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