Ramirez pinched the bridge of his nose. I could tell he really didn’t. Too bad. He was damn well going to hear it anyway.
I stood up, throwing the knife down on the table and giving him my best staredown. “You have now officially ruined our very first date!”
Ramirez shook his head, his eyes straying to my Wonder-cleavage again as his voice came out in a wistful sigh. “I’m not getting any again tonight, am I?”
Damn skippy, pal.
The first thing I did when I got back to the room was raid the restocked minibar for a tiny bottle of tequila and a king-size Snickers bar. Healthy food be damned!
I crunched down hard on a bite of peanuts and nougat, my fists still clenching and unclenching at my sides. I couldn’t believe Ramirez had kept my dad a secret from me! What kind of a person would do that? Sure he was undercover, blah, blah, blah. I’d heard enough of his work excuses to last me a lifetime. But this one crossed the line. How could someone know your father wore go-go boots and not tell you? If he could keep something like that a secret, what other things had he been keeping from me? A secret wife? A harem of long-legged Mob girlfriends? A career modeling underwear on the side?
Okay, so I wouldn’t really mind that last one too much. But it was the principle of the thing. You were not supposed to keep life-altering secrets from your girlfriend.
I paused, Snickers suspended in midair. But I guess I wasn’t technically his girlfriend. Hell, we couldn’t even have one lousy date together. Let’s face it, as a couple, we were a disaster. Why was it we were always either fighting or ripping each other’s clothes off? What was wrong with us that we couldn’t just have a nice dinner together?
I polished off the Snickers bar while I digested this disconcerting thought. I contemplated going for a second one, but didn’t want Marco to accuse me of stretching out his sweater. Instead I checked my messages, figuring I’d given Ramirez ample time to leave me a humble voice-mail apology.
No such luck. My inbox was empty. No Dad on the run. No Mom and her travel tips for lovebirds. No sheepish Bad Cop.
I went for that second Snickers after all.
I was halfway through that one, heading deep into a chocolate- and alcohol-induced state of self-pity, when Dana burst through the door.
“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!” Dana jumped up and down on the double bed.
“What?” I mumbled as I licked a piece of chocolate off my lips.
“I just totally won five hundred dollars at the roulette wheel. Do you know how totally hard it is to win at roulette? Let me tell you, it’s hard. See, Officer Taylor and I were having drinks at the Times Square Bar and then I said I wanted to try that game with the wheel thingy and he said ‘what, roulette?’ and I said ‘I guess so’ and he said ‘do you know how hard it is to win at roulette?’ and I said ‘how hard can it be?’ so he said ‘okay, let’s give it a try.’ And we did. And I was like, ‘12 black,’ and the dealer was like, ‘okay,’ and then he like spun the wheel and the ball like totally bounced all over then it totally landed on, guess what? 12 black! I am on fire, Maddie! I could so do this for a living. Forget L.A. I’m moving to Vegas, baby. I’m totally going to become one of those professional gamblers on the Bravo network. I am so damn good at this!”
“Good for you.” I took another large bite of my Snickers. How is it fair Dana could be lucky with both men and casino games? Me, all I could seem to attract lately was trouble and chocolate.
“You must come play roulette with me, Maddie. It is such a freaking rush!”
She jumped up and down again, her long legs springing her precariously close to the ceiling. The bed let out a low groan of protest.
“Uh, Dana, maybe you shouldn’t be jumping—”
But it was too late. Dana did one more bounce, and the springs gave way beneath her with a loud moan.
“Uhn.” She rolled off the side, landing facedown on the floor as the center of the bed caved in like a 400-pound ghost was lying on it.
Dana pulled her face out of the shag and looked up. “Oops.”
“No kidding.”
She stared at the ruined bed for a couple beats. Then turned to me. “So, what do you say, wanna go play roulette with me?”
I just rolled my eyes.
While Dana flipped on the casino channel to pick up more tips for delusional gamblers, I called down to the front desk. Slim Jim wasn’t there. Instead I got some woman named Shirley who informed me there were still no other rooms available in our “price bracket.” But she could send up another rollaway. Since my neck was still aching from the last rollaway I’d slept on, I declined.
Instead, I slipped out of my sexy skirt and thong, more than a little disappointed that I was taking it off myself instead of watching Ramirez do it with his teeth, and crawled into the double bed with Dana. So not the person I had planned on sleeping with tonight.
I was just drifting off into a well-deserved sleep when William Tell burst out from the region of my cell phone. I fumbled around in the dark.
“Hello?” I asked, steadfastly refusing to open my eyes.
I heard a couple sniffles and then Maurice’s voice came on the line. “Maddie? It’s Maurice.”
I sat up in bed. “What’s wrong?”
He sniffled again. “Nothing, nothing. I, uh, I just wanted to call and tell you that we’re holding a service for Hank tomorrow. I…I know he’d want you to come.” Maurice broke down, sobbing on the other end.
I suddenly felt twice as bad about zapping his dog. And I admit, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. It wasn’t as if I’d actually known Hank. To be honest, I didn’t even really know Larry. On the other hand, Hank had been Larry’s best friend. If Larry was going to come out of hiding at all, it would be to pay his last respects.
“What time?” I asked, grabbing a sheet of hotel stationery.
Maurice gave the wheres and whens of the service, then hung up with a sniffle and a sob. That poor man. I had a feeling he was going to need a saline transfusion if he carried on much more.
Well, I guess one thing could be said for my relationship with Ramirez. At least neither of us was dead.
I was deep into a dream starring Ramirez’s six-pack abs when I felt something smack me across my cheek. “Uhn.”
I opened one eye. Dana’s arm was covering my face. I pushed her off and got a foot in the stomach.
“Ow,” I whined.
Dana just grunted and mumbled something about “frontal assaults.” Then she turned over and elbowed me in the ribs.
Note to self: Never sleep with an Urban Soldierette. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 6:20 A.M. I groaned, but, due to the imminent risk of bruising, I rolled myself out from under my best friend and took my beaten body into the shower anyway.
I let the hot water rush over me and closed my eyes, trying to shake off the semi-coma state early mornings put me into. Today of all days, I needed my mind to be sharp. It was Wednesday, my last day in Vegas. Unless a) prices in the Marquis Suites plummeted into a reasonable (read “low rent”) rate, and b) Tot Trots miraculously decided to extend my deadline for the Rainbow Brite jellies designs (which I’d woefully neglected since I’d first gotten Larry’s message), I had only one day left to help Larry.
It was painfully clear at this point that I was in way over my blond little head. Whatever dealings Larry had stumbled into, I had little hope I that could get him out, especially when we threw Mafiosos into the mix. The best I could do was, as Ramirez had said, convince Larry to turn himself in. I hoped Larry showed up at the funeral, because I was running out of places to look.
As a concession to sleepless night number four, I put on my shortest skirt, highest heels, and more eye makeup than my mother. Or father, for that matter.
The look was a little on the slutty side but at least it distracted from the bags under my eyes (which were so big I was pretty sure they wouldn’t even qualify as carry-ons anymore). Ten minutes later I was dressed, blow-dried, and standi
ng at the front desk before Slim Jim again.
“Checking out today?” he asked, searching behind me for a glimpse of Dana. Or, more accurately, Dana’s breasts.
“Yes, I am. And by the way, the bed’s broken in our room.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “How did that happen?”
I shrugged. “Search me.”
He contemplated the offer for about half a second. That is, until his eyes rested on my barely-B chest and decided I wasn’t worth the effort. “Fine. I’ll tell maintenance.”
“So any way I could get a discount for the broken bed?”
He gave me a look. “Don’t push it.”
I didn’t. Instead, I signed the bill (cringing just a little at the total), and told him we’d vacate the room by noon.
That done, I headed in the direction of the American Restaurant, hoping a big latte and an even bigger plate of pancakes with gooey maple syrup might help me wake up. I was halfway across the casino floor, picking my way through the fake trees and corridors of slot machines, when my cell chirped.
“Hello?” I answered.
It’s a universal truth that no matter how healthy our self esteem, we all have little quirks about ourselves we wish we could fix. Some people wish they could remember names better, others want to stop smoking or quit biting their nails. Me, I wished like hell that I’d learn to check the caller ID before picking up my phone.
“Maddie! I can’t believe you lied to me!”
Ugh. Mom. I rubbed at my temples (where, coincidentally, an instant headache had bloomed), wondering just which lie she’d caught me in this time. “Hi, Mom.”
“Maddie, how could you? Las Vegas? Las Vegas!”
Well, that answered that question. “Mom, it’s not what you think—”
“Oh, Maddie. After everything I’ve done for you! I raised you as a single parent, Maddie. A single parent! Oh, how could you do this to me…” She trailed off into a wail that belonged in an Alfred Hitchcock film and I heard the phone drop from her hands.
A second later Faux Dad came on the line. “Maddie?”
“Hi, Ralph. What’s going on?”
“Um, well, your picture was kind of in the L.A. Informer this morning.”
Again? I smacked my forehead with my palm. What was with those guys? It was one lousy boob! “What was it this time? Wait, don’t tell me. I’m engaged to a Martian, right?”
“Actually…” He paused, clearing his throat. “There was a story about you getting involved in another murder case. In Las Vegas. There’s a picture of you outside some club called the Victoria.”
I shut my eyes and thought a really dirty word. They had to pick now to print real stuff?
“Listen,” Faux Dad continued. “I know how these papers get their facts mixed up sometimes. And I remember how they glued your head onto Pamela Anderson’s body when they said you were getting engaged to Bigfoot. So…” He trailed off.
God love him, he was giving me a nice out. But for some reason I was having a hard time taking it. Truth was, I felt funny discussing this whole Larry thing with Faux Dad at all. Ever since he and Mom had started dating, Ralph had filled the role of father figure in a way I never thought anyone would. Okay, so I was a little old for trips to the zoo with him, but he did give me all the free manicures I wanted at his salon. In my book, that spelled love. Just by being here, I almost felt like I was betraying him somehow.
Luckily I didn’t have to answer as Mom grabbed the phone away again.
“How could you betray me like this?” she sobbed.
Oh, brother. I rolled my eyes.
“Mom. I’m sorry. But I had to come.”
“You lied to me, Maddie. Lied!”
“Excuse me,” I said, putting hands on hips, “but you’ve been lying to me for the last twenty-six years. My dad wears go-go boots!” One of the blue-haireds at the Wheel of Fortune slot machine looked my way. But only for a second. This was Vegas. Everyone wore go-go boots.
“I can’t believe you made up the whole thing about Palm Springs, Maddie.”
“Okay, technically it was Marco who made that up. But let’s get back to the whole you-never-telling-me-my-dad-was-a-she thing. Do you know how many letters I sent to Billy Idol?”
But nothing I said was going to get through to her. Mom was the guilt master and she was in her zone now. “I raised you. I fed you and clothed you; I changed your poopy diapers…”
Ew! “Mom, I was just here for a couple days—”
“…and this is the thanks I get. Betrayal! Lies! I would expect this from Larry, but from my own flesh and blood? How could you?” Mom punctuated this with another raise-the-dead wail.
“Mom, I swear I’m coming home today—”
“Where did I go wrong? How did I a raise such a deceitful child?”
“Mom—”
“The trust is broken, Maddie. You’ve broken my trust and my heart!”
“Look, I didn’t mean—”
“And to think, I bought you a ficus!”
“Mom, I—”
But it was too late. The line was dead. My mother had hung up on me. I thunked my head against the side of a mega bucks machine.
“Ow.”
I shoved my phone back in my purse and backtracked to the front desk, that headache pulsing behind my eyes with every step.
Slim Jim was checking in a couple with four little kids in tow, all four pointing in different directions and arguing over what they were going to see first.
“Hey!” I called, waving him over.
He gave me a one finger “wait” sign, while he handed the harried parents their room keys, then sauntered over. “Yeah?”
“Do you have a copy of the L.A. Informer back there?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, could you check?” I asked, forcing myself to paste on a smile.
Slim Jim let out a dramatic sigh, as if doing favors for barely B’s was so not in his job description. However, he did look behind the counter, popping up a minute later with a copy of the tabloid in his hands.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as I grabbed it from him.
I scanned the front page. The headline read “Local Sleuth Snoops into Mysterious Drag Death.” Great. Tot Trots was just going to love this! I felt my headache threatening into migraine territory as I read the rest of the story. The reporter started with a blurb about last summer’s mishaps and the popped boob, then went on to say I was investigating another suspicious death, this time involving an alleged suicide off a Vegas nightclub roof. He even had the nerve to tell all the Vegas women with implants to stay out of my way.
Beside the story they’d printed two pictures, one of me outside the nightclub and a second of Dana and me at Maurice’s condo yesterday. I stared at them both. Who even knew I was in Vegas, let alone going to Maurice’s house?
I scanned down to the byline. Felix Dunn. The same guy who’d left all those messages on my machine last week. And, I realized with a surge of triumph as I looked at his fingernail-sized black and white photo, the same guy I’d seen behind the wheel of a certain blue Dodge Neon. Sonofabitch! Neon Guy was a reporter.
“Excuse me,” I said, hailing Slim Jim back over.
This time he was in the middle of checking in a short Asian man and a long-legged model dressed in an outfit that made me wonder if the New York, New York, rented rooms by the hour. Jim shot me an annoyed look and gave the finger again. The “wait a minute” one, not the other one. Though if he could have gotten away with it, I think he would have used the other one.
Finally he finished with the odd couple and made his way over to me. “What now?”
“I need a room number.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t you just check out?”
“No, not for me. I need you to look up the room number of a guest. Felix Dunn.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“You don’t understand. This is an emergency. This is a real story.
I’m not the bride of Bigfoot. Tot Trots is going to fire me. Good god, I may end up pounding lemons in one of those Hot Dog on a Stick Hats again. Don’t you understand, I can’t go back to those hats!”
He stared at me. Clearly, Slim Jim didn’t understand. Slim Jim thought I was nuts.
“Sorry. It’s against hotel policy. We can’t give out guests’ room numbers. I can get a message to him if you’d like.”
“I don’t want to leave him a message. I want to kill him!” Which didn’t do much to further my case.
I paused. I counted to ten. Okay, fine, I only made it to five before I started to lose it again. I decided to try a different tactic.
“Tell you what. How about you bend the rules just a teeny tiny bit for me and maybe I can do something in return for you.”
Slim Jim narrowed his eyes at me. “What kind of something?”
I mentally cringed, hoping Dana would forgive me for what I was about to do. “How about a date with my friend, Dana?”
His eyes lit up. “The one with the double D’s?”
I nodded.
Slim Jim did a quick over-the-shoulder supervisor check, then leaned in close. “Think she’d go to the Bette Midler show with me tomorrow night? I’ve got two tickets right up front.”
I crossed my fingers behind my back and I nodded. “Absolutely.” That is, if we weren’t going to be back in L.A. by then.
He paused. But the allure of a night with a stacked blonde was more than any man could resist. “Okay. But if anyone asks, you did not get this from me.” Slim Jim did a couple of quick clicks on his keyboard. “1504.”
“Thanks!”
“Hey,” he called as I walked away, “tell Dana to meet me here at seven!”
I gave him a wave over my shoulder as I stalked to the elevators with renewed purpose. In the last three days I’d had to deal with not only my so-called boyfriend showing up undercover in a drag club, but also my mother’s tips for the best places to have sex in Palm Springs, my best friend turning into a gambling addict, a dead drag queen, his weepy boyfriend, a zapped yapper dog, my MIA dad’s propensity for go-go boots, and, oh yes, last but not least—the Mob! The last thing I needed was for my big fat drag club life to be splashed across the front pages of L.A.’s sleaziest tabloid.
Killer in High Heels Page 14
