Spying in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  “That’s nothing. You should see my Ralphie.” Mom held her two index fingers ten inches apart, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

  Ew! Mom and sex – two things I never wanted to think about in the same breath. I felt like putting my fingers in my ears and chanting, “I can’t hear you.”

  “Maddie, you made it!” The exuberant cowgirl turned around. I did a mental forehead smack. Dana.

  “Nice boots, cowgirl,” I said.

  “I came straight from a shoot. Charmin commercial.”

  “As in toilet paper?”

  “Cowboy’s invoke the image of strength. No one wants weak toilet paper. So,” she asked, leaning in close, “how goes the great boyfriend search?”

  I quickly filled her in on my mistress theory, punctuated by her occasional wahoo’s as Fireman Bob dropped his suspenders. I finished off by recounting my visit to Big Boy studios with Porn Star Barbie.

  “Did you say Bunny Hoffenmeyer?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, coming up behind me with a fresh drink in hand.

  “Yes. Why? Do you know her?”

  “Actually, my Lenny used to work with her.”

  I blinked at her. “What do you mean, ‘used to work with her?’ You were married to a porn star?” I could feel my nose scrunching into an icky face.

  “No, no, no. Not that Lenny couldn’t have been, mind you. But he was her insurance broker. You gotta have a lot of insurance in that industry. As Big Boy’s owner, Bunny brought him a whole lotta business.”

  “Wait - owner?” I’d pegged Bunny as a dimwitted double D, not a savvy entrepreneur.

  “Oh yeah. Bunny was raking it in back when I was married to Lenny. But then she expanded the whole operation into soft core. You know, stuff with storylines and candlelight. Erotica for ladies.”

  “And that didn’t do well?”

  “She lost her shirt. No pun intended. Turns out women don’t buy as much porn as men.”

  Go figure.

  “Last I heard Bunny was in debt up to her implants,” Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. “I heard she’s even trying to get some mainstream roles now to pay the bills. Poor thing.”

  Right. Poor thing. Poor enough to bump Greenway off for the money? After my interview, I’d moved Bunny to the bottom of my suspects list, thinking her IQ rivaled Jasmine’s for lowest in L.A. County. But now I had a feeling Bunny was sharper than she let on. If she could fake an orgasm I guess she could fake innocence too.

  “Want a drink, Maddie?” Mom asked, signaling a shirtless waiter.

  Did I ever. “I’ll have a Diet Coke.”

  “Oh come on, honey. Live a little!” Mrs. Rosenblatt drained her glass and set it on the waiter’s tray. “How about a Virgin Mary?” she suggested.

  Honestly, I was sick to death of Diet Coke. As long as it was virgin, I decided I could afford to live a little tonight.

  “Okay. A virgin Mary.”

  Mrs. Rosenblatt ordered one for me and one for herself. Cowgirl Dana, staying in character, ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. Mom ordered another cosmo and stuck a ten in the waiter’s speedo. (Ew, ew, ew!) By the time Fireman Bob had collected his suspenders and cleared off the stage, we all had fresh drinks in hand and I had that nauseous, my-mom’s-talking-about-sex feeling somewhat under control.

  Music started to pulse from the speakers again and the crowd took to their feet, craning to see the next beefcake.

  “Look out ladies,” the MC warned. “Because here comes Damien. And he’s been a bad, bad boy.”

  The sound of a motorcycle engine revved through the speakers as a man in all leather appeared on the stage in front of a cloud of smoke. He strutted down the catwalk, shedding his leather jacket to reveal a six pack Budweiser would be jealous of.

  “Oh my God.” Mom made the sign of the cross.

  “What was that for?” asked Mr. Rosenblatt.

  “I just had the unholiest of thoughts.”

  Ick. Okay, so I almost had that mom’s-talking-about-sex nausea under control. I took a big gulp of my Virgin Mary in hopes it would settle my stomach. It wasn’t half bad, really. Kind of like an extra spicy bloody Mary with a twist of lime. Not a martini, but definitely better than another Diet Coke.

  Damien gyrated down the catwalk, shedding leather like a snake until Mom grabbed a cocktail napkin and started fanning herself. “Whew, I think that man just gave me a hot flash.”

  “That man is hung. You think he’d go for an older woman?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, elbowing me in the ribs.

  I tried to be kind. “He’s probably gay.”

  Mrs. Rosenblatt scrutinized Damien as he stripped off his leather chaps to reveal a thong with a Harley Davidson logo.

  I took a big sip of my Virgin Mary. Wow, he did have a nice package. I took another sip.

  “I just love a man in leather,” Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. “I saw this documentary about how dominatrix tame their men with leather whips. Now I don’t go in for all that chains stuff, but I could go for a guy in leather.”

  I drained my glass and signaled the waiter for another.

  “Ralphie doesn’t like leather,” Mom chimed in. “But he’s nuts about lace. I bought this adorable lace teddy at the mall today. One look and we’ll be spending the whole honeymoon in bed.” Mom winked one heavily shadowed eye. “If you know what I mean.”

  If a person could die of ickiness, I was just about flat-lining. I searched frantically for that waiter with my fresh Virgin Mary. Luckily, he appeared just as Damien gyrated his way in our direction and Mom dug into her purse for more green.

  “Take it all off!” Dana commanded, waving her cowgirl hat in the air.

  Damien complied, doing away with the Harley thong and going full monty on us.

  Mrs. Rosenblatt nudged me in the ribs. “I told you he was hung.”

  I admit, I stared. It was hard not to. Especially when I now realized how poorly Richard measured up against the Damiens of the world. Yikes. What had I been missing?

  And then out of nowhere, I thought of Ramirez. I wondered if he was a Damien or Richard. I took another sip of my drink and tried really hard not to picture Ramirez in a leather thong.

  “Over here, bad boy,” my mother yelled, waving her five dollar bill in the air. Damien strutted closer and collected the cash with his teeth. Mom giggled like a sixth grader. I tried not to look.

  Dana grabbed my arm, her nails digging into me. “Oh my God, Maddie, did you see who that is?”

  I looked up at Damien, squinting through the smoke and strobing lights to get a good look at his face. (Which, I had to admit, I’d not yet really seen, being a little distracted by certain other parts of his anatomy.) He did look a little familiar. But as Damien turned our direction, it was the neck that gave it away. Or lack thereof. “Is that your roommate?”

  Dana nodded and I swore I saw drool form at the corner of her mouth. “I had no freaking idea he was this built.”

  No Neck Guy winked at Dana, then gyrated his way to the other side of the stage.

  “You know that guy?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked. “He’s got a tuchis like granite.”

  “Give it up for Biker Damien,” the MC said as Damien gathered his chaps and headed off stage.

  Mom grabbed another cocktail napkin and began fanning herself.

  “Um, will you excuse me for a minute?” Dana didn’t wait for an answer before disappearing toward the stage.

  I drained my second glass and signaled for another. I could easily get addicted to these things. The waiter returned with my drink just as the music started up and “Officer Dan” took the stage, wearing a cop uniform amidst flashing red lights. Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt were instantly on their feet again, waving dollar bills. Maybe it was the spicy Virgin Mary, but I was starting to get into the swing of things. I even shouted a cowgirl holler of my own when Dan tossed his blue shirt into the crowd – badge and all.

  I wondered how Ramirez would look in a cop uniform.

  Duh, he’d look sexy! The man looked sexy in just abo
ut anything. I wondered how he’d look in nothing…

  Ugh! What was I thinking? I instantly felt guilty. I was possibly carrying Richard’s child and here I was not only ogling half naked men, but fantasizing about Ramirez’s package.

  But I realized as I took another long sip of my Virgin Mary that it was Richard’s fault really. If he hadn’t up and left, I never would have gone looking for him, then I never would have met Ramirez and I wouldn’t be here comparing the size of his ding-dong with Officer Dan’s. See, it was all Richard’s fault.

  In fact, I realized, all the problems in my life lately were because of him. He’d gotten me into this whole mess, and what’s more, he didn’t even have the decency to tell me where he was. Even Greenway told his mistress where he was.

  And what kind of scum marries Cinderella anyway? What, does he think he’s some kind of Prince Charming? Ha! I mentally snorted. More like Prince Anal. He folded his socks for crying out loud. What kind of a man does that?

  I bet Ramirez didn’t fold his socks. I bet he just threw his socks in with his underwear in one big mess. Socks mixed with with… briefs? Boxers? I wondered what kind of underwear Ramirez wore. I pictured him as a briefs guy. Not those Hanes things from Kmart, but the really sexy Calvin ones. Maybe in gray or slate blue. Slate blue would be a good color on him.

  Officer Dan ripped off his break-away pants, revealing a black G-string that read L.A.P.D.

  “Woo hoo,” I yelled, waving my drink in the air. A little splashed on my wrist, but I didn’t care. In fact, I realized, I was feeling pretty good. Better than I had in days. “Show me your gun, officer hottie!”

  “You tell ‘em, Maddie,” Mrs. Rosenblatt commanded, slightly slurring her words. Then leaned in and added, “I think I’m getting just a teeny bit tipsy.”

  I froze. Glass halfway to my lips. Tipsy? What did she mean, tipsy? My gaze whipped from her empty Virgin Mary glass to my own. Sure, I was feeling a little happy, but that was because of the naked men, right?

  I grabbed Mrs. Rosenblatt by the arm. “What’s in a Virgin Mary?”

  “Tomato juice, lime, cayenne.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “And vodka. Lots of vodka.”

  I froze. “Vodka? But you said it was virgin!”

  Mrs. Rosenblatt laughed. “Bubbee, they call it a Virgin Mary, cause you drink too many, and you won’t even remember the sex that night. It’ll be like immaculate conception.”

  Oh my God. I was the world’s worst mother. And I wasn’t even a mother yet! I was awful, terrible, selfish, stupid. I was going straight to hell.

  I was going to throw up.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing a little aspirin in the morning won’t cure.”

  Right. Aspirin. I bit my lip to keep from blurting out what a horrible thing I just did. Potentially did, that is. I guess if I wasn’t sure I was pregnant, I couldn’t be sure I’d done something really, really awful. Damn Richard. This was all his fault.

  Dana walked up, a clothed Damien a.k.a. No Neck Guy in tow. The grin on her face said she’d have no trouble remembering the sex tonight. “Hey, we’re gonna head back home. Thanks for inviting me Mrs. Springer. We’ll see you tomorrow for the big day.”

  Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt gave Dana hugs, Mrs. Rosenblatt all the while eyeing No Neck Guy’s crotch like a dog might a big beefy Milk Bone.

  The icky warred with morning sickness, which warred with guilt, which warred with the mass amount of vodka I’d apparently consumed that night. I willed my stomach to stay put as the room swayed.

  “Can you drop me off at home first?” I begged.

  “Sure, Maddie.”

  Dana, No Neck and I all piled in to her Saturn. I sat in the back, trying to avert my eyes as Dana and No Neck held hands and made kissy faces. Instead I slouched down in my seat and closed my eyes so I didn’t have to watch the scenery wizz past the window in a noxious blur.

  Luckily, the drive was short and a few minutes later Dana was walking me to the door of my studio. Any other time I could have walked myself in, but have you ever tried to walk in three-inch heels under the influence of vodka?

  “Are you drunk?” Dana asked.

  Duh. “I think so.”

  “I thought you weren’t drinking because of…” She trailed off, looking at my belly.

  “I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t. It was an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “I thought the virgins were virgin.”

  Dana gave me a funny look. But considering she had a hot stripper in the car, she didn’t interrogate further. “Get some sleep,” she commanded. “You want me to come drive you to the wedding in the morning?”

  “No. It’s fine. I’ll get a cab.”

  “Okay, well, call me. But, uh,” she glanced back at No Neck. “Just not too early, k?”

  I nodded. Not a good idea. I put a hand to my head to make the scenery stop spinning. I watched Dana pull away, then walked inside. That is, after fumbling with the key for a good five minutes first. I hated being drunk.

  But most of all, I realized as I collapsed onto my futon and stared at the ceiling, I hated Richard. Maybe it was the vodka, or maybe the full monty, or maybe the fact I’d been inside a porn studio today, but no matter what explanations he might try to conjure up, I realized I hated Richard. There was no excuse for doing this to me. Look at me! I was a mess. I was a bundle of nerves, anxiety, and I’d just possibly poisoned my maybe child. Oh God. I was an awful, awful person. Nothing in the world could make this day worse.

  And then my doorbell rang.

  I lay there, deciding if I even remembered how to move my limbs. After the third ring, I finally managed a vertical position and staggered to the door. I looked through the peephole and think I actually gasped out loud.

  “I know you’re in there, I can see your light under the door. Open up.”

  I bit my lip. I could let him in. But, see, here’s the thing: I’ve been known to be a little over friendly when I’ve been drinking. Which is why I don’t often indulge. In fact, I have a pitcher of margaritas to blame for my second date sleepover with Richard. Knowing I was past my common sense limit, coupled with, as Mom would say, the unholy thoughts I’d been having earlier at Beefcakes, I wasn’t sure it was really a good idea to let him in.

  He pounded on the door again. “I can hear you breathing. Open the door.”

  Then again, it’s never a good idea to disobey a cop.

  I unhooked the latch, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door to find myself face to face with Ramirez. Sexy day-old stubble and all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I blinked. God he looked good. He still didn’t look like he’d slept much, but the five o’clock shadow had grown into this sexy George Clooney thing that made his jaw look like it belonged in a Schick commercial. He was dressed in his usual uniform of butt hugging jeans and a black T-shirt. His eyes were hooded and dark, his hair just a little mussed. This was exactly how I imagined he’d look after a really long night of really excellent sex.

  Down girl. See what I mean about alcohol and me?

  “Where have you been?” he asked. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

  I turned around. Sure enough the light on my machine was blinking like mad.

  “No, I didn’t. I just got in. Why?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I bit my lip, hesitating. The rational voice in my head said, tell him to leave. Close the door. Do not talk to sexy cops when you’re drunk. Only the Beefcakes patron in me said, yes, please, come in. Take your clothes off. Hop into my bed.

  And considering the amount of vodka Beefcakes Girl had consumed, she was getting really loud. So loud she was overpowering the rational voice.

  “Sure.” I stood back to allow him entry.

  He stepped into the room. And I swear my eyes went straight to his leather thong region. Boxers or briefs? I just couldn’t tell.

  “So,” I said, clearing my throat loudly. “What did you want?”


  “I just wanted to let you know we ran an analysis on the hairs found in the motel room. They weren’t yours.”

  “I told you so.” Ugh. I sounded five. “I mean, I’m glad you checked. I’m glad we cleared that up.”

  Ramirez looked at me kind of funny, but didn’t comment. “Yeah, well I just wanted to let you know you’re officially not a suspect.”

  “Well, duh,” I smacked my head with the palm of my hand. “I don’t even own a leopard thong.”

  Ramirez raised one eyebrow. “Leopard thong?”

  “And I so don’t do nooners. Well, not unless it’s a really special occasion. Or the guy’s really hot. But I always leave with my panties on.”

  Ramirez’s eyes creased at the corners, twinkling with that Big Bad Wolf look again. “Good to know.”

  I took a deep breath. Yes, I was aware I sounded frighteningly like Bunny Hoffenmeyer and I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. But somehow the connection between my brain and my mouth seemed to have shorted out. I grabbed onto the kitchen counter for support, as the room was starting to look like a Tilt-awhirl again.

  “What I mean to say is, I’m glad I didn’t kill him. I mean, I’m glad you know I didn’t kill him. I know I didn’t kill him. But now you know that I know I didn’t kill him. Even though he’s dead.”

  The corner of Ramirez’s mouth quivered. “Uh huh.”

  “I know that you know that I know that I didn’t kill him.” I paused. Hmmm… that didn’t sound quite right. Let me try again. “I mean, I wasn’t there. No, I was there, but not there there, as in not in his room, there.” There. That sounded better. Kind of.

  The quiver turned into a full fledged grin. “Are you drunk?”

  “No!” I rolled my eyes and did my best as-if face. “I’m so not drunk. I’m the opposite of drunk. I’m…” I paused trying to come up with the word. “… the other thing.”

  “Sober?” Ramirez supplied, still grinning.

  “Right. That’s me. Sober Maddie.” It might have been more convincing if my hand hadn’t slipped off the counter just then, throwing me so off balance I tripped on one of my heels and nearly fell.