Felix stuck the end of a hotel-issue ballpoint in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “It sounds a little dangerous,” he finally said.
I put my hands on my hips, thrust my chest out, and put on my best tough-chick voice. “Look, I’m a grown woman. I can handle this. Why is it everyone thinks I’m just some girly little shoe chick who can’t do anything except wait for the big boys to work this stuff out? I left it to the big boys. Look what happened. Hank’s dead, Bobbi’s dead. I am not-you hear me?-N-O-T,” I spelled out for him, “going to sit around while my dad gets picked off like some sitting duck in heels just because you think it’s too dangerous for the girly blonde. Well, let me tell you something, pal. I’m no little girl. I’m a big bad woman!”
Wow, that felt good. Okay, so it might have felt even better had I actually been saying it to Ramirez, but I had a picture of his face in my head the entire time, so it was sort of like he was there. I could feel all my anger and frustration disappearing, leaving a big bubble of confidence that I could feel filling the entire room. I was woman, hear me roar!
That is, until the corner of Felix’s mouth began to quirk upward.
“Actually, love,” he said, laughter escaping him, “I was thinking it was a bit dangerous for me.”
Pop. There went my bubble.
“Oh. Right.”
“But,” he said, actually making an effort to control his giggles, “if you’re that determined-”
“I am.”
“-and you really do agree to an exclusive, complete with pictures and everything-”
I cringed, hoping at least he used my own body to go with my head this time. “I do.”
“-then, you have yourself a deal. I’ll be your photographer.” He stuck his hand out. I shook it, half expecting his hidden horns and forked tail to come popping out.
I didn’t waste time, knowing Larry would be out of the shower any minute. I quickly dialed Information and got the number of the Victoria Club.
“You can do an American accent, right?” I asked, handing the number to Felix.
He grinned. “Ya’ll don’t have nothing to worry yo’ purty little head about, darlin’,” he drawled, doing a bad John Wayne.
“Uh, maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all…”
“Just give me the phone,” he said, snatching my cell.
I held my breath as he dialed, crossing both fingers and toes and saying a little prayer to the saint of deception and fake accents. Luckily someone up there was listening, as Felix did a perfect Californian into the phone. Okay, so maybe he was a tad more Keanu Reeves than Larry’s natural voice, but it seemed to pass muster with Monaldo.
I kept one eye on the bathroom, where steam from Larry’s shower was still seeping under the door, as I listened to Felix’s side of the conversation. It was brief and to the point. Basically a lot of “uh huh”s and “I’ll be there”s. My stomach played host to a butterfly convention as Felix asked Monaldo to remind him of the address, taking down the information on a pad of hotel stationery.
Finally Felix hung up.
“Well?” I asked.
“Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
The butterflies formed a conga line.
Chapter Eighteen
Since I had less than four hours to transform myself from a five-foot-tall woman into a six-foot-tall woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman, I needed help. If anyone were up to the job, it was Marco. I found him downstairs in the I Love NY, NY gift shop, eyeing a pair of novelty shot glasses.
“Maddie, dahling!” he cried when he spotted me, going for a two-cheeked air kiss. “Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick about you!”
“Ramirez caught me. Handcuffed me in his backseat.”
“Kinky.” Marco wiggled his perfectly waxed eyebrows up and down.
“Humiliating was more like it. Anyway, I need to ask you a favor, Marco.”
“Anything for you, sweetie,” he said, thumbing through a stack of postcards.
I briefly filled him in on Larry’s troubles and my plan to save his Prada-wearing hide. When I got to the part about needing platform shoes and a wig, Marco clapped his hands with glee.
“Ooooh, this is gonna be so fun. A drag makeover!”
Necessary, yes. Fun, I wasn’t so sure about. “I only have until eight tonight,” I warned as he grabbed me by the arm and headed straight for the Off Broadway Costume Shop.
Two hours and three dozen bad wigs later, I was decked out in true Drag Queen Chic. I stood in front of the mirrored closet doors of Marco’s hotel room staring at my reflection. He had gone with a long black skirt that covered my slightly-less-stocky-than-Larry’s (thank god!) legs, a long-sleeved corset-waisted red top that covered my slightly-less-hairy-than-Larry’s (thank god!) arms, and a long red wig that was almost the exact duplicate of Larry’s (which honestly didn’t look half bad on me; who knew I could do redhead?). Knowing that even in the highest heels I couldn’t fake nine inches, Marco chose a clingy lycra material for the skirt which, along with the V-neck top, gave the illusion of longer lines. And I’m happy to report I did manage to add at least five inches to my frame with a pair of truly hookeresque patent leather platforms.
Marco offered to use some charcoal eyeliner and putty-like cover-up to “age” my face to match Larry’s, but I declined, instead going for a huge pair of black J Lo sunglasses and a gauzy black veil that reached down to my chin. Though I did let Marco cake on some thick foundation and blush a hint of five o’clock stubble onto my chin. All in all, it was as close to fifty-something transvestite as I was ever going to look (thank god!).
“Honey, you look divine!” Marco stood back, clasping his hands to his breast as he admired his work. “That wig is so you.”
“Let’s just hope Monaldo thinks it’s so Larry.”
“So,” Marco said, leaning in close, a co-conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. “What’s the plan, spy girl?”
I adjusted my butt-length wig in the mirror as I recited the directions Monaldo had given to Felix over the phone.
“The plan is we drive to the Victoria, slip backstage and look for a red crocodile handbag sitting at Larry’s makeup station. Then Felix and I take the cash out into the desert for our rendezvous with the Marsuccis. I’ll drop Felix off a few yards away to set up surveillance, then I’ll continue on to the warehouse and hand the payoff over to the bad guys while Felix takes pictures of it all.”
Hmmm…somehow saying it out loud made it all sound so improbable. Rendezvous? Surveillance? Payoff? Who did I think I was, James Bond?
Though Marco didn’t share my misgivings. “This is so freaking James Bond! I love it! Wait until I tell Madonna about this.”
“No!” I spun on my platforms to face him. “No, you can’t tell anyone. If Ramirez finds out about this, he’ll skin me alive. Not to mention what my mother would do. Good god, can you imagine her traipsing after me with stun gun in hand? You have to promise me you are not going to tell a soul.”
“But-”
“Promise!” I commanded, planting both hands on hips. And since I towered over him by a good two inches now, he conceded.
“All right.” He thrust his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I promise.”
I made him double pinky swear and felt a little bit better about it. Just a little. Swearing Marco to secrecy was about as effective as using a Sharpie to cover up scuffs on my favorite black pumps. A temporary fix at best. But I had no choice. I could only hope Marco sat on the gossip of the century long enough that Felix and I could get to the desert and it would be too late for either Mom or Ramirez to stop me.
Okay, part of me hoped that. As I stared at my madeup reflection in the mirror the other part of me, the one that preferred all my limbs exactly where they were, was silently chanting, “Somebody stop me!”