A big guy covered in muscles from his Doc Martens all the way up to the top of his 6′5″ crew cut frame stood behind a red velvet rope separating the waiting crowd from the chosen ones inside the building. He held a clipboard in one hand, no doubt the list of people cool enough to bypass the Line of Shame.

“Hi,” I said, giving him my most flirtatious one-finger wave. “Um, any chance we could get in there?” I asked, pointing past him to the club, where already I could hear dance music pounding through the walls.

Crew Cut Guy looked at the line of people waiting, then back at us. “You on the list?” he asked in a monotone that suggested he’d already done this song and dance fifty times that night.

I pursed my lips, making the most of my Raspberry Perfection lip gloss. “Well, not exactly-”

But he didn’t even let me finish, instead pointing straight toward the waiting hopefuls. “Back of the line.”

“But-”

He gave me a cold stare and pointed again. “Back of the line.”

Rats.

I was about to resign myself to numb feet when Dana pushed forward. “Watch and learn,” she whispered, adjusting her cleavage until it looked like she was smuggling water balloons in her top.

“Hi, there,” she said, approaching Crew Cut. She paused, reading his name tag, “Pete.” She flashed him a big smile. “We heard this is the hottest club in town. And my friends and I are just dying to see it. You wouldn’t want to disappoint us now, would you?” Dana punctuated the statement by batting her eyelashes and coyly touching a fingernail to her plump lips.

Nothing. Crew Cut didn’t budge. He just did the straight arm point again.

But Dana, not one to be deterred, just sighed. “All right, Pete. But I don’t think your boss is going to be very happy when he hears who you’ve turned away.”

Hesitation flickered in his eyes.

“That’s right,” Dana plowed on. She turned and gestured to me. “This just happens to be the Eddie Izzard.”

I nudged Marco. “Who?” I whispered as Pete gave me a head-to-toe. But Marco just giggled.

“No kidding?” Pete asked. He squinted at me. “I thought The Iz would be taller.”

Dana waved the comment off. “TV adds six inches.”

Crew Cut nodded. “Yeah, right. I think I heard that before.”

“Anyway,” Dana continued, “we had our hearts set on the Victoria tonight. But I guess if The Iz isn’t welcome here we can always go to the Wynn…”

“Wait!” Pete called, suddenly in a more accommodating mood. “I might be able to make an exception for The Iz.”

Dana gave him a smile that was all teeth. “Oh, gee. Aren’t you just a doll, Pete,” she crooned.

I poked Dana in the ribs as Pete unhooked the velvet ropes and ushered us into the club. “I give up,” I whispered. “Who’s this Iz?”

She gave me a “well, duh” look. “Hello? Eddie Izzard? Dressed to Kill? Transvestite comic? He’s like the hottest thing since RuPaul. Honey, you really do need to get out more.”

I blinked. “You told him I was a guy?”

Dana turned to me. And I swear she stared right at my upper lip dust. “Well, he bought it, didn’t he?”

That was it. I was so getting a wax.

I self-consciously kept my head down as we entered the club.

The inside of the Victoria was even bigger than it looked on the outside. There was a dance floor to the right, gyrating wall-to-wall bodies bathed in strobe lights. To the left was a glass and neon bar that stretched the length of the wall and held patrons two and three deep vying for a Sammy Davis martini. Behind the bar was a hallway that looked like it held restrooms and offices.

But the main attraction was straight ahead of us. A scattering of tables and tiered booths angled down to a huge stage populated by seven women in platform heels, feathers, and yellow sequined leotards. All seven had Adam’s apples. In the middle of them stood the male version of Marilyn Monroe, singing about diamonds being a boy’s best friend.

“I love Las Vegas!” Marco clapped his hands together.

I’m glad someone was enjoying it. Me, I was still doing denial.

As we threaded our way to an empty table near the aisle, I craned my neck around, scanning the crowd for a six-foot-tall redhead and a short guy in cords. No luck on either count.

A waiter dressed in early Madonna, complete with silver bangle bracelets and a little painted on mole, approached the table.

“Welcome to the Victoria Club. Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

Marco did a little giggle at the term “ladies” and ordered a peach schnapps. “And may I say,” he added, doing an impression of a twelve-year-old at an Ashlee Simpson concert, “I love your music.”

Mental eye roll.

But Madonna ate it up, blushing and autographing Marco’s cocktail napkin before taking the rest of our orders. Dana and I both opted for cosmos.

“And would you happen to know if Lola’s working tonight?” I asked.

“Sorry. She’s off tonight. We only do the go-go number on Mondays and Fridays.”

My dad. The go-go dancer. I felt my face wrinkle again. “So you haven’t seen her in here at all today?”

Madonna scrunched her eyebrows together. “No, I don’t think so. I saw her last night, though, right before…” She paused, her eyes casting downward. “Before they found Harriet.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say close. We were friendly, but Harriet and Lola have worked here a lot longer than I have. I just transferred over from Caesar’s last spring. I was a Roman soldier there.”

I was never going to look at those togas the same way again.

“Was anyone else especially close with Lola?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, Lola and Harriet kind of kept to themselves. And Bobbi. The three of them were pretty tight. But Bobbi left last week.”

I sat up straighter. “She did? Do you know where she went?”

Madonna shook her head, her blond wig bobbing back and forth. “Nope. Sorry. She just up and took off one day.”

I bit my lip. People seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

“How about a Monaldo?” Dana piped up. “Does that name ring a bell?”

Madonna’s face broke into a smile. “Oh sure. He’s the owner.” She gestured to the hallway behind the bar.

“Thanks.”

“Uh huh. Enjoy the show,” she said. Then she gave Marco a little wink before moving on to the next table.

When she left, Dana kicked me under the table. “See, I told you the Mob owns all these clubs!”

Ugh. “Just because the guy is Italian and owns a club, it does not make him a mobster.”

“Italian-American,” Marco corrected me.

“You know,” Dana said, leaning in to do a pseudo-whisper, “I bet you this whole place is crawling with wise guys.”

I looked around at the suspicious number of size thirteen pumps. I seriously doubted it.

“Look, I’m going to go talk to the owner. Who I’m sure is a perfectly nice, normal Italian-American,” I said with emphasis. “You two stay here.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come with?” Dana asked. “I took Rico’s interrogation and intimidation course. Rico uses the same techniques as the CIA. They totally work, Maddie.”

“No! I said I was going to go talk to him, not interrogate him. Sheesh.”

Dana pouted. “No stun gun, no interrogation. You’re no fun at all.”

“Look, you two just…enjoy the show,” I said, gesturing to the stage where Marilyn was breaking into a rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

I left Dana still pouting and Marco still gazing starry eyed after his Madonna as I weaved in and out of club goers toward the hallway. I peeked around the corner. Three doors to the left, a pair of restrooms to the right. I did a quick over-the-shoulder glance and ducked to the left. The first door was marked SUPPLIES. The second two had the word “private” painted on them. I knocked on the first door. Nothing.

I moved on to the second door. I paused, hearing muted voices inside.

There were two of them. One was deeper and slower. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, just a low rumble on the other side of the door. The other voice was higher and more urgent. And, luckily, louder. Hearing my Irish Catholic grandmother’s lectures on eavesdropping echoing in my head, I put one ear to the door.

The words “moron” and “jerk” vibrated through the wood. The guy with the higher voice was pissed. “Merchandise” and “Lola” followed. Then the word “gun.”

I stifled a gasp, adrenaline quickly surging through me. I pressed my entire body up against the door, straining to hear more.

The low talker mumbled something in response, and the first guy got angry again. This time I had no trouble hearing his response. “I don’t care how you do it. Just take care of him.”

I froze. The way he said “take care of him” didn’t sound like he meant a pampering foot massage. Suddenly Dana’s Godfather scenario wasn’t feeling so farfetched. Take care of whom? Larry? My mouth went dry and my heart started racing faster than a car chase on the 101.

The voices went low again and I strained to hear more. All I could hear were footsteps. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize they were moving toward the door until it was too late. It swung open, catching me squarely in the face.

“Uhn.” The door slammed into my nose, smacking my head against the wall behind me as I crumpled to the floor. I blinked, dazed. Then I looked up to find two men staring down at me. One was huge. He seemed to fill the entire hallway with his bulk. And it wasn’t fat. This guy was built like a linebacker. He had a long scar cutting across his face and one thick unibrow that hovered over his eyes like a hairy caterpillar.

But it was the second guy who creeped me out. He was smaller, his features sharp and precise. He was impeccably dressed in a dark designer suit with closeclipped dark hair and olive skin, slightly flushed from his previous shouting match. His eyes were small and black, staring down at me with a kind of cold calculation that sent a shiver up my spine. I’d bet my Blahniks this was Monaldo.