all honestly, my gaze was still riveted to that eye patch. That and the huge, hairy mole growing out of her cheek. Why we had ventured into the depths of North Hollywood for guns was still a bit of a mystery to me. I mean, they sell guns in Beverley Hills too.

  “I like this one,” Dana, said, pointing to a DDA .45 caliber pistol. Neon pink.

  The saleswoman did the hands on hips thing again. “Honey, I could sell you that gun. But the first time you pull it out, you know what the attacker’s gonna say?”

  Dana and I shook our heads in unison.

  “Nothin’. He’ll be laughing too hard.”

  Dana nodded solemnly. “Right. No pink.” She straightened up and did her serious face, scrunching her eyebrows together like she was thinking really hard. “See, I’m mostly looking for some kind of protection against those smarmy kind of guys that hit on you in clubs and then when you turn them down wait for you to go to the bathroom then slip you a roofie and you wake up in some stranger’s bed the next day. Know what I mean?”

  The woman stared us down with her one good eye.

  “Okay, look. You seem like nice enough girls, and I don’t wanna see you get hurt. How about some nice pepper spray?”

  “What, do we look like amateurs?” Dana asked.

  Even I had to agree with the snort of laughter Ponytail Guy let out at that one.

  But Dana wasn’t giving up. “Listen, Rico told me you could help me find something. He said you were the best.”

  “Rico?” The woman’s face softened and she shifted her defensive posture. “Why didn’t’ you tell me you knew Rico?” She reached into the glass case and pulled out a silver handgun. “Here, this is what you girls need. A Smith and Wesson LadySmith. Semi-automatic, nine millimeter, rubber grips in stainless finish. Small, hardly any recoil, and fits in a purse.”

  Dana’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas. “Can I hold it?”

  Gun lady nodded. Dana picked it up, doing her best James Bond stance. The guys in baseball caps took a couple steps backward.

  “There’s also the semi-auto, barrel tip.” She reached into the case again, pulling out a gun in black. “They’re lighter, easier to load than a LadySmith. The only disadvantage is they don’t retain spent casings. Little harder to explain when the cops show up.” She gave me a wink and a nudge.

  I did a feeble laugh, trying not to picture how many ‘explanations’ Mac had spun in her lifetime.

  “I like this one,” Dana said, still holding the LadySmith, staring down the barrel at her reflection in the smudged glass.

&n
bsp; In all honesty, the light in her eyes was getting a little scary.

  “I’ll take it.”

  The saleswoman beamed like a proud Mama. “And you?” she asked me.

  “I think I’ll stick with pepper spray.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I had my mini canister of PepperGuard tucked in my purse and Dana had a trunk full of ammunition. Not only had she laid out her Visa for the Smith and Wesson – which she could take possession of in a mere ten days provided she’d never been arrested for gun running - but she’d also come away with a box full of cartridges, a leather holster, handcuffs (I so did not want to know what those were for!) and last, but certainly not least, a stun gun in the shape of a cell phone. Dana was armed and dangerous.

  Miss Guns and Ammo dropped me off at my Santa Monica studio before heading off to class to show Rico her new ‘toys’. She tried to get me to come with her, saying they were going over front assaults tonight. Luckily I begged her off with the fact I had to get some work done or my employer might threaten to fire me. Again. Which wasn’t a total lie. They hadn’t been too happy with the way my stabbing incident (not to mention marriage to Bigfoot!) had played across the front page, tarnishing their family friendly image.

  Ever since I was old enough to dress Barbie in her pink sparkly ball gowns, I’d dreamed of being a fashion model. Strutting the runways of Paris in slinky couture and designer heels. However, by eighth grade it was painfully clear that even the highest stilettos weren’t going to help me achieve fashion model height. So, I did the next best thing, studying fashion design. Specifically shoes. Unfortunately, every failed model studies fashion and an actual paying job was harder to land than a contract with Cover Girl. Somehow I ended up at the only place that would take me. Tot Trots Children’s Shoe designs. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly haute couture, but it paid the bills, I got to set my own hours, and my Spiderman flip-flops were the top selling shoe at Payless last season. I was currently working on the Rainbow Bright jellies for the Spring collection, complete with beaded shoe charms.

  Paris, eat your heart out.

  I let myself into my studio and checked my machine. The light was blinking.

  I hit the play button.

  “You have two new messages.”

  Check me out. Maybe my social life was looking up.

  I pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer (hey, shopping burns off a lot of calories, right?) while I listened to the first message.

  “This is Felix Dunn with the Informer again. We plan to run a piece on you and we’d love to get a quote. Please call me back-”

  Delete. You’d think the press would have jumped onto news of Jen’s newest flame or Tom’s latest Scientology weird-out. I mean, I only popped one boob!

  I waited for the next message to start. There was a pause and some heavy breathing. Then, “I, uh, I’m looking for Madison Springer. I hope I have the right number. I saw your name in the paper. This is Larry.”

  There was another pause.

  “Your father.”

  I stared at the phone. Spoonful of Chunky Monkey suspended in mid air as I blinked like mad at my machine. Did he just say what I thought he said?

  Then I realized the message wasn’t over.

  “I know it’s been a while. But I, uh, I read about you in the paper. What you did last summer. And I could use your help. I, uh…”

  Another pause as I held my breath. There was the sound of movement in the background.

  “Oh, God… what are you doing… No!”

  I froze as a loud bang rang out from the machine, reverberating off the walls of my tiny studio apartment.

  Maybe it was the evening of learning the difference between a .45 and .40 caliber weapon. Maybe it was the fact that last summer’s run in with Miss Homicide was still just a little too fresh in my mind. Or maybe it was just my over active imagination at work.

  But my mind instantly hit on the source of the sound. A gun shot.

  The machine clicked over.

  Beep. “End of messages.”

  Chapter Two

  I stared at the phone, my breath lodged in my throat as my heart threatened to pound out of my rib cage. My body immediately remembered the last time I’d heard a gun go off – when it had been aimed at me – and I went in to panic mode. I grabbed the phone and dialed the first number I could think of. Ramirez.

  It rang three times. Then I got his voice mail. Damn. I tried to calm my breathing as I waited for the beep.

  “It’s Maddie. I think I’ve just been ear witness to another murder. My Dad was shot. Not Faux Dad, the real dad. The hairy one. He got shot. Or he shot someone. I don’t know which. But there was definitely a gunshot and he was definitely there and he needed my help and now I think someone’s dead. Or dying. Or probably at least wounded. Call me.”

  I hung up wishing I didn’t automatically go into blabber mode when crisis hit. Why couldn’t I be one of those calm, cool-headed women that could make a tourniquet out of a tampon and a gum wrapper? Instead I had to freak out like a little kid lost at the mall.

  I dialed Mom’s number. It rang four times and the machine kicked on. “Hi you’ve reached Betty…”

  “… and Ralph,” my stepfather chimed in.

  “We’re not here right now so leave a number at the beep…”

  “…or try us at the salon, ciao!” Faux Dad finished.

  I hung up. When Ramirez got my blabbering message he’d probably roll his eyes and make some comment about how girly I was. That I could live with. Mom, on the other hand, would likely call in the National Guard to make sure I was okay. Which, in all honesty, I was.

  It was the guy on the other end of the line that was in trouble.

  My dad.

  I sat down on my futon, absently shoving a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as I conjured up the image of that hairy arm waving good-bye from the El Camino window.

  When I was deep in my teenage-angst phase I’d badgered my Mom into talking about my father. Just once. She said they’d met at a Bob Dylan concert, that he was 6’1”, allergic to strawberries, and had run off to Vegas with some showgirl named Lola. When she got to the Lola part she broke down sobbing the kind of racking tears that scared the crap out of my teenaged self. Needless to say, I hadn’t broached the subject since and she hadn’t offered.

  I wondered if he was still in Vegas? I grabbed the handset and scrolled down my call log. Out of area. Well, that didn’t tell me much. He could have been calling from anywhere.

  And what kind of help did he need? Was he sick? Did he need a kidney? It would be just like a man to waltz back into my life after twenty-six years and ask for a vital organ.

  Only he hadn’t sounded sick. He’d sounded… in trouble. In serious trouble if that really was a gunshot. I tried not to picture him wounded or bleeding somewhere.

  Maybe I should call 911. But what would I tell them? Someone somewhere might have been shot? I had no idea where he was, or even if it was, in fact, my father calling. I’d gotten more than one crank phone call since my brush with fame. And to be honest, the more I thought about it, the less sure I was that the sound was even an actual gunshot. Maybe it was just a car backfiring?

  I shoved another big scoop of Chunky Monkey into my mouth, hoping that the creamy chocolate and banana goodness might calm me down.

  Maybe it was a backfiring car and maybe it was a gunshot. Either way, my dad had called me. And first thing in the morning, it was time to take the crowbar bar to Mom’s memory again.

  * * *

  I was in the depths of a dream about being chased by a backfiring car driven by a one eyed woman when the sound of my phone ringing woke me up. I halfheartedly grasped around in the general region of the handset but came up empty. I cracked one eye open to peek at the clock beside my bed. Seven a.m. I groaned. I hated morning people. My theory: if the malls don’t open until ten what’s the point of being up earlier than that?

  The phone rang two more
times, then clicked over to the machine. I buried my head under my pillow as I listened to my own voice inform callers to leave a message. The machine beeped.

  “Maddie? It’s Jack.”

  I bolted upright in bed, flinging the pillow across the room. Ramirez.

  “I got your message last night. What the hell is going on over there?”

  I jumped out of bed, diving for the phone. Only the handset wasn’t on the cradle. I glanced around my studio apartment. Fold out futon on the wall, drawing table against the other, piles of clothes and shoes everywhere else. Where was the phone?

  “What’s all this about a gunshot? Are you okay?” He paused. “Look, I may be a little hard to get a hold of for the next few days, so if you’re there pick up.”

  I was trying to! I began digging under my clothes from the night before. I slipped my hands down in the futon cushions, checked under my drawing table, even started opening kitchen drawers. Where the hell had I put the thing?

  Ramirez paused. “Well, I guess you’re not there. Fine. I’ll try back later.”

  “No!” I screamed at him. Then spied the handset peeking out of a Macy’s bag by the door. “Wait, wait, wait,” I chanted. I grabbed the handset and hit the on button.

  Dial tone.

  Crap.

  I quickly redialed his number but wasn’t surprised to hear it go straight to voicemail again. Dammit. I slammed the handset down in the cradle, taking all my aggression out on the poor GE appliance.

  Fine. Whatever. So what if the one time he’s called me back in weeks I can’t find the damn phone. I didn’t really need him anyway.

  Since I was up anyway I made a pot of strong coffee and hit the shower, doing a blow-dry and mousse thing afterward. As a concession to the pint of B&J’s I had single-handedly consumed the night before I pulled on a comfortable pair of navy blue gaucho pants, paired with a tank top, navy shrug and knee-high brown calfskin boots. Overall, a pretty decent look for a breezy October day. Breezy translating to 75 and sunny instead of the summer’s 85 and sunny forecast. We don’t believe in weather in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.