HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS

A Sheila Coffin Adventure

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter Two

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan

Mercedes was the club’s personnel director and the unofficial manager of the dancers—thirty‑five, bottle‑blonde, sharp as a razor, and built like she could break a pool cue over her knee without losing her manicure. She gave my legs a once‑over when Dom explained the cover story.

“You’ll look good in the costume, Scarlett,” she said, “but have you ever worked a club?”

“Not a club like this,” I admitted. “But I worked at a restaurant‑bar before I went into the military.”

“Military experience is a plus in this town,” she said, circling me like a drill sergeant. “But you don’t look military.”

“Gal Gadot was military too,” I said. “A girl can’t help her appearance.”

“You also don’t look like you’re in your twenties yet. How long did you serve?”

“Not as long as I intended. I was discharged. Do I have to give you the details?”

Dom stepped in. “She told me the facts, Mercedes. She’s a good kid.”

Mercedes accepted that and turned to Val. “Why are you in here?”

“Scarlett’s my friend,” Val said smoothly. “She’s staying with me until I leave town. I’d like her to have a job before she’s on her own again.”

Mercedes sighed. “All right, Scarlett. You’ll get a chance, but don’t screw up. You smile, you hustle food and drink, you don’t take crap from customers, and you tip out the bouncers. They’re the ones who’ll save your ass when some drunk gets handsy with you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

"Follow me. I'll bet you oriented.

Mercedes led me into an adjunct off the women's dressing room. She pulled a garment bag from a closet. “Our waitresses wear these. Emerald green. It will attract a lot of male attention. Try it on.”

The dress had a hemline that ended where modesty raised its hands and surrendered. It was also tight. Once I had wriggled my way into its clutches, Mercedes nodded.

“You at least look like a waitress now. Come on, I'll introduce you to the bouncers.”

She led me downstairs to the main floor, where two men were checking bar inventory.

“This is Big Leo, former Marine,” she said. He looked like a jarhead—arms like tree trunks. “And Joey—fast, wiry, and meaner than he looks.”

Big Leo gave me a once‑over. “New girl?”

“Scarlett,” I said. “Val asked the boss to give me a job.”

“Dom’s got an eye for the pretty ones,” Joey said. “We take care of the new girls. You see anything hinky, you signal us. Don’t handle problems that are too big for you.”

They showed me the exits, panic buttons, and camera blind spots. They knew their business. It made me feel a little safer carrying out this insane plan.

Mercedes checked her watch. “Four hours until opening. Practice walking in those heels, and pray you don’t fall on your face and mess up that makeup.”

I looked down at the stilettos—four‑inch emerald spikes I was wearing. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I can even dance in heels if I have to.”

Mercedes smirked. “A soldier who’s already used to Playboy Bunny-style foot gear? You’re at least interesting, kid.”

"That's because I have an interesting life," I said.

The Velvet Room opened at eight sharp.

I wobbled through the lounge in a short dress and high heels, balancing a drink tray. The club was art deco styled with soft lighting and a classy stage. It lacked the dive‑bar sleaze I’d expected.

Martin sat at the bar, nursing a beer and scanning the room. Dom had told the bouncers he was there to watch out for his girlfriend, Scarlett. They weren't going to bounce him for loitering.

Val performed her first set of the night—a slow, controlled routine. Watching her move, I realized she wasn’t just good. She artistically shed her dress piece by piece with timing and grace. This wasn’t low-ball stripping; it was performance.

After her number, Val worked the floor, chatting with regulars and offering private dances. I shadowed her, carrying drinks while watching faces. I felt barely competent at my job. Mercedes must have been told not to lean on me too hard.

The work was harder than the bar job I’d had years ago—back when I’d been a two‑hundred‑pound man hauling kegs on my shoulders. That at least carried a little more dignity than being a slip of a girl balancing martinis on a silver tray. My arms burned. My calves screamed. Drunk customers gave me crude compliments. One grabbed my wrist; I twisted free with a smile. Then Big Leo materialized and loomed over him with a dirty look. The guy apologized and doubled my usual tip.

If getting manhandled meant more money in my pocket, I decided I could endure it.

But something else was happening too.

As a man, I’d gotten used to strip joints. But everything felt different as a five-foot-five girl with a short skirt and sexy hose. Even so, it was hard to keep my eyes off the girl employees and those customers in hot clubbing dresses.

I had to shake myself more than once to stay focused.

#

To no one's regret, the night ended without incident. I rode with Val back to her hotel, where I'd already stashed my things. Val went straight to the bed and collapsed into it with relief.

“Don’t rest too easily,” I told her. “They’ll come. They’re just watching. When they see an opening, they’ll move—hard and nasty.”

Martin showed up a few minutes later and checked the room’s security. “We can’t let up," he said. "The more they learn about their target, the more dangerous they get.”

He bedded down in the second room. I unrolled a sleeping bag on the floor next to Val’s bed. My feet ached, my back hurt, and I smelled like cigarette smoke and cologne.

But I kept thinking about my impression of the stage show. The dancers weren’t just eye candy—they controlled the room. The customers came for their beauty, and in that world, beauty meant power. At first, I had a good time eying them up and down, but pretty soon some hard-to-explain nuances started creeping in.

It was bad enough wondering every day who Sheila Coffin was. But a couple of times that night, I had to ask myself, "Hey, D.C., where in hell have you gone?"

Morning came, too early and too bright. Sunlight sliced through the hotel curtains like a morning bugler. My body was still complaining about the work I'd put them through the night before. My arms protested the heavy trays, and my tendons wanted revenge against those stiletto heels that I'd walked in for hours.

Val was already up, stretching like an acrobat. But that figured. Dancers were athletes, and I respected that. She wore yoga pants and a sports bra like a housewife, but she still looked damned good in them.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Just sore. It’s been a while since I've done bar service.”

She tossed a bottle of ibuprofen toward me. “Take three with breakfast. And take them to work. The second night is always the hardest.”

I took the pills with lukewarm water.

“You really love dancing, don’t you?” I asked.

Val paused mid‑stretch. “Yeah. People think strippers are stupid or trashy. They want what we give them, but they despise us for delivering. But on stage? I become the one in control. I’m the one they’re looking at. I’m the only one in the room who matters.”

Before I could answer, someone knocked—sharp, rhythmic.

“It’s Martin,” Val said, checking the peephole.

He came in with coffee and breakfast sandwiches, looking like he hadn’t slept much. He spread maps and notes across the table.

I looked them over and then dressed and led Martin down to the hotel lounge. “The Morettis aren’t going away,” he started telling me. “Dom’s guys spotted two scouts they recognized in a sedan outside the club at closing.”

“Well, you’ve kept busy,” I said.

“It's part of the job," he said.

"They won’t hit her inside the club,” I conjectured. “Too many witnesses. They’ll go after her when she's alone. Like during the walk to her car.”

Martin nodded. “You didn’t tell Val about how dangerous things are?”

“No. I’m not that dumb.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Were you packing last night?”

“No. Where would I hide a gun in that dinky outfit?”

He grimaced. “Figure it out. You'll need to be armed. I’ll stay close to Val. After her shift, we’ll take her to my place. They shouldn’t be able to trace her there.”

We were playing close odds, but we didn’t have better ones.

#

The second night at the Velvet Room was a mixed bag. My muscles still hurt, but the rhythm of the floor was starting to make sense. The crowd was mostly regulars—affluent, polite, and not likely to cause trouble.

A dancer named Lacy was holding the stage just then, with moves like flowing water. I was ogling her when someone tapped my shoulder.

“You look tense, Sheila,” Val whispered. “Trouble?”

“No. I'm just keeping lookout for...persons of bad character.”

She moved on, but I didn’t get ten seconds before Mercedes descended on me like a buzz saw.

“Table nine is waiting for drinks. Are you planning to deliver them this century?”

“Sorry. I was distracted.”

“That’s no excuse. Your performance wasn't so good last night. Keep it up, and you’re out.”

She stormed off like a rain cloud that had dumped its load. Being treated like an incompetent was almost worse than being treated like a girl.

Almost.

Until around eleven, I tried to be a good detective and a good waitress at the same time. But then the atmosphere shifted.

A man in his fifties slid into a corner booth—charcoal suit, expensive everything, and the king of stillness that sets off alarms. His eyes were fixed on Val.

I stepped into his line of sight. “It's only fair to warn you that Val’s booked solid tonight.”

He looked up with flint‑gray eyes. “You’re new. What’s your name, honeybuns?”

“Scarlett.”

“Nice name. Nice gams, too. Carrying trays is for losers. You ought to try dancing.”

"Coldn't do that. I'm the shy type," I said.

He allowed his next words hang like a threat. “Tell Val I’ll be seeing her soon. Anthony Gallo.”

He got up and left without looking back.

The name hit me like a splash of ice water. Gallo—the Architect. The Morettis’ top consigliere. If he’d come in person, the clock wasn’t ticking anymore. It was striking midnight.

Dom appeared beside me. “I saw him. Gallo doesn’t make social calls...Scarlett. They’re getting ready to do something.”

I scanned the room for Val. She was trying to chat with a regular, but she was radiating tension radiated like moon beams.

“Keep her in sight,” Dom said. “And what are you going to do if things get rough?”

"I'll tell you when we figure that out." I headed for the backstage, where ropes hung like nooses, and signaled Martin. When he he was close enough to touch, I told him everything in one breath.

He swore softly. “If Gallo’s involved, this is bad. But why did he bother to warn her?"

“He wants her scared and running. That makes a mark easier to grab.”

Martin nodded. “Odds are, they’ll strike when she goes to her car.”

Before we could plan further, Mercedes appeared again.

“Why aren't you on the floor, Scarlett? This is your last warning.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I told her.

“Your sorries are worthless.” She stalked off.

I was steamed. If I had only one bullet with Gallo and Mercedes in front of me, I'd be faced with a tough choice.

Closing time.

Dom walked Val out through a back exit, shielding her with his bulk. Martin was outside with his Honda's motor running. I followed close behind Val, , my hand in my purse, clutching the Rossi.

I glanced around. The alley was full of shadows. So many hiding places for shooters.

“Get in,” Martin snapped at us.

Val dove into the passenger seat. I ducked into the back, pistol out and ready. Martin pulled out fast, joined the street, and took random turns. He doubled back, drove the wrong way down a one-way alley, and used every evasion trick he knew.

“Are we being followed?” Val whispered.

“Not that I can see,” Martin said.

We took an unnecessarily long way to his apartment. By the time we pulled into the underground garage, sweat had soaked unabsorbent briefs.

“Will be safe here?” Val asked.

“For the time being,” I said.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER THREE.