“So… you want to go in, then?” he asked.
I nodded. “Nuh unh.”
Felix paused. “You know, it’s not too late to change your mind. If you don’t feel comfortable with this, we can call it off.”
Did I feel comfortable with it? No. But neither did I feel comfortable in my gorgeous four inch, leather, Gucci logo pumps that angled in at the tip until my pinky toes turned blue. But if I could survive cutting off circulation to my feet for fashion, I could survive a knotted stomach for my father.
“No, I’m fine,” I lied. “Let’s do this.”
Somehow I pried my booty off the seat despite feeling like it was covered in Elmer’s and crossed the few feet of pavement to the back door. All the while feeling the heat of Felix’s camera lens at my back.
The steady beat of dance music vibrated through the thick walls of the building, spilling out into the night as I opened the door. I blinked in the dimly lit interior, wishing I could take my dark glasses off. I took a moment to orient myself. I was in the backstage area. To my right was a panel of levers and pulleys, behind which sat a guy in a John Deere cap with a cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth. To the left, a changing room, the sounds of clacking heels, hairdryers and catty gossip mingling with the dance rhythms.
I went to the right, trying to look as inconspicuous as I could. The changing room was a small ten by ten affair, crammed with vanities topped by mirrored lights. Makeup bags and wig stands littered every surface and a rolling wardrobe rack sat by the door. Luckily, no one really seemed to take much notice of me. A skinny black guy in a Tina Turner outfit rushed past me yelling about her cues, and two of the yellow sequin ‘girls’ sat at one of the vanities, trying to get their feathers pinned on their heads and gossiping about someone named ‘Molly’. (Who, apparently, had slept with half the men in the club.)
I scanned the room for a red crocodile bag and came up with pay dirt next to the vanity at the far end of the room. Ducking my head down, I stepped over discarded shoes and costumes on the floor, quickly grabbing the bag and ducking out again before the sequin girls could question me.
The bag was a lot heavier than I had expected and I needed two hands to carry it as I backtracked to the outer door. By the time I reached it, my heart was pounding in my ears and my stomach had knotted itself an entire afghan.
I stepped back out into the night, letting the door close on the club music behind me and did a quick scan to make sure a black SUV hadn’t miraculously appeared while I was inside. None had, so I jogged (which in five inch heels was more like a series of baby steps on speed) to the Neon and quickly slipped into the passenger seat.
“Go, go, go!” I commanded as Felix put down his camera. He did, pulling out of the parking lot and taking a quick right onto Fremont. I heaved a sigh of relief that was much too big considering Operation Mafia Takedown was only halfway done. Getting the bag had been the easy part, the hard part would be coming face to face with the living breathing models for the Sopranos out in the desert where God knew how many generations of ‘accidents’ were buried in shallow graves.
I shivered and flipped on the heater.
To distract myself, I looked down at the bag in my hands as Felix drove south on the 15. It was a soft, crocodile skin dyed a deep burgundy color with little gold buckles and a bamboo handle. Actually tre chic, if you asked me. My hands shaking only slightly, I peeked inside. It was filled with wads of hundred dollar bills. I did a low whistle. As I may have mentioned, Tot Trots was not the Rodeo Drive of shoes. I made enough to cover my rent and keep me in Top Ramen and heels, but this was way more money than I’d ever seen in one place before. I put my nose down in the bag and inhaled deeply. The unmistakable scent of cash mixed with leather. This must be what real Pradas smelled like.
Fifteen minutes later we’d passed by the Mandalay Bay, the Bellagio, and the Treasure Island and were heading into the no-man’s land between Vegas and Los Angeles. Tumbleweeds began to replace casinos until we spied the sign for Lone Hill Road. Felix turned off the highway, onto the roughly paved, two lane. Two more turns and we were reduced to a dirt road which might have been fun to navigate in my four wheel drive Jeep, but was just plain bumpy in a late model Neon. We bounced about three more miles in silence before a building came into sight on the horizon of the sparse, rocky terrain. Felix pulled the car over to the side.
“This is where I get off,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of the jangling nerves I felt.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. For fear something like, “Don’t leave me! I’m just a little girly girl!” would pop out.
“You sure you’re going to be okay alone?” he asked and in the rapidly settling dusk, I could have sworn he actually looked concerned.
I nodded again. Hoping he couldn’t tell what a bad liar I was.
Apparently not, since he grabbed his camera case and exited the car, doing a quick survey of the landscape before settling into position behind a rock formation. He gave me a thumbs-up sign, which I guess was supposed to reassure me as I slid over to the driver’s seat.
I gave myself a little mental pep talk again, watching Felix’s form disappear in the rearview mirror as I continued down the dusty road alone. Only the closer I got to the squat building in the distance, the less convincing I became.
I flipped the radio on to fill the silence. After playing with the dial I finally found a station playing ’60’s hits. It’s hard to be freaked when you’re listening to the Beatles. I tried to sing along to ‘Good Day Sunshine,’ but I found my eyes darting to the rearview mirror every three seconds, watching for black Town Cars.
This was it. If this didn’t work… I didn’t even want to think about it. And, I had to admit, I was beginning to seriously question the wisdom of not telling Ramirez about this plan. Sure, he would have nixed it from the get go but maybe he could have sent one of his operatives to do this? Maybe he could have convinced Larry? Maybe we could have had sex at least once before I drove to possible maim-ment and death in the desert.
By the time I pulled up to the warehouse, my hands were sweating, my lips had been bitten raw, and I was beginning to get a nervous tick in my right eye. If I didn’t already have a bag full of cash sitting beside me, there’s no question I would have turned around and fled right then and there.
Instead, I parked the Neon in front of the warehouse. It was a nondescript building, square and large with concrete sides and a corrugated metal roof. Around it was a whole lot of dusty nothing.
No other cars were visible.
I sat there for a full two minutes, trying to talk myself into getting out of the car. I was halfway there. I had the cash, I was at the meeting place. So far so good. All I had to do now was hand over the bag and all was well. (What can I say, I was becoming a pro at this denial thing.)
I opened the door and stepped out. The night air was cool and eerily quiet. Not even a cricket chirping anywhere. Picking my way over the hard packed dirt, I slowly made my way to the warehouse, the crocodile bag clutched so tightly my knuckles where turning white. Three loading bays spanned the length of it, with a smaller door off to the right. I tried the knob. Unlocked. I’d been expected.
I took one more deep breath for good measure and slowly pushed the door open. I felt around on the wall until my fingers came up against a light switch.
The interior of the warehouse was filled with tall, metal shelves like the ones Mom had in her garage for storing Christmas decorations and Tupperware tubs of my childhood mementoes. They spanned from floor to ceiling, each filled with big cardboard boxes. Exposed pipes and ducts ran the length of the ceiling and the same corrugated metal décor covered the walls. It gave the feeling of being in a huge tin can. With about the same acoustics.
“Hello?” I called out, hearing my voice echo back to me in triplicate. No answer. I gingerly took a few steps inside, my platforms sounding like firecrackers on the cement floor.
I walked to the metal shelf nearest t
he door and, with a quick glance over my shoulder, pried open a box on the lower shelf. Inside it were a dozen smaller boxes. Shoe boxes.
I gingerly pulled one out. Michael Kors. I’d love to say I slipped it back in and left it at that, but of course, I couldn’t resist. What can I say? I’m my father’s daughter. I popped open the lid. A perfect copy of last season’s snakeskin pumps in chocolate brown, right down to the brass buckle detail on the face. I had to remind myself they were fakes to resist trying them on right then and there.
But the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside snapped me out of it fast enough. I quickly replaced the lid and turned down the flaps of the box, taking two giant steps away from the shelves as the sound of a car door slamming shut echoed throughout the warehouse. I skittered across the cement floor, stepping back outside. And into Felix’s line of vision. If we were going to get any decent shots at all, the exchange had to take place outside.
A black Range Rover had parked next to the Neon. (Apparently they were prepared for the rough terrain.) Two men in black suits stood beside it, both wearing tinted aviator glasses and looking like bad imitations of the Men in Black. I was about to approach them when a third man stepped out of the car. He was smaller than the other two, his suit a gray color, though he wore the same tinted glasses. Must be standard Mob issue. In addition to the eyewear, he was sporting more gold jewelry than Joan Rivers, including a large gold medallion around his neck and pinkie rings on each hand. His hair was slicked into a perfect black helmet over his too-big-for-his body-head. All in all the only thing missing were a pair of shoe spats and an Uzi and he’d be the spitting image of the Italian family man.
The three of them slowly approached me, the Men in Black flanking Shortie.
“You have something for us?” the little guy asked, his voice a dead-ringer for Joe Pesci as he gestured to the crocodile bag clutched in my vice grip.
I nodded, clearing my throat to make my voice as low as it would go. “Yes,” I answered.
Shortie took off his glasses and squinted at me. “What’s with the veil?” he asked.
My panic meter rose about fifty notches. “Uh… I’m in mourning.” I lowered my eyes to the ground. “Hank passed away.”
Shortie nodded, pursing his thin lips together. “I heard about that. Tragedy.”
Somehow I had the feeling these guys encountered ‘tragedy’ on a regular basis. A thought which did nothing to lower my panic reading.
But instead of saying anything, I just nodded again.
Shortie motioned to the bag and the taller Man in Black stepped forward to take it from me. His hand brushed mine as he did, sending a cold fear prickling up my neck as his tinted eyes settled on my face.
I cleared my throat again and studied my shoes, hoping he mistook my fear for grief. For one long, terrible moment, I thought the jig was up. He’d seen through my woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman ruse and I’d soon be swimming with the fishes. (Or freezing with the peas as the case may be.) But instead of fitting me for cement slingbacks, he took a step back into formation beside Shortie and opened the bag. Shortie took a quick peek inside, pushing the bundles around to check that I hadn’t slipped a hundred on top and filled the rest with hay. He nodded at Goon Number One, apparently satisfied.
Shortie turned back to me. “You tell Monaldo that we’s sorry about his associate’s untimely passing,” he said, just two notes short of sincere.
I nodded.
Shortie kept his eyes on my face for one more agonizing beat then slipped his glasses back on, apparently satisfied.
I felt every muscle in my body sigh in relief as he walked back to his car. Goon Number One held the back door open for Shortie, then got in the back seat himself as Goon Number Two got behind the wheel.
Adrenalin laced sweat dripped down my back, but I stayed rooted to the spot as I watched them do a three point turn and drive back down the dirt road. What do you know, I was good at undercover work after all. No dead bodies. No angry mobsters. Not even a cranky cop to muddy the waters. I felt glee rising up in the back of my throat as I pictured the look on Ramirez’s face when I handed him the proof that would crack his case wide open. Not so girly now, huh?
I squelched the urge to jump for joy, lest the Men in Black see me victory dancing in the rearview mirror. Instead, I waited until their tail lights disappeared down the road, then waved in Felix’s general direction.
I could have sworn I saw the flash of his camera lens in response against the dark night sky.
But that was the last thing I saw.
A crack of thunder exploded inside my head and the desert landscape instantly folded in on itself as the ground rushed up to meet me.
Then everything went black.
Chapter Nineteen
Once when I was in college at the Academy of Art University in San Francisco, I went out with a group of my friends after spring finals. Linda, who was majoring in film production and had just landed a job with DreamWorks, suggested we go to the Golden Gate Club to celebrate. She insisted news like a DreamWorks job called for Apple Pie shots. This sounded like a great idea to me considering a) I’d just spent the last three nights staying up until 2 AM writing essays about the difference between kitten and a stiletto heels and b) who didn’t like pie? That is until I realized that Apple Pie shots consisted of schnapps, followed by vodka, followed by more schnapps. I’d like to say I had a wild night to remember. Only I couldn’t. Remember it, that is. The last clear memory I had of that night was showing some guy named ‘Snake’ how I could touch the tip of my nose with the tip of my tongue.
I woke up the next morning with stale gym socks breath, sand paper tongue, and Tommy Lee drumming a pounding beat between my ears. It was the Brangelina of headaches, the Mt. Everest of headaches, the worst aching-eyes, throbbing-temples, ringing-ears, pounding-head, so-bad-you-want-to-throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-bus-just-to-stop-the-pain headache to end all headaches.
And this was worse.
I groaned, the pressure of a sixteen wheeler pulsating through my brain with every breath I took. My mouth felt scratchier than polyester pants in August and my eyes ached like they’d been glued shut. I slowly did a mental check of my person, wiggling first my toes then fingers. All ten of each seemed to be functioning. Though, as I moved on to wriggling my hands, I noticed they didn’t have quite the range of motion I was used to. Mostly because they were bound together. I rubbed my wrists together and something sharp and plastic bit into them. Ditto my ankles. I wiggled my butt, feeling a hard, cold floor beneath me.
I gingerly opened one eye then the other. It was dark and I continued the painful practice of blinking, trying to bring the shadows into focus. It looked like I was in some sort of storeroom. Cardboard boxes were stacked along the walls and a couple of empty wardrobe racks sat off to one side. I could hear a steady thump, thump, thump of music from somewhere just beyond the plaster walls, echoing through my head, where I felt a serious goose egg trying to take hold.
“Hello?” I called out. Okay, I should say tried to call out. It was more like a pathetic little squeak, my throat dryer than my mother’s elbows in January. And, I realized, useless. Over the music no one could hear me anyway unless they were in the same room.
As I sat there, immobile, slowly letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, I tried to remember how I got here. Or, for that matter, where here even was. Had I passed out? Fainted? Had one too many dessert themed shots again?
I looked down at my bound feet, clad in five inch patent leather platforms. Then in a flash it all came back to me. The Drag Queen Chic look, the Men in Black, the warehouse in the desert.
The ground meeting my face.
Someone had whacked me on the head! I hated it when people did that. Just when I’d thought everything had gone so well, too. I’d passed as Larry, the Marsuccis had their money – everyone should have been happy. I just hoped Felix had gotten a shot of the creep who’d hit me.
Felix
!
My only hope. He must have seen the whole thing. Maybe he followed me. Maybe he was, at this very moment, corralling the troops to break in and rescue me…
A fantasy which was cut short as I heard a groan from the other side of the room.
“Uhn. Bloody ‘ell.”
Great. So much for my rescue.
“Is that you?” I asked, squinting through the darkness.
“Maddie?”
“Yeah. What happened?”
He groaned again and I heard movement, then another ‘bloody hell,’ as he realized that, like me, he was bound. “I don’t know. The last thing I remember, I was popping off a shot of those Italian blokes taking your bag and now here I am.” He paused, groaning again. “With a hell of a headache.”
On the up side, at least he had gotten the shots of the Marsuccis.
“Where’s your camera now?” I asked.
He groaned again, this one louder and sadder. “No clue.”
So much for the up side.
I leaned my head back (carefully, to avoid the goose egg) and felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. Ramirez was right. I was an idiot for not staying in L.A. when I had the chance. Mobsters, goons, Mafiosos – what did I know about these kinds of people? Nothing. Less than nothing. Negative nothing. So nothing that I’d flubbed the one chance of proving Monaldo’s connection to the Mob and gotten myself and Felix both kidnapped in the process. Not only that, but I had a feeling that when whoever was responsible for the goose eggs came back, they weren’t just going to cut our bonds and let us go. I had a feeling my last moments on earth were going to be dressed as a fifty something drag queen.
But do you want to know what the worst part was? The worst part was I was going to die without ever having sex with Ramirez! This thought was so depressing the tears escaped my eyes, rolling down my cheeks in big fat droplets.
“Are you crying?” Felix asked from across the room.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 49