A Killer in Heels

Each week, I send out a story via my email newsletter. Each story is around 1000 words, sometimes less, sometimes more. The stories are in a variety of genres: supernatural, thriller, sci-fi, horror, and sometimes romance, and all of my stories typically feature a gay protagonist.

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This is story number 3 of the series. Enjoy!


A Killer in Heels

The Blue Flamingo was in rare form that sticky summer night. The air hung heavy, thick with the mingled scents of sweat, French perfume, and the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke that clung to the garish brocade curtains. On stage, a negro jazz quartet blew a squalling, syncopated rhythm, the wail of the saxophone rising above the raucous laughter and chatter of the club’s patrons.

I shouldered my way through the mob of sweat-slicked bodies gyrating on the dance floor, a writhing sea of silk, feathers and sequins. Eyes hidden beneath the brim of my fedora, I scanned the crowd. I was on the hunt.

My mark? Miss Vivica Vavoom, the preeminent queen of the Flamingo’s nightly drag revues. With legs for days and a wit sharper than a switchblade, Vivica was the uncontested star of the show. Only tonight, according to my client, Vivica wasn’t just serving looks. She was serving secrets. The kind of secrets that could topple an empire.

I finally spotted her holding court at the far end of the long mahogany bar, a towering confection of golden curls and shimmering emerald silk. I elbowed my way through the throng of eager admirers and sidled up beside her.

“Buy a lady a drink, handsome?” Vivica cooed, batting a pair of false eyelashes long as my thumb.

I signaled to Frankie the barkeep for a couple of gin rickeys and swiveled to face her, a lopsided grin sliding across my mug. “Miss Vavoom, I presume? Name’s Dick. Dick Samson. Private eye. I was hoping we could have ourselves a little chat.”

Vivica arched one pencil-thin eyebrow. “A private dick, is it? My, my. And just what does a fella like you want with little ol’ me?” She leaned in close, her husky baritone playful, teasing. But there was a hardness in her kohl-rimmed eyes I’d seen before. The look of someone who’d taken too many knocks from this rotten world. Someone with secrets to keep.

I played along, letting my voice drop to a low rumble. “Word ’round the campfire is you got some dirt on Walter Gladwell that’s got him in a tizzy. The Walter Gladwell. I’m here to politely request you keep those pretty lips zipped, doll.”

Vivica threw back her head with a throaty laugh. “Oh honey, if you think these lips are pretty now, you should see ’em wrapped around…”

“Stow it, sister,” I growled, my smile gone cold. “I ain’t here to play grab-ass. Gladwell’s …a person of interest. So we’d like this unpleasantness handled quiet-like, ya dig? So what say you let ole Dick here buy out whatever little story you got, and we all go home happy?”

The playfulness bled out of Vivica in an instant. She stubbed out her cigarette in the cut glass ashtray with a vicious twist, a plume of smoke unfurling from her flared nostrils. When she turned back to face me, the hardness in her eyes had sharpened to a glint keen as diamond.

“Listen here, you mugg,” she hissed, voice pitched low and deadly serious. “I’ve had a bellyful of Walter Gladwell and his filthy little games. That rat bastard’s been pulling the strings in this town too long, squeezing us girls for every dime. Roughing up those that don’t play ball.” An involuntary shudder rippled through her, rattling the beads of her dress. I wonder how close she’d come to being on the receiving end of Gladwell’s brand of persuasion.

“He thinks his money and his muscle make him untouchable. Well not anymore. His secrets are mine now, and honey, I’m ready to sing.”

My gut clenched. This was going sideways fast. I had to get Vivica out of here, someplace safe where I could work on her. Make her see the angles. In my experience, going toe to toe with a powerhouse like Gladwell was nothing but a good way to catch a case of lead poisoning.

I’d seen it happen before. I’d been a fresh-faced rookie, still naïve enough to think I could clean up this dirty town. I thought I could take on Victor Costello, the north end’s capo di tutti capi. Bring him to justice for the lives he’d destroyed, the innocents caught in his crosshairs. It was my testimony that finally put Costello behind bars. But not before his triggermen gave my partner Derek Slade a pair of new buttonholes in his best blue suit. Slade never made it off the blood-slicked sidewalk that night. And a piece of me died with him.

I couldn’t watch history repeat with Vivica. I wouldn’t. Even if I had to hog-tie her myself.

I snagged Vivica’s elbow in a vise grip, hustling her away from the bar. “What say we continue this conversation somewhere a touch more private-like, hmm? Walls got ears in this joint.”

Vivica sniffed in disdain but let me strong-arm her through the crowd towards the back hall. We pushed past the queue for the powder rooms and out into the fetid alley.

After the thick fog of the club, the cool night air was like a slap. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens warbled, some dame shrieked with laughter, a tomcat yowled his lovelorn blues. The usual music of the city at midnight.

No sooner had the stage door banged shut behind us than I had Vivica up against the damp, graffitied bricks, an arm barred across her throat. She let out a startled squeak, but the gleam in her eye told me she was no stranger to this kind of dance.

“Ooh, I do love a man who takes charge. So it’s rough stuff you’re after, is it? Wouldn’t have figured you for the type. Appearances can be deceiving, I suppose.”

I leaned in close until we were nose to nose, my voice a rasp of gravel. “You don’t know the first thing about what I’m after, doll. But you keep running that pretty trap of yours, you’re liable to find out the hard way.”

“Promises, promises,” Vivica purred, a hint of a smirk curling the edge of her painted lips. I was just about to wipe it off for her when a flicker of movement over her left shoulder caught my eye.

I had just enough time to shove Vivica aside and dive for my heater before the shadows at the mouth of the alley birthed a hulking figure. A glint of nickel flashed in the sallow light and then the night exploded with the hollow boom of a .45 roar.

Fire. Fire erupting in my shoulder as the slug tore meat. The brutal force of it spun me like a top, sent me sprawling on the filthy cobbles. My gun went skittering off into the dark as I face-planted, kissing concrete.

In the ringing silence after the shots, Vivica’s scream was a jagged slash of sound, high and horrified. I rolled to my side, scrabbling for a weapon. Anything. My seeking fingers found a length of lead pipe and I swung with everything I had left.

I caught the gunman hard across the knee with a sickening crack of splintering bone. He folded with a grunt, but kept his feet. The .45 swung towards me.

I lurched upright, shoulder screaming, and kicked out savagely. Caught him square in the nuts. Even over the blood roaring in my ears I heard the whoosh as the air left him. He crumpled, losing his grip on the gun.

I scooped it up and racked the slide.

The goon blinked up at me from the pavement, his face a rictus of pain and fury.

“Don’t… don’t do it!” Vivica’s voice behind me, high and panicky. “You can’t!”

I thumbed back the hammer with an ominous click. “Shut it. He had his chance.” I pressed the barrel to the goon’s sweat-slick forehead. “This is your last dance, friend. Gladwell send you?”

The goon spat a glob of bloody phlegm. “Get bent.”

I jammed the gun harder against his skull. “Wrong answer.”

“Wait!” Vivica’s shrill cry froze my finger on the trigger. “I know him. That’s Ricky, Gladwell’s personal muscle. You can’t whack him!”

I tossed her an incredulous glance over my shoulder. “Sister, in case you failed to notice, this meatball just tried to put a few extra holes in us. Why in the blue hell should I care what jersey he’s wearing?”

Vivica licked her lips nervously, her gaze darting from my face to Ricky boy, and back again. “Because if you dust him, we lose our ace in the hole.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Come again?”

Vivica tottered over on heels like stilts to crouch beside me, keeping a wary distance from Ricky. When she spoke, her voice was low and intent.

“Gladwell doesn’t know I know, but Ricky here’s been double-dipping. Selling info on the side to Jake Guzik, one of Gladwell’s top rivals.”

Ricky’s eyes went wide. He bucked against my grip, but I slammed him back to the bricks. “That’s a goddamn lie! Mr. Gladwell’s been good to me. I’d never cross him!”

Vivica smiled, cold and mirthless. “Normally I don’t like to bruise a fellow’s ego, Ricky darling, but you’re just not that bright. You really ought to watch what you blab to the girls when you’ve got a few shots of rye in you.”

I glanced between them, wheels turning. If what Vivica said was true, Ricky was a walking, talking insurance policy. With the right kind of leverage, we could get him to roll on Gladwell and Guzik both. Send them up the river for good. Of course, it also meant Ricky knew enough to bury me and Vivica right alongside them.

I hauled Ricky to his feet, giving him a shake. “Looks like it’s your lucky night, pal. You’re going to get a chance to sing for your supper.”

He sneered. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

I buried a fist in his gut. He doubled over, retching.

“That wasn’t a request, dummy. You’re going to spill everything you know about Gladwell and Guzik’s operations, or they’re going to be fishing pieces of you out of the river for weeks. Capisce?”

Ricky just glared at me, jaw working. I could practically see the gears grinding in his head as he weighed his options. Finally he gave a jerky nod.

“Swell,” I growled, shoving him towards the mouth of the alley. “Let’s get moving. I know a safe house where we can have a proper chat.”

I turned back to Vivica as the first approaching wail of sirens bled into the night. She was leaning against the wall, gasping a little. Her wig sat askew and her mascara streaked her cheeks in inky rivers, but her eyes were bright, almost feverish.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, nodding to the spreading stain darkening my shoulder.

I glanced down with a wince. “Yeah, well, lead poisoning will do that to a fella. Don’t worry about me, I’ve had worse.”

It was a lie and we both knew it. The hole in my shoulder was leaking like a busted hydrant and the pain was a white-hot poker. If I didn’t get it seen to soon, I’d be taking a dirt nap.

She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she pushed off the wall with a decisive nod. “Lead the way.”

As we followed Ricky’s limping form out into the neon-washed night, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was strolling arm-in-arm with the Grim Reaper. Vivica Vavoom was an unknown quantity — an alley cat with sharp claws and a notion to use them. I’d have to watch my back with her.

But the reporter in me, the one that never knew when to quit, he sat up and took notice. There was a story here, a big one. The kind that could make a career. Maybe even change things in this crummy town.

It was a long shot, but I’d built my life on long shots. And I had a hunch that before this thing was over, I was going to need every ounce of luck, guts and gumption I possessed.

But hey, I’m Dick Samson.

Gumption is my middle name.

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