HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS: A Sheila Coffin Adventure
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HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS
A Sheila Coffin Adventure
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 1
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan
Drinking as a dame requires does hell to my present-day physiology. Two martinis used to be just a warm-up for me — the liquid courage that got me through the boredom of many a January stakeout. Now two measly martinis were enough to start me quoting Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and forgetting how the complex machine called “stairs” is supposed to work. I still haven’t gotten the hang of things after I had an alien-enhanced female libido foisted on me, but this five-foot-five lightweight constitution adds insult to injury.
Martin was grinning. We’d just gotten back from a bar whose wide-screen TV was set to the election-night coverage. The merry crowd around us was drinking up a storm until the main race was called. I’d kept my fingers crossed until they hurt. I’d honestly thought that the Evil Party would steal another election, but I’d underestimated the American people. They’d come out en masse and done the right thing. The joy of victory made my head swim. Maybe now the country could begin the hard work of climbing out of the seventh circle of hell.
Though well sloshed on cheap near-champagne, we joined in cheering the victory speech at two-thirty in the morning. By then, I was pretty far gone, almost numb enough to forget the catastrophic change that had come over my life.
Namely, I was a thirty-eight-year-old male detective whose life essence had been tucked inside the body of my nineteen-year-old secretary by alien invaders, Sheila Coffin. Like it or not, Sheila’s life had been dumped into my lap, and I had to make the best of it. How was I supposed to tell anyone what was bugging me? What else could I do except buckle down and toss the dice I’d been given? I hacked at secretarial work for a while, until Martin Dewitt saw I had the mind of a natural-born detective and made me his business partner. His old boss, D.C. Callahan, was, for good reason, considered dead and buried.
But I’ve told all that nutty stuff in the book I’ve already written. When I’m old and ready to cash out, maybe I’ll upload the whole humiliating spiel and make a Kindle Book out of it. We’ll see.
The thing Martin Dewitt and I now had going hadn’t been planned for. But when the aliens flipped a man into a woman’s body, there was nothing halfway about it. Within two days of waking up in Sheila’s body, my rewired chemistry had locked onto Martin Dewitt like a heat-seeking missile’s guidance system. I’d resented it at first — bitterly. That had lasted for a few hours. After that, snuggling within Martin’s brawny arms had become a hell of a lot of fun.
Anyway, after our candidate’s acceptance speech, Martin drove us home in Sheila’s car — my car now. I was in no condition to drive myself.
“Almost home, Princess,” he said as we turned down the ramp to the basement parking.
“Don’t call me P-Princess,” I hiccuped. “I’m a hard-boiled gumshoe.”
“You’re not old enough to be hard-boiled. But you sure can write like you were. It’s cute how you can crank out that 1940s-style mystery fiction.”
Yeah, I can write, but at the moment, I couldn’t even have held on to a pencil.
My apartment house stairs were too much for me, so Martin picked me up and hoisted me into the nearest elevator, my heels dangling like a pair of dead fish. When the doors hissed open on our floor, we faced a young cleaning lady who had both a mop and an urgent expression. The building’s cleaning staff uniform checked out, but I didn’t recognize her. Drunk as I was, I didn’t wonder why she’d be mopping linoleum at three-thirty in the morning. When I glanced back, she was trailing after us with a nervous look.
“Are you Callahan and Dewitt?” she addressed our shoulders. “The detectives?” Martin turned his head.
“That’s us,” he said carefully. “Having a problem, miss?”Her words came fast. “I’m Valentina Romano. I’m not a cleaner. I found this uniform in a broom closet and put it on so I could hang around without being tossed out. A cop told me about a male-and-female detective team — said they were brave and honest. That’s what I need right now.”
“Why?” asked Martin.
“I witnessed a murder,” she whispered. “The mob knows I talked. They’re going to kill me. I need protection.”
Those words blew away some of my wine-laced euphoria. Martin’s jaw set, and he fumbled his key out of his suit pocket. “Come inside quick,” he said.
#
She hurried in at our heels, and I gestured Val toward the cluttered sofa. The girl sat and immediately began talking. She was a professional dancer currently booked at Washington D.C.’s Velvet Room. Three nights earlier, finishing her shift at an upscale gentleman’s club, she’d gone out to her car when she witnessed a kneeling man being executed mob-style by a pair of goons in ill-fitting suits. She ducked for cover and took a taxi home. The next day, the news feeds identified the victim as federal prosecutor Richard Hayworth, shot dead in the club’s parking lot.
Val had seen everything under the lot lights, and so she’d gone to the D.C. police. They showed her binders of photographs. From them, she picked out Tommy “The Suit” Castellano, an enforcer for the Moretti crime family. The blue boys asked if she would testify. They also told her that if the mob learned who she was, her life wouldn’t be worth a flipping penny. They told her she’d need a safe house, but they didn’t have one ready on short notice. She was told to come back on Monday.
Shaking, Val went to the club lot and drove her car back to her hotel. But maybe that was a bad move because she got a call that afternoon. A gruff voice told her: “Witnesses don’t live long.”
She called in sick to the club that night and, in the morning, she went down to her car and found a dead rat on the driver’s seat. In panic, Val returned to the station house, but the cops only repeated what they’d told her before. Monday. But there was an old patrolman who took her aside and told her about the Callahan Detective Agency. He handed her their home address.
“The gangsters have to be watching the hotel,” Val told Sheila and Martin, her voice cracking. “Somehow, they tracked me down. They must know where I work and must already know where my mother lives. I can’t go to her — it would put her in danger. I’m afraid to run. Maybe they’ve put a tracer on my car, like in the movies.”
She looked at us with the eyes of someone who had run out of options. “I need bodyguards, or at least help to get away clean. I can give you three thousand dollars — my entire savings. It’s all I have.”I flashed Martin my crisis look. He knew what it meant: that I was going soft on him again.
#
“What should I do?” Val whispered in a voice so low it barely crossed the room.“Mobsters are like a wolf pack,” I said. “They’ll go for blood the second they corner you. Trying to get out of town would start the endgame. Your best bet is to hold your ground in Washington until those slow-motion cops get their safe house ready.”
I looked at Martin. “She’s right. What she has to have is bodyguards. Tough people with guns.”
“Does that mean you’ll take my case?” Val asked.“I’m willing, so long as you’re on the level about that three grand,” I said.
Martin’s expression darkened. “Are you serious, Babe? Three thousand couldn’t bury even one of us.”
He wasn’t wrong, but Martin was just being Martin — laying out the dangers of a case, so we both understood exactly what we were walking into. “We have a life to save,” I said.
He gritted his teeth. “This is a rotten situation with no good angles. If we’re dumb enough to take it on, we’ll have to be sharper than we’ve ever had to be before.”
“Ever? Listen, buddy, that alien case was no walk in Fort Marcy Park.”
By then, Val couldn’t sit up straight and looked ready to fold. “Easy,” I told her. “You’re not alone anymore. You’ll bunk with us tonight.” I had Martin get her settled on the sofa with a pillow under her head. I covered her with the fuzzy blue blanket I’d picked up for a quarter at a rummage sale. She was “lights out” in five minutes.
I met Martin’s eyes then. “We need to talk privately.”
“The bedroom,” he said.
#
Still half-drunk and dead tired, we shut the bedroom door. I shed my party dress and slid under the coverlet. Martin flopped down on the mattress beside me, wearing his boxers and staring at the ceiling.“You wanted to talk, so talk,” he said.“
We can’t play this the mob’s way,” I told him. “They expect Val to either run or hide, and they’re betting she’ll fall into her hands whichever she does. So, we don’t let her do either. We have her play it dumb — or too stubborn to realize she’s supposed to be scared. We’ll have her stay in Washington and finish her booking at the Velvet Room. Right out in the open.”
“That sounds risky. Are you suggesting we use her as bait?”
“I’m suggesting we do unexpected things. We put a trip wire in front of that pack of gunmen. When Val doesn’t break and run, the Morettis will wonder why. They might suspect she’s actually a piece of bait set by the cops to entrap them. When things don’t look right, people slow down. We use the extra time that gives us to run out the clock until Monday.
“And in the meantime?”
“We move into her hotel room. I pose as her roommate. You'll pass as my boyfriend — always hanging around. We stay with her 24-7. I have a friend of a friend who knows Dominic Santelli, who runs the Velvet Room. Word on the street says Dom’s a straight arrow. We’ll go to work with Val and guard her at home and at the club. Maybe Dom will give you a stool and a beer tab while we wait things out.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll ask Santelli to set me up with a job in the lounge.”
“As what? A stripper?”
I snorted. “I respect strippers, but I can’t do what they do. But I could quickly learn how to work the floor as a cocktail waitress. I served tables after college.”
Martin rested back quietly for a moment. “And when the booking ends?”
“We hunker down with her at the hotel. We'll run out the clock until witness protection kicks in.”
“That doesn’t sound like enough to flummox the Morettis.”
“I know it. But the bigger the butcher bill we offer them, the more careful they have to be.”
“Why should they be?”
“Remember the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre? After such bloodthirstiness, the people got upset, and it was downhill for the gang.”He frowned my way. “I hate dealing with shooters. I nearly lost you a few months back. I don’t want to live through that experience again.”
“That’s so sweet to say,” I said. “Tell me more.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing anything. I’m saying we play the cards we’re dealt. What else can we do?”
He went quiet again. Outside, the D.C. traffic was humming its usual flat, tiresome drone.
“Fine,” Martin said at last. “But answer me straight. If this goes sideways — are you willing to die for a woman you didn’t know existed twelve hours ago?”
I thought about it honestly. “No. But I’m willing to take a minor risk when I see an innocent person being kicked around.” I looked at him. “You should know that there’s only one person I’d actually die for...and that’s you. You already know that.”
He swore under his breath. “You always go for my soft spot, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You say things to make it impossible to argue with you.”
“That’s one thing that makes me such a good detective,” I suggested.
“Yeah, sure.”
After that, we snuggled. Falling head over heels for a guy had taken most of the sting out of being a girl. But it was after four in the morning, and we didn't have much energy left. I dropped off and dreamed. But dreams are funny things. Why was it that with murder rattling the door, I should dream about wrapping foil around chocolate kisses in a candy factory?
#
The next afternoon, Martin, Val, and I met with Dominic Santelli in his office above The Velvet Room. He was sixty, silver-haired, sharp-eyed. His office was laid out tastefully: leather furniture, framed Sinatra photographs, and a bookshelf with actual books — nonfiction, mostly. No velvet paintings. No neon. The room had the feel of a man who paid his taxes, kept his nose clean, and didn’t have a handle that anyone could grab him by.
There were too few people of that kind left in Washington, D.C.Val explained the situation.
Dom listened without interrupting. When she finished, he looked at all three of us long and hard. He looked at me especially hard, maybe wondering what a shapely brunette of nineteen was bringing into a tough-guy bodyguard arrangement.“The Morettis,” he said. “I heard talk that they did the Hayworth hit. The bastards did it in my parking lot. Hurt business.”
He turned back to Val. “You’ve got nerve, kid. Reckless nerve, but nerve.” He picked up Martin’s business card — Callahan-Dewitt Detective Agency — read it, and set it down. “Till Monday, you said?”
“Till closing time, early Monday night, I replied. "Then she goes into witness protection.
The businessman leaned back, thinking. Then: “All right. Here’s how it goes. I’ll hire you as a cocktail waitress, Miss Coffin — that’s minimum wage plus tips. You'll stay close to Val, and you’ll watch for trouble. But, for Pete’s sake, remember to do the job while you’re wearing our outfit. Blend in. And if there’s going to be shooting, take it outside. I can’t afford to have the Morettis or the Police Department shut me down. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.“Good.” He stood. “You start tonight. See Mercedes, my floor manager, to issue you a uniform and do your orientation.” He turned to Val. “And Miss Romano — after this booking, don’t come back. Stay away as long as you’re a hunted woman. I like you, young lady, and so I’d rather not have to remember you as a dead body in my parking lot.”
Val nodded shakily. “T-Thank you, Mr. Santelli.”
Dom gave her a quick nod and turned back to his desk. That was his signal that the meeting was over.
We three filed out into the hall and down the stairs. The action int the main lounge was lively, with the bass line thumping hard. Off to the side, a woman was dancing up a storm, and the crowd was loving it.
I loved strip joints, but tonight I couldn’t go with the flow. I knew that the wheels in gangster minds were turning, and that bad things were coming our way.
And when they arrived, they’d be wearing steel jackets.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWO
HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS: A Sheila Coffin Adventure Chapter 2
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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.
High Heels and Hot Tips: A Sheila Coffin Adventure Chapter Three
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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
High Heels and Hot Tips: A Sheila Coffin Adventure Chapter Four
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HIGH HEELS AND HOT TIPS
A Sheila Coffin Adventure
By Christopher Leeson
Chapter 4
The Narrative of D.C. Callahan
At two AM, Val left the Velvet Room, not letting anyone know she wasn't going to be back. We fast-walked to the cab stand, where several other club girls were milling around, waiting for rides. I hailed a taxi and hurried Val inside. “I’ll see you back here at the club tomorrow,” I said.
Val set her jaw. “Yes, you will,” she said loud enough to be heard.
I didn’t linger. The moment my feet hit the pavement, I was already moving, drawn toward the dim pocket of the alley where Martin’s bike stood chained to a rusted pipe. The air smelled of damp concrete and stale beer, the scent that clings to back alleys like a second skin. A flickering streetlamp cast long, wavering shadows, turning the cracked asphalt into a shifting puzzle. I knelt, fingers fumbling with the bike lock, the edged metal biting into my skin.
The chain clattered as it fell away, sounding loud in the night's hush. In my wish to be alone, even my shadow felt like an intruder. Suddenly I heard danger: the scuff of leather on grit, slow and deliberate. A flicker of movement intruded on the edge of my vision.
I spun like a sentry at war. A heavy-set guy in a dark windbreaker had already lurched into my personal space. When he came on with groping hands, I ducked under his arms and ran like a marathon contestant.
Another thug came out of the gloom, and this one was holding a piece.
Luckily, the army teaches a dog face to turn everything into a weapon. I grabbed a galvanized trash can lid and flung it two-handed like a steel frisbee. It caught the joker square on the bridge of the nose. He was too surprised to remember that his Beretta 92FS had a trigger. But the memory returned quickly enough, and the concussion of his shot rattled the alley windows. But while his led was streaking toward the stars. I grabbed his wrist, drove my knee into his groin and with a garbled gag, he went limp.
That's when the first guy grabbed me from behind. A bear hug. I slammed my head back, felt the crunch of his nasal equipment against my skull, and his grip faltered.
I slipped away and scrambled to the bike, swung my leg over the seat, and started pumping. I was in the clear and under the streetlights before the men could stop thinking about their sore noses.
But I didn't like riding on a lighted, open street. I saw an alley mouth ahead looked and veered into it, pumping desperately while it swallowed me whole.
It was damned dark, and I was running over so much litter that the machine almost bucked me off.
While fighting to stay in the saddle, the phone in my thigh holster buzzed. Desperate to speak to Martin, I drew it and hit the speaker. “They jumped us and took Val,” my pard rasped. “I followed them on foot to Danny’s Diner on Seventh. Before I could catch up, they spotted me. I had to run like hell. Now I’m watching Danny's behind a Captain Pretzel sign. It’s lit, and you can’t miss it. I hope you're packing tonight!”
The line cut to silence. I remounted my bike and took a brief pike at the alley behind me. No scuffling feet, no moving shadows. Maybe the gorillas had given up the chase. I started pedaling again. I fortunately knew D.C. Town, and how to find Captain Pretzel's.
Pretty soon, I saw the lit sign and braked. I tossed the bike into a dark shadow, hoping no illegal would steal it before I could come back. Its loss would set Martin back by at least a buck-ninety!
Valentinia's scream ripped from inside the diner. I reaced to the front door and found the gangland dunces hadn't even locked it. The diner's burglar lights were enough to let me see a guy holding onto Val against the service counter. There was a fistfight going on. The lesser thug was letting Anthony Gallo take his rec with Martin while he kept his personal hands on property more to his liking. The two sluggers were making a mess of the diner, with Gallo throwing punches like a heavyweight. Martin was no slouch at fistacuffs, but I didn’t think he could go a full round with that ape.
I groped into my jacket pocket for my Rossi, but my draw had hooked its hammer in the lining. My strength wasn’t up to tearing it loose. I could live to be a hundred and never get used to being a five-foot-six weakling!
But, honestly, the way Martin was standing up to that hard-bodied guy told me my boyfriend was a Class One roughhouser! He sent a jagged fist into Gallo’s face and it sent him stumbling back, crashing into tables and chairs. Martin's follow up shattered glass coffee carafe over the hit man's thick skull. It dazed him, but the Italian-descended Terminator was nowhere close to going down. Instead, he whipped out a medium-sized knife and his first slash flashed back the meager light that the cafe provided.
Martin dodged the kill-blow and caught Gallo’s wrist. The two men staggered and crashed into a vinyl booth, elbowing, kneeing, and grunting loudly as they wrestled.
Val kept on screaming, but I still couldn’t get my pistol free of my pocket. But as frustrated as I was, I could hear different screaming coming from outdoors. It was the best kind of screaming. Sirens approaching.
This was a crazy night! D.C. cops were showing up when a crime was actually in progress. What gave? Normally, right-wing graffiti took up all the time they had to spare.
When I finally detached my heater from my jacket pocket, I pointed it at Gallo. I wanted to shoot, but Martin's broad back was blocking the clear shot I needed...
“Freeze! Police!” shouted a big, loud officer from the front door.
I didn’t want to shoot first with police looking on. The city fathers had long since taught the cops that D.C. criminals were a protected species. Fortunately, the hit man knew the system and reacted as if the game was up. He let his knife clatter to the tiles and then he raised his thick arms. Smart guy. Why risk a bullet when a third-rate shyster could get him out of lockup in just two shakes?
Though Gallo was disarmed, I held my roscoe steady at his chest. But I was most interested in Martin’s battered face as he backstepped away from his sparring partner.
“Are you still in one piece?!” I called out to him.
My partner stayed on his feet by bracing his back against a digital jukebox. “Ah’m okay,” he wheezed, holding with his palm over his mouth, checking for lost teeth.
The gangster holding Val now pushed her away and ducked into the kitchen, probably hoping for a rear exit. Val, close to fainting, clung to the countertop, her forehead pressed to the marbled Formica laminate. I sprang forward and steadied her. “It’s over,” I whispered, pushing my nose into her scented hair. “You’re safe.”
Fresg headlights came streaming through the plate-glass windows. Another cop car was pulling up outside. The odds were that these officers would get into trouble with city hall if they didn't soon quell their zeal for enforcing the law.
#
The men in uniform dragged Anthony Gallo out of the diner in handcuffs a few minutes later. The second Hard Harry had made good his escape along the kitchen route. As for Gallo, I didn’t think the law of Corruption Town could hold him for long, but at least they had him for the time being.
Now what?
Testifying against mob kingpins isn’t my favorite hobby, but there were mitigating circumstances. Martin and me had only witnessed a public brawl, not the homicide stuff that usually gets witnesses bumped off. Gallo had a small rap to beat, but he'd come off all right. All I could say for D.C. on the Potomac was that its crime stats were nowhere as bad as those in Minneapolis!
As things quieted down, a gray-haired officer approached Martin and me.
“I recognize you, Dewitt?” he said. "Who's the babe?"
"She's my new partner."
"Partner? Do you mean you're married now?"
“Not quite” Martin said, wincing and holding his ribs. “I’m the one who phoned in about the Moretti gang taking over Danny's.”
“Apparently it’s actually a kidnapping case? That’s pretty bad,” the policeman said, taking another look at the diner’s wreckage.
“They were after the girl because she’s a witness to a gang murder,” said Martin.
The officer nodded. “Oh, so that's where she tied in. I’m glad the little lady made it through.”
“Val’s scheduled to go into witness protection soon,” I added.
“She can ride with us to detective headquarters,” the officer said.
Before I realized it, my adrenaline was subsiding. This was the way that the case was ended. The excitement was ended, too. That was all right with me. I thought we had earned our three thousand buck.
#
So that was how that case wrapped up. But I don’t want my readers to suppose that the detective game is all rough stuff and danger. Take it from me that there are stretches when we can relax and have a good time of it.
The story isn't quite over yet. I hesitate to tell it all. The rest of it is sort of personal. To keep my dignity intact, I'd stop her, but every true life detective writers wants to sell his books, and he needs to keep in the salacious stuff if he wants to keep the cash register ringing.
I’ll tell that part as briefly as I can.
After the slug fest at Danny’s Diner, I relaxed. I took the next day off and when I came back I spent a couple days filing. But idle minds are a dangerous playgrounds. Before long I was thinking about the dance school that Mercedes had recommended when I was working at the Velvet Club. It was called Angelique’s School of Fine Dancing. It could be a whole new career for me, she'd said.
Since I became a girl, I’ve already had to spend a couple of days pretending to be a hooker. And then, in the very next case, I was acting as a cocktail waitress wearing a hemline that didn’t come down much farther than my belt. This wasn't a bad thing, because those disguises turned out to be a major help in closing big cases. I'm learning that the girl willing to present herself as eye candy is a girl who's going places.
Dancers are able to gain easy access to many sensitive places where a big lugs in a trench coats can't go. It occurred to me that learning to dance would be a big plus for my shamus business. True, classic ballet wouldn't do much for a gumshoe, but there are types of dance are ready made for the detecting business.
Acting on that hunch, I signed up to take a semester at Angelique’s. What could go wrong? At the very least, dressing up would be one hell of a lot of fun.
But I had a problem. I was sort of shy. I wanted Martin to respect me. But here I was, working with my boyfriend all day and then going home with him at night. Under his eagle eyes, how could I do anything on the sly?
I started attending classes surreptitiously. Just when I thought I had my program of deception down pay, I came out of Angelique’s and found Martin’s Ford parked by the curb at the front door. He called my name and asked if I wanted a ride home. The jig was up. He had caught me doing what bad girls do, and I had no choice but to get into the car beside him and face the music.
Before he demanded an explanation, I hurriedly dumped my whole spiel on him. I explained how dance training would make me a better infiltrating detective. He listened patiently, nodding his head and trying not to smirk.
“But it was a dumb idea. I’m going to give it up!” I said, looking away from him, my cheeks burning.
“Why is it dumb?” he asked.
“Because you’re a lunkhead who’d think I was improving our business. Instead you'd think that I was doing something...naughty.”
“Dames! The best of you are dizzy. What makes you think I wouldn’t want a naughyt girl to be my main squeeze?”
“I don't know what you're talking about. Giving it up is the only thing I can do.”
“No, it isn't!” he said firmly. “What you’re going to do is work hard, get your diploma, and then show me what you can do when the music starts.”
“So that's it! You’re nothing but a lousy lecher!” I replied harshly.
Martin shrugged. “Have it your way. You always have to be the contrary one. Do whatever you want to do. It’s your life, and it’s your business.”
He took the transmission out of “park,” turned the wheel streetwise, and pressed the gas. He had us on a bearing toward home. I sat there glumly with my lips zipped for a few minutes, until the weight of my hypocrisy became too heavy to bear.
I had to say something. I could say it smart, or I could say it honest.
Sometimes the smartest thing possible is to say exactly what you mean:
“I don’t see why I should have to wait until graduation day before showing you the steps I’ve been learning.”
That damned smirk of his made his face wide again.
“You don't have to wait. I get my best kicks from making your dreams come true.”
Okay, reader, you can guess the rest. I’d said what the meant and I meant what I said. I don't regret it, even though my face still feels hot from revealing that part of the inner me.
I am what I am, and that's all that I am. There’s nothing written in stone that says a girl doesn't get to have a good time.
END