Gemma Halliday - Killer in High Heels

I scanned the room for a red crocodile bag and came up with pay dirt next to the vanity at the far end of the room. Ducking my head down, I stepped over discarded shoes and costumes on the floor, quickly grabbed the bag, and ducked out again before the sequin girls could question me.

The bag was a lot heavier than I had expected. I needed two hands to carry it as I backtracked to the outer door. By the time I reached it, my heart was pounding in my ears and my stomach had knotted itself an entire afghan.

I stepped back out into the night, letting the door close on the club music behind me, and did a quick scan to make sure a black SUV hadn’t miraculously appeared while I was inside. None had, so I jogged (which in fiveinch heels was more like a series of baby steps on speed) to the Neon and quickly slipped into the passenger seat.

“Go, go, go!” I commanded as Felix put down his camera. He did, pulling out of the parking lot and taking a quick right onto Fremont. I heaved a sigh of relief that was much too big, considering Operation Mafia Takedown was only halfway done. Getting the bag had been the easy part; the hard part would be coming face to face with the living breathing models for the Sopranos out in the desert where god knew how many generations of “accidents” were buried in shallow graves.

I shivered and flipped on the heater.

To distract myself, I looked down at the bag in my hands as Felix drove south on the 15. It was a soft crocodile skin dyed a deep burgundy color with little gold buckles and a bamboo handle. Actually tres chic, if you asked me. My hands shaking only slightly, I peeked inside. It was filled with wads of hundred-dollar bills. I did a low whistle. As I may have mentioned, Tot Trots was not the Rodeo Drive of shoes. I made enough to cover my rent and keep me in Top Ramen and heels, but this was way more money than I’d ever seen in one place before. I put my nose down in the bag and inhaled deeply. The unmistakable scent of cash mixed with leather. This must be what real Pradas smelled like.

Fifteen minutes later we’d passed by the Mandalay Bay, the Bellagio, and the Treasure Island and were heading into the no-man’s land between Vegas and Los Angeles. Tumbleweeds began to replace casinos until we spied the sign for Lone Hill Road. Felix turned off the highway, onto the roughly paved two lane. Two more turns and we were reduced to a dirt road which might have been fun to navigate in my four-wheel-drive Jeep, but was just plain bumpy in a late-model Neon. We bounced about three more miles in silence before a building came into sight on the horizon of the sparse, rocky terrain. Felix pulled the car over to the side.

“This is where I get off,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of the jangling nerves I felt.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, for fear something like, “Don’t leave me! I’m just a little girly girl!” would pop out.

“You sure you’re going to be okay alone?” he asked and in the rapidly settling dusk, I could have sworn he actually looked concerned.

I nodded again, hoping he couldn’t tell what a bad liar I was.

Apparently not, since he grabbed his camera case and exited the car, doing a quick survey of the landscape before settling into position behind a rock formation. He gave me a thumbs-up, which I guess was supposed to reassure me as I slid over to the driver’s seat.

I gave myself a little mental pep talk again, watching Felix’s form disappear in the rearview mirror as I continued down the dusty road alone. Only the closer I got to the squat building in the distance, the less convincing I became.

I flipped the radio on to fill the silence. After playing with the dial I finally found a station playing ’60s hits. It’s hard to be freaked when you’re listening to the Beatles. I tried to sing along to “Good Day Sunshine,” but I found my eyes darting to the rearview mirror every three seconds, watching for black Town Cars.

This was it. If this didn’t work…I didn’t even want to think about it. And, I had to admit, I was beginning to seriously question the wisdom of not telling Ramirez about this plan. Sure, he would have nixed it from the get-go, but maybe he could have sent one of his operatives to do this? Maybe he could have convinced Larry? Maybe we could have had sex at least once before I drove to possible maiming and death in the desert.

By the time I pulled up to the warehouse, my hands were sweating, my lips had been bitten raw, and I was beginning to get a nervous tick in my right eye. If I didn’t already have a bag full of cash sitting beside me, there’s no question I would have turned around and fled right then and there.

Instead, I parked the Neon in front of the warehouse. It was a nondescript building, square and large with concrete sides and a corrugated metal roof. Around it was a whole lot of dusty nothing.

No other cars were visible.

I sat there for a full two minutes, trying to talk myself into getting out of the car. I was halfway there. I had the cash, I was at the meeting place. So far so good. All I had to do now was hand over the bag and all was well. (What can I say, I was becoming a pro at this denial thing.)

I opened the door and stepped out. The night air was cool and eerily quiet. Not even a cricket chirping anywhere. Picking my way over the hard-packed dirt, I slowly made my way to the warehouse, clutching the crocodile bag so tightly my knuckles were turning white. Three loading bays spanned the length of it, with a smaller door off to the right. I tried the knob. Unlocked. I’d been expected.

I took one more deep breath for good measure and slowly pushed the door open. I felt around on the wall until my fingers came up against a light switch.

The interior of the warehouse was filled with tall metal shelves like the ones Mom had in her garage for storing Christmas decorations and Tupperware tubs of my childhood mementoes. They spanned from floor to ceiling, each filled with big cardboard boxes. Exposed pipes and ducts ran the length of the ceiling and the same corrugated metal décor covered the walls. It gave the feeling of being in a huge tin can. With about the same acoustics.

“Hello?” I called out, hearing my voice echo back to me in triplicate. No answer. I gingerly took a few steps inside, my platforms sounding like firecrackers on the cement floor.

I walked to the metal shelf nearest the door and, with a quick glance over my shoulder, pried open a box on the lower shelf. Inside it were a dozen smaller boxes. Shoe boxes.

I gingerly pulled one out. Michael Kors. I’d love to say I slipped it back in and left it at that, but of course, I couldn’t resist. What can I say? I’m my father’s daughter. I popped open the lid. A perfect copy of last season’s snakeskin pumps in chocolate brown, right down to the brass-buckle detail on the face. I had to remind myself they were fakes to resist trying them on right then and there.

But the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside snapped me out of it fast enough. I quickly replaced the lid and turned down the flaps of the box, taking two giant steps away from the shelves as the sound of a car door slamming shut echoed throughout the warehouse. I skittered across the cement floor, stepping back outside. And into Felix’s line of vision. If we were going to get any decent shots at all, the exchange had to take place outside.

A black Range Rover had parked next to the Neon. (Apparently they were prepared for the rough terrain.) Two men in black suits stood beside it, both wearing tinted aviator glasses and looking like bad imitations of the Men in Black. I was about to approach them when a third man stepped out of the car. He was smaller than the other two, his suit a gray color, though he wore the same tinted glasses. Must be standard Mob issue. In addition to the eyewear, he was sporting more gold jewelry than Joan Rivers, including a large gold medallion around his neck and pinky rings on each hand. His hair was slicked into a perfect black helmet over his too-big-for-his-body head. All in all, the only things missing were a pair of shoe spats and an Uzi and he’d be the spitting image of the Italian family man.