As a general rule, I don’t go pawing through people’s trash. It’s rude, invasive and downright icky. But I was out of options. And quite possibly out of time before the gruesome twosome came back to argue about what kind of cement shoes to order Larry. So I closed my eyes and shoved my hands into the wastebasket. Luckily, I didn’t hit anything too slimy or disgusting. Mostly just discarded papers and receipts. I quickly scanned the first few on top. Nothing jumped out at me. Until I unballed one piece of paper that looked like a computer printout of an eBay auction. That alone wouldn’t have gotten my attention except the auction, listed last Wednesday by a BobEDoll, was for a pair of pink Prada pumps. In snakeskin leather. New in box with dust bag. I felt a little drool form at the corner of my mouth as I wondered if the auction had ended yet.
I was trying to figure out why Monaldo would be in the market for a pair of pink pumps (Okay, so he did own a drag club, but Monaldo hadn’t exactly struck me as the Dude-Looks-Like-A-Lady type. He seemed more like the Dude-has-an-Uzi-in-the-closet type), when I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. On impulse, I quickly shoved the piece of paper into my purse.
Just as the door swung open.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Monaldo, a.k.a. Mr. Creepy, stood in the doorway, his black eyes flashing at me.
I froze. “Uh…wow, this isn’t the bathroom, is it?” Okay, so thinking fast in a crisis isn’t my strong suit.
He narrowed his eyes at me, his jaw clenching tightly. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked in a voice that was freakishly calm for how vividly angry his eyes were.
I bit my lip. “All right. You got me. Ha.” I faked a laugh. “Okay, here’s the truth…” I racked my brain. Quick, Maddie, what sounds truthful? “I’m, uh…with the L.A. Informer. A reporter. Yep, that’s me, reporter gal. Like Mary Tyler Moore. Only without the pillbox hats because the Kennedy chic thing is so overdone. Well, I mean, some women can pull it off, but I’m more of a Sarah Jessica Parker-style girl. You know-all about the shoes? Which is why I’m doing a story on…” I bit my lip again, my eyes searching his office. They landed on the photo of Larry’s strappy sandals. “Shoes! Footwear fashions for transvestites. It is such an overlooked market, don’t you think? And I thought maybe I could get a couple choice quotes from you for-”
But he cut me off. “Get the fuck out of here!” he roared.
I didn’t think it was wise to disobey. I was across the room in two quick strides. But Creepy blocked the doorway, grabbing me by the arm.
“Not so fast.”
My heart sped up to the beat of club music pulsing through the hidden speakers, threatening to pop right out of my ribs and Macarena across the floor. Creepy’s eyes bore into mine, black and oddly flat. If eyes were the windows to the soul, I’d swear this guy didn’t have one. His fingers gripped my arm so hard I whimpered. Which caused a smile just this side of sadistic to tug the corners of his thin lips.
He turned and yelled over his shoulder to one of the bouncers by the bar. “Bruno! I want you to take care of someone for me.”
There was that phrase again. I gulped.
I held my breath, panic starting to rise as Bruno worked his way through the shadowy hallway toward us. Bruno looked solid. Not as big as the linebacker, but he had the shape of someone who liked the gym a whole lot more than I did. I think I whimpered again.
Creepy got close to my face, his nose almost touching mine. I could smell a dinner of garlic and fish on his breath. “If I ever see you near my office again, reporter girl,” he sneered, “it’ll be the last place anyone ever sees you.”
I didn’t have to worry about my heart beating out of my chest because I think it actually stopped. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Here,” he said, pushing me backwards into the solid wall of Bruno. “Get rid of her.”
“No problem.”
I froze. I knew that voice.
I whipped my head around and this time I’m positive my heart stopped as “Bruno” and I locked eyes.
Ramirez.
Chapter Eight
Ramirez spun me around, his hands maintaining a tight grip on my shoulders as he marched me down the hallway.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered into my ear.
“Me?”
“Shhh.”
“Me?” I whispered. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Working.”
“I didn’t know you moonlighted as a bouncer in a drag club!”
“I’m undercover.” His breath was hot on my neck and I could feel his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “A cover you could very well have blown back there.” He turned me left at the bar, muscling our way through the club patrons, heading downward toward the stage. “One little thing,” he muttered, as he shoved me in front of him. “I ask you to do one little thing. Steer clear of Vegas. Just stay home. But can you do that for me? No. Just like a woman.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“I’m going to pretend you’re going to listen to me this time.”
Hey, if he wanted to do denial too, who was I to judge?
He steered me through a doorway in the wall and into a dimly lit backstage area. Woman slash men in various states of undress ran between guys in flannels smoking cigarettes and manning pulleys. None of them paid us any attention. I guessed they were used to Bruno “taking care” of people back here.
Ramirez pushed me to a dark corner behind one of the curtains, then whipped me around to face him.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” I said, “but I-”
But before I could finish, Ramirez’s lips were locked over mine, his body pinning me against the wall. Not that I was going anywhere. The second his mouth touched mine, any fight I might have had melted faster than a popsicle on the Venice boardwalk. Man, he was a good kisser. So good, I’d almost forgotten about that sexist comment by the time we finally came up for air.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Ramirez mumbled onto my lips.
“Do what?” I admit, my brain was a little hazy after he’d just about kissed the pants off me.
“Give me a heart attack by breaking into a family man’s office.”
“Oh right, it’s okay for you to go undercover as Bruno the manhandler, but I happen to find one little unlocked office door and-wait, did you say ‘family man’?”
Ramirez pulled away, his jaw tightening into that silent Bad Cop routine again.
I gulped. “Please tell me you mean he attends his kids’ soccer games?”
No reaction. Crap. I hated it when Dana was right.
“Where are you staying?” Ramirez whispered. He glanced over his shoulder as a couple of the yellow sequin “girls” walked past.
“New York, New York. Room 1205.”
He nodded in the darkness. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead pulling open a door behind the curtain and shoving me through it.
Before I knew what had happened, I was standing outside next to an overflowing Dumpster and heard the unmistakable sound of Ramirez locking the door behind me. I looked around, trying to reorient myself. It was cold and I had a pretty good idea that thousands of tiny rat eyes were staring at me from behind the piles of garbage. I did a quick mini-jog back around to the front of the building and hailed the first cab I saw.
When I got back to the hotel room, I sat down on the bed and stared up at the textured ceiling for answers again. If things had seemed a little odd before, they were into Michael Jackson-odd territory now. It was like I was starring in my own Scorsese movie. Only these goodfellas all wore heels.