HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS

A Sheila Coffin Adventure

By Christopher Leeson

Chapter 3

The Narrative of D.C. Callahan

We hurried inside and climbed the stairs. I pushed open the door to the single room that Martin still maintained as his own space. I knew full well that every man needs to have a hidey-hole to call his own. Sniffing the air, I could barely detect the scent of Martin's cheap cigarettes in his seldom-occupied crash zone.

Val was behind us. We shuffled out of the way, and she hurried into the room, her phone clutched in a shaky grip. "I'm scared," she said. "Should I call the police?" 

Martin turned his grave-looking face toward Valerie. "They won't be ready to take you yet," he said. "You'll be lucky if they're ready to hide you as early as they told you they would. That's how this town works." He looked back at me. "I hope all the evasive driving I did pays off. The two of us are both armed, and we'll stand guard, sleeping in shifts. Val can have the bed. We'll make do on the chair or the floor."

"I'm sorry," I apologized to our client. "That's about all a pair of dicks can do when up against a criminal outfit like the Morettis."

Martin crossed to the window ledge and sat down. He was wearing his "danger face," with the piercing, analytical gaze of a man who makes his living noticing what’s out of place.

Val, shivering more from fear than from the cold, struggled under the covers, fully clothed. I took possession of the only chair available and gave the small room a good perusal. Until now, I'd thought it silly for my cash-strapped partner to shell out good dough for a cramped cubbyhole he hardly needed. But tonight, we were damned glad to have access to an out-of-the-way hiding place.

I assumed the first watch, too keyed up to sleep. The dark hours after midnight seemed endless, but who could be bored when you had a gang of thugs on your heels? I was still awake when Martin's wristwatch alarm went off. He heaved up from the floor and relieved me.

I took his place on the old carpet, under the large towel he'd been using for a blanket, still warm from his body heat. I didn't expect to get any sleep at all, but I miraculously dropped off within minutes. When Martin shook me awake, the sun was beaming in through the window. Val was up, too, sitting on the bed's edge, biting her lower lip.

Martin yawned and returned to the windowsill. “Now that we’ve gotten some rest,” he said, “we ought to take breakfast in some public place, possibly at a mall when it opens.” If the gang can somehow track us down here, it won't be a good place to defend."

"I don't care for us walking around like three clay pipes in a shooting gallery," I said. It might be a good idea to bring Val to our office later. We'll burrow in behind the "closed" sign until it's time for her to go back to work. But before we head that way, we have to pack in some groceries. Otherwise, Val and I are going to faint from hunger working at the club tonight."

I stepped up to the window to take a look outside. It was a shabby neighborhood, full of illegal immigrants. The ambience was bad, and the smell not much better. After a moment’s thought, I confessed, “I have a sense of foreboding about this evening.”

#

It was the fourth night at The Velvet Room, Val’s last curtain call. The air in the club was thick enough to choke on, a mix of cheap gin and expensive desperation.

I was working the floor in an itsy bitsy emerald dress that looked like a million bucks, and also did a good job of making me feel like a target. I gave every face that crossed the threshold a hard squint. Martin was doing his lush act again, but tonight his beer was a prop, gathering condensation while he mapped the exits. At the wings, Big Leo and Joey stood like pillars of muscle, with eyes that moved like searchlights.

The clock didn’t tick; it crawled. At eight, Val performed her set—a slow, sultry routine to an Eartha Kitt song that turned the regulars into longing puddles. Afterward, when she was working the room, her practiced charm masked the fact that she was counting down the minutes until she could stop pretending and get the hell out of there.

Even so, the lady had a presence. That damn woman-envy that the alien body-switch had inflicted was bothering me again. What would it be like, I wondered, to work a room knowing you owned every soul in it. That was the soul of Val’s working day.

What in heal was I thinking about? Val’s life was dangling by a thread, and this was no time for a daydream. But the thought was hard to get rid of, like the scent of French perfume lingering in an empty room.

#

At eleven o’clock, the room turned cold.

It was the warning system that a soldier develops after having one too many snipers zeroing in on his head.

I scanned the floor, trying to see the source of my tingle. Then I saw them.

Two Joes. They’d walked in five minutes apart, but they were working as a pincer. One held down the bar; the other staked out the stage entrance. It was professional-grade surveillance—the kind that looks like a man enjoying a drink until you notice his eyes aren’t following the girl; they’re following his target’s patterns.

I caught Martin’s eye across the room. He sent me a microscopic nod. He’d already made the pair on his lonesome.

Val was leaving the floor, toward the ladies’ room. I intercepted her before she could hit the kitchen, crossing her path like a black cat.

“Keep your eyes on me,” I said, my voice a low rasp. “Two shadows. Bar and stage left. If you need to use the room, get it over with. I’ll keep watch out here. But after you come out, stay in the light, surrounded by people. And for God’s sake, don’t go anywhere you can be locked in.”

Val’s hand did a little dance as she scribbled a phantom order. “Are they... from the family?”

“Probably. Do like I’ve told you.”

The next sixty minutes were like a slow-motion car crash. The two watchers didn’t move. They didn’t blink. They just sat there, memorizing the geometry of the room and the timing of the exits. But I had a hunch that their minds were busy building a tactical map of a murder.
At midnight, they stood in unison and vanished into the night.

“Reconnaissance,” Martin grunted when we huddled in the back hallway. “They aren’t guessing anymore. They’re planning.”

“For when?” Val asked. She looked small, swallowed up by the shadows of the corridor.

“Soon,” I said. It might be tonight, it might be tomorrow. But the clock is sitting at one minute to midnight.”

Big Leo rounded the corner, his massive frame blocking out the light. His glance swept all three of us. “Dom wants to talk to you. Now.”

#

Dom’s office was now like a pressurized cabin. Dom sat behind the mahogany desk, flanked by Leo and Joey. Sheila, Martin, and Val stood before him like a trio of suspects in a lineup.

“Those two mugs tonight,” Dom started, leaning into the light. “Leo recognized one. Vincent Russo. He’s a button-man for the Morettis. These mugs aren’t just window shopping anymore.”
“We knew they’d be arriving,” Martin said, his voice flat.

“I don’t doubt it, but I don’t want them doing it in my house. I’ve got a liquor license to defend and a refurbished floor that I don’t want stained with blood.” The house boss looked at Val, his hard eyes softening just a tad. “Miss Romano, you’re done. Finish your shift, but don’t come back. Call in sick tomorrow. Find a place to hide until the G-men come to collect you.”

“Won’t my disappearance tip them off?” Val asked.

“They’re already know you have a wall around you,” I countered. “The bums are just looking for a hole through it.”

Dom nodded. “We have to take the target off that wall. Val, you’ll have to be a ghost after tonight. Sheila, you and your buddy have to take our problems elsewhere. We won’t miss your waitressing talents, but the regulars are going to miss those gams of yours.”

“Understood,” I said with a grumble.

Upon leaving Dom’s office, Martin grabbed my arm, pulling me into a quiet corner. “They won’t hit her here,” he said. “They’ll probably watch her car and take an opportunity shot.”

“Then we won’t let her drive. We’ll do what we did last night.”

He shook his head. “We need to change our shtick, just in case the gang’s gotten onto our bag of tricks. We’ll need to split up.”

We stood where we were and hammered out a plan: Martin would take his bike from his trunk and set it out for me to use. At the quitting hour, Val and I would go out and make for the cab stand. I’d hang with Val until she got a hack of her own, but, to confuse any peepers, I’d hotfoot to where Martin’s bike would be chained up. I’d ride it to Martin’s car, which would be parked in an agreed-upon alley. Val ought to be with him by then.

Once we were the Three Musketeers again, we’d drive an evasive route across town and finally end up at Martin’s building.

It was a solid plan. On paper.

Unfortunately, the Morettis weren’t paper tigers.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4