Killer in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I sipped in silence as we drove through La Puente and Ontario, finally merging onto the 15 north as we left the city behind us for Joshua trees, sagebrush and the occasional trailer park. We stopped in Barstow for lunch and I felt only minimally guilty watching Dana eat her fat-free protein bar and fruit smoothie as I wolfed down a Big Mac and fries. And a chocolate shake. And two apple pies. But everyone knows that traveling calories don’t count, right?

  As we were merging back onto the freeway I was settling nicely into my fast-food coma when I caught a flash of blue behind a semitrailer to our right. I whipped my head around, that weird tingling sensation breaking out on my neck again. I could swear I saw the dented front bumper of a Dodge Neon disappear behind the truck as we merged into the fast lane.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “What?” Dana craned her neck.

  “A blue Neon. Back there.”

  “No.” Dana shook her head. “Why?”

  I bit my lip. I had a sinking suspicion I was becoming paranoid. “Nothing.”

  Marco peered at me in the rearview mirror. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine. Dandy. Just peachy,” I lied. I peeked behind me again. Just in time to see the Neon dart out from behind the semi, exiting the freeway at a rest stop on the right.

  I stifled a gasp.

  Things had just officially been upgraded from coincidence to creepy.

  Chapter Four

  I spent the rest of the trip glancing over my shoulder every three minutes to check for my stalker. No further sign of him. But the tingling sensation on the back of my neck stayed with me all the way up the 15, right into Las Vegas.

  “Welcome to Sin City, girls!” Marco said, fairly bouncing out of his seat with giddiness as we exited the freeway onto Las Vegas Boulevard. We crawled past the Excalibur castle and Luxor pyramid, almost crashing into the white limo in front of us when Marco spotted the New York, New York skyline.

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod, there she is, Lady Liberty herself,” he cried, clutching his hands to his heart.

  “Honey, you do know that’s not the real Statue of Liberty, right?” Dana asked.

  But Marco ignored her, his eyes glazing over as we took a left on Tropicana and pulled up to the front. “Oh, look! The Brooklyn Bridge, New York harbor! It’s just like I always imagined it.”

  Dana and I did a synchronized eye roll.

  Marco handed his keys over to the valet in a red uniform and Dana and I grabbed our carry-on-sized bags. Marco reached into the backseat and pulled out a huge, leopard-print suitcase big enough to hold a small child.

  “How much did you pack?” I asked.

  Marco blinked at me. “Honey, this is just my overnight bag.” He popped the trunk to reveal three more matching leopard-print pieces of luggage.

  Mental forehead smack.

  Eventually (after Marco huffed and puffed his luggage onto a rolling cart) we made our way through the lobby. The air was thick with dinging slot machines, cigarette smoke and the occasional holler of “jackpot!” There were no windows in the casino, and it could have been two in the afternoon or two in the morning for all I could tell. The place was packed with an assortment of people ranging from tourists in T-shirts that read “I heart the Hoover Dam” to women in slinky (bordering on slutty) cocktail dresses and heels. It was like entering another dimension where time, space and tasteful attire did not exist.

  The art deco registration counter stood at our left, and after walking through the roped off lines of baggage-toting gamblers, we were met by a tall, slim guy with bad acne and a name tag that read JIM.

  “Welcome to New York,” Slim Jim said as we approached. Talking to Dana’s boobs.

  “Ohmigod, did you hear that? His accent is even New York,” Marco whispered to me, bouncing up and down on his toes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was Jersey.

  “Maddie Springer,” I said. “I have a reservation.” I slid my credit card along the counter to Jim. He took it, giving it a cursory glance before returning to his staring match with Dana’s chest.

  Luckily Dana was too busy salivating over the video poker machines to notice.

  Slim Jim did a few clicks on his keyboard. “Yes, I have you down for a nonsmoking double, checking out on Wednesday.”

  I nodded. I hoped that three days was enough time to track Larry down and help with whatever kind of trouble had him leaving gunshots on my answering machine. “We’d like to add a second room, too, please,” I said, glancing at Marco and his matching luggage set.

  “All right,” Slim Jim said. More clicking. “We have one Marquis suite available on the fifteenth floor.”

  “Perfect!” Marco clapped his hands together.

  Slim Jim smiled. “First time in New York?”

  “Don’t encourage him,” I pleaded.

  “Okay, the Marquis will be four hundred ninety-five dollars a night.”

  Marco stopped bouncing.

  “Excuse me?” I choked out.

  “Sorry,” Slim Jim said, shrugging his bony shoulders. “It’s all we have. Bette Midler’s performing in the Cabaret Theater this week. We always fill our, uh…” He paused, leaning in close to do a pseudo whisper thing, “…low-rent rooms when Bette’s in town.”

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod!” Marco grabbed my arm, his painted black fingernails digging into me. “Bette Milder is here? I think I’m going to faint. Catch me.”

  Neither Dana nor I moved.

  “I could order a rollaway for your room if you like,” Jim offered.

  While the idea of sharing a room with the divine Mizz M himself wasn’t exactly in my plans, unless I suddenly hit the mega-bucks jackpot it was all we could afford. “Fine. We’ll take the rollaway.”

  “Okay, here you are. Room 1205, up the Chrysler elevators at the back of the casino and to your right. Enjoy your visit and,” he said, clearly addressing Dana’s cleavage, “please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

  I grabbed the keys and Dana and I hightailed it up to our room before Slim Jim stared a hole through her shirt. Marco trailed behind, stopping to stare at a “street performer” playing “New York State of Mind” on his tenor sax.

  Once we’d huffed our luggage the entire length of the casino (dotted with fake trees, fountains and twinkling lights to look like Central Park), we rode the elevators up to our room and drew straws for the rollaway. Dana lost, grabbing the shortest swizzle stick from the mini bar. She started unpacking while Marco went to the “little girl’s room” to freshen up. I called home to check my messages on the off chance Larry might have called again. No such luck.

  The first message was from Mom. She was glad I had let the Larry thing go and hoped I was having a fun time in Palm Springs. I felt just the teeny tiniest prick of Catholic guilt niggling at me. Especially since part of me (the part that hadn’t seen any action in so long Scott Baio looked good) kind of wished I were on a getaway with Ramirez. I mean, he did come running at the first indication I might need his help. And as much as I hated to admit it, that kiss had been kind of nice. Okay, fine. It had been really nice. Nice enough that I was starting to fantasize about a Palm Springs vacation for real. Me, Ramirez, sunny blue skies, a sparkling swimming pool, him in tiny little swimming trunks. Or better yet, no trunks at all…

  Before my wandering libido could get to the good part of that fantasy, my machine clicked over to the next message.

  “Maddie? Where the hell are you?”

  Mr. Tiny Trunks himself. Ramirez. And he didn’t sound too happy.

  “I’m outside your apartment right now and you’re not here,” he said, his voice a tightly restrained growl. “Please tell me you’re just out getting your hair done or your lip waxed or something.”

  Hey! What did he mean, “lip waxed”? I scrutinized my upper lip in the reflection of the brass lampshade.

  “Look, call me when you get this, Maddie. I mean it.” Clearly an order. Not a suggestion.
/>   I thought about calling him back. For about half a second. I mean, who did he think he was? He’d gone for six whole weeks without calling me back. Besides, that wax comment hit below the belt.

  I deleted the message, still smooshing my face around in the lampshade reflection, checking for dark hairs.

  “Dana, give it to me straight. Do I have a mustache?”

  Dana paused, pulling a pair of running sneakers from her suitcase. “Of course not.”

  I squinted at my reflection. “I mean, you’d tell me if I did, right? You wouldn’t let me walk around looking like Groucho Marx, would you?”

  “Groucho who?” Dana gave me a blank stare.

  “You know, that guy with the glasses and the big nose.”

  “Maddie, your nose is totally not big.”

  “Mrs. Rosenblatt said I had dust on my upper lip.”

  Dana put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Rosenblatt says she sees dead people.”

  She had a point.

  I gave it up, watching Dana unpack instead. She pulled three gym suits out of her bag. Then a curling iron, jumbo can of hairspray and a cell phone.

  “Ooooh, stylin’ phone, honey,” Marco said, skipping out of the bathroom. “Is this one of those streaming video ones? I so want one of these.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the cell. It didn’t have Dana’s usual pink polka-dotted skins. Uh oh. Wasn’t that…

  “Marco, put it down—”

  But I was too late. Marco made a little gurgling sound, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the ground.

  “Dana!” I yelled, falling to Marco’s side. I felt for a pulse.

  “Don’t worry; it’s just a little jolt. He’ll be fine.” Dana picked up the cell, pushing a red button and buzzing the stun gun to life. “See? Rico said it’s virtually harmless.”

  “Virtually” being the key word here. Marco’s pulse was steady, but a little stream of drool was forming at the side of his mouth.

  “What were you thinking, bringing that thing?” I yelled. I slapped Marco’s cheeks to wake him up. His head kind of lolled to the side, his tongue falling out like a golden retriever’s.

  “Uh, hello?” Dana answered, making her best “well, duh” face at me. “Your dad was shot by the Mob! I couldn’t pick up my LadySmith for another seven days, so this was the best I could do.”

  I closed my eyes. I counted to ten. I did a little prayer to Saint…well, okay, I couldn’t honestly remember one saint from the next as I’d been pretty preoccupied in Sunday school by Bobby Tanner, who sat two seats in front of me. He’d had an uncanny resemblance to Kirk Cameron and wore his dad’s Old Spice at age twelve. But I was pretty sure there was a saint somewhere who granted patience to those whose best friends insisted on carrying concealed weapons around in their purses.

  “Dana, just put that thing away, okay?”

  She shrugged. “Fine. But I’d think you’d be glad one of us thought of bringing protection.” Dana tucked the cell back into her purse. “We’re talking about the Mob, Maddie.”

  I enunciated very slowly. “There is no more Mob in Las Vegas.”

  Dana shook her head. “Maddie, you are so naive.”

  I searched my brain for a comeback, but was spared the need as Marco started to come around.

  “Uh appen oo ee,” he mumbled, his tongue still lolling to one side.

  “You zapped yourself with Dana’s stun gun.”

  “Uhn un?” His eyes grew wide. “What uhn un?”

  I helped him into a sitting position as he slowly jerked his limbs back to life and wiped the drool from his chin. Dana got him a glass of water from the bathroom and after ten minutes of rapid blinking and twitching, he was almost back to normal. Well, as normal as Marco got.

  “Is my mascara running?” he asked.

  I decided it was kinder to lie. “Nope. You look great.”

  “I changed my mind. I so do not want one of those.”

  That made two of us.

  Once Marco recovered enough to stand, he decided he needed to walk it off. Preferably in the Soho Village shopping center downstairs. As tempting as that sounded, I was eager to start crossing Larrys off my list.

  I made Dana leave the stun gun in the room, and we got back into the seafoam Mustang. The first Larry on our list was L. Springer who lived in South Vegas and apparently didn’t believe in answering machines.

  South Vegas was populated with apartment and condo complexes that had spas, swimming pools, and more palm trees than Florida. We pulled up to a gated complex in muted orange, dotted with palm trees, (of course), birds of paradise and two bubbling fountains.

  Unfortunately, our L. Springer turned out to be Luanna Springer, a black woman with the longest, most intricately painted nails I had ever seen. She said she worked at Wynn’s as a cocktail waitress and had never heard of “this Larry dude.” Apart from the name of her manicurist, Dana and I came away empty handed.

  We pulled back onto the 15, going north until we merged on the 215 toward Vegas’s nearest and dearest suburb, Henderson. Henderson was one new, dusty beige housing development after another, punctuated by the occasional strip mall and Home Depot. We passed two parks, both with fields of perfectly green grass that must have been watered ten times a day to grow that uniformly in the desert. The road was dotted with minivans and SUVs full of carseats, and khaki seemed to be the fashion color of choice. All in all, the perfect family neighborhood. (I’m sure I don’t need to add there was no sign of the Mob anywhere. I think Dana was a little disappointed.)

  We turned onto Arroyo Grande, and into the Desert Sands Oasis housing development. We took a right on Warm Sands Road, then wound around to Hidden Sands Court, going left onto Sand Storm Way, and finally pulling up to the 319 Sand Hill Lane. It was a nondescript two-story stucco in pale taupe colors that looked like—you guessed it—sand. The yard held a rock garden, interspersed with tall grasses and lowmaintenance succulents sprouting tiny pink flowers.

  I stared. The house looked exactly like the kind of place that bred soccer moms and Big Wheels. It didn’t fit my image of either CIA Dad or Rock Star Dad. It looked more suited to Family Guy Dad. Which begged the question, did Larry have another family? Had he started over with a new wife once he’d left Mom and me? Worse yet…new kids? I bit my lip, my Gucci boots suddenly feeling like they were made of lead instead of Italian leather.

  “You okay?” Dana asked, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  No. “Fine. Great. Let’s go.”

  Before my overactive imagination could get the better of me, I forced my feet out of the car and up the flagstone pathway to the front door. I rapped three times, steeling myself for the sight of adorable little towheaded kids in matching jumpers. Luckily, none appeared. Dana shifted from foot to foot beside me and rang the bell. We waited as the dull, muted sound chimed through the house. Still nothing.

  “Now what?” Dana asked.

  I bit my lip, trying to see past the lacy curtains into the house. If my dad were laying dead by the phone, he wasn’t in the front room. What I could see of the living room-dining combo was void of people, just your average oak dining set and an oversize sofa in floral patterns.

  “They’re not home,” a voice called.

  Dana and I turned around to find a man holding a garden hose in the next yard over. He was short, balding and had the skin of a shar-pei. I put his age somewhere between eighty and a hundred and fifty.

  “Car’s not in the drive,” he explained. “They always park in the driveway.”

  They. I bit my lip again trying not to picture those towheaded kids.

  “Do you know the people who live here well?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Just to say hi to.”

  “We’re looking for Larry Springer. Does he live here?” Dana asked.

  He shook his head. “Sorry. Just a couple of gals live here.” His wrinkles parted into a smile. “Real lookers. Think they’re dancers or somethin’.”

  Dancers? M
y radar pricked up. As in showgirls? “Do you know their names?”

  “Harriet’s the blonde—she’s the chunkier one. Then there’s the redhead. Real tall, six footer at least, long legs. I think her name’s Lila or Lana or something like that.”

  My heart sped up. “Could it be Lola?” As in the Lola?

  His face broke into a smile. “Yeah, that’s it. Lola.”

  “Any idea when they might be back?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Nope. Sorry. But I know they work nights. Like I said, I think they’re both dancers.”

  Dana and I thanked Shar-Pei Man and climbed back into the Mustang.

  “I guess we’ll come back in the morning?” Dana asked.

  I took another long look at the house. I wasn’t sure why, but I had this feeling of urgency brewing in my stomach. Like the more time I let pass, the slimmer my chances of finding Larry alive. Which wasn’t wholly logical, but it didn’t make cooling my heels in faux New York sound all that appealing.

  “Maybe we could find out which club they dance at?” I said.

  Dana shrugged. “Okay. So where do we start looking for two suburban strippers?”

  I shot Dana a look. “Dancers.” I’m not sure why I was defending them except that the idea of my possible stepmommy being a stripper didn’t fill me with a whole lot of good feelings.

  “What about Jim?” she said. “The hotel clerk. He did say he’d help with anything we needed.”

  I didn’t think this was exactly what he had in mind. However, he did look like the kind of guy who knew where to find strip—I mean, dancers.

  We flipped the Mustang around and took the 215 back into Vegas. Half an hour later we were in front of Slim Jim again. And he once again tried to grow X-ray vision as his eyes focused in on Dana’s chest.

  “We were wondering if you could tell us about a couple of dancers?” I asked. “Harriet and Lola?”

  Jim grinned. “Do you have any idea how many strippers there are in Vegas?”

  “Dancers,” I emphasized.

  Slim Jim grinned wider. “Right. Dancers. Look, if you’re into that kind of thing”—he wiggled his eyebrows up and down—“there’s a club up the street. The Kit Kat Bar. Hot chicks. They’ll take real good care of you there,” he promised Dana’s cleavage. “In fact,” he continued, his eyes starting to glaze over at the thought of girl-on-girl action, “I get off in a couple of hours. I wouldn’t mind showing you around.”