“Actually, love,” he said, laughter escaping him, “I was thinking it was a bit dangerous for me.”

Pop. There went my bubble.

“Oh. Right.”

“But,” he said, actually making an effort to control his giggles, “if you’re that determined-”

“I am.”

“-and you really do agree to an exclusive, complete with pictures and everything-”

I cringed, hoping at least he used my own body to go with my head this time. “I do.”

“-then, you have yourself a deal. I’ll be your photographer.” He stuck his hand out. I shook it, half expecting his hidden horns and forked tail to come popping out.

I didn’t waste time, knowing Larry would be out of the shower any minute. I quickly dialed Information and got the number of the Victoria Club.

“You can do an American accent, right?” I asked, handing the number to Felix.

He grinned. “Ya’ll don’t have nothing to worry yo’ purty little head about, darlin’,” he drawled, doing a bad John Wayne.

“Uh, maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all…”

“Just give me the phone,” he said, snatching my cell.

I held my breath as he dialed, crossing both fingers and toes and saying a little prayer to the saint of deception and fake accents. Luckily someone up there was listening, as Felix did a perfect Californian into the phone. Okay, so maybe he was a tad more Keanu Reeves than Larry’s natural voice, but it seemed to pass muster with Monaldo.

I kept one eye on the bathroom, where steam from Larry’s shower was still seeping under the door, as I listened to Felix’s side of the conversation. It was brief and to the point. Basically a lot of “uh huh”s and “I’ll be there”s. My stomach played host to a butterfly convention as Felix asked Monaldo to remind him of the address, taking down the information on a pad of hotel stationery.

Finally Felix hung up.

“Well?” I asked.

“Tonight. Eight o’clock.”

The butterflies formed a conga line.

Chapter Eighteen

Since I had less than four hours to transform myself from a five-foot-tall woman into a six-foot-tall woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a woman, I needed help. If anyone were up to the job, it was Marco. I found him downstairs in the I Love NY, NY gift shop, eyeing a pair of novelty shot glasses.

“Maddie, dahling!” he cried when he spotted me, going for a two-cheeked air kiss. “Where on earth have you been? I was worried sick about you!”

“Ramirez caught me. Handcuffed me in his backseat.”

“Kinky.” Marco wiggled his perfectly waxed eyebrows up and down.

“Humiliating was more like it. Anyway, I need to ask you a favor, Marco.”

“Anything for you, sweetie,” he said, thumbing through a stack of postcards.

I briefly filled him in on Larry’s troubles and my plan to save his Prada-wearing hide. When I got to the part about needing platform shoes and a wig, Marco clapped his hands with glee.

“Ooooh, this is gonna be so fun. A drag makeover!”

Necessary, yes. Fun, I wasn’t so sure about. “I only have until eight tonight,” I warned as he grabbed me by the arm and headed straight for the Off Broadway Costume Shop.

Two hours and three dozen bad wigs later, I was decked out in true Drag Queen Chic. I stood in front of the mirrored closet doors of Marco’s hotel room staring at my reflection. He had gone with a long black skirt that covered my slightly-less-stocky-than-Larry’s (thank god!) legs, a long-sleeved corset-waisted red top that covered my slightly-less-hairy-than-Larry’s (thank god!) arms, and a long red wig that was almost the exact duplicate of Larry’s (which honestly didn’t look half bad on me; who knew I could do redhead?). Knowing that even in the highest heels I couldn’t fake nine inches, Marco chose a clingy lycra material for the skirt which, along with the V-neck top, gave the illusion of longer lines. And I’m happy to report I did manage to add at least five inches to my frame with a pair of truly hookeresque patent leather platforms.

Marco offered to use some charcoal eyeliner and putty-like cover-up to “age” my face to match Larry’s, but I declined, instead going for a huge pair of black J Lo sunglasses and a gauzy black veil that reached down to my chin. Though I did let Marco cake on some thick foundation and blush a hint of five o’clock stubble onto my chin. All in all, it was as close to fifty-something transvestite as I was ever going to look (thank god!).

“Honey, you look divine!” Marco stood back, clasping his hands to his breast as he admired his work. “That wig is so you.”

“Let’s just hope Monaldo thinks it’s so Larry.”

“So,” Marco said, leaning in close, a co-conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. “What’s the plan, spy girl?”

I adjusted my butt-length wig in the mirror as I recited the directions Monaldo had given to Felix over the phone.

“The plan is we drive to the Victoria, slip backstage and look for a red crocodile handbag sitting at Larry’s makeup station. Then Felix and I take the cash out into the desert for our rendezvous with the Marsuccis. I’ll drop Felix off a few yards away to set up surveillance, then I’ll continue on to the warehouse and hand the payoff over to the bad guys while Felix takes pictures of it all.”

Hmmm…somehow saying it out loud made it all sound so improbable. Rendezvous? Surveillance? Payoff? Who did I think I was, James Bond?

Though Marco didn’t share my misgivings. “This is so freaking James Bond! I love it! Wait until I tell Madonna about this.”

“No!” I spun on my platforms to face him. “No, you can’t tell anyone. If Ramirez finds out about this, he’ll skin me alive. Not to mention what my mother would do. Good god, can you imagine her traipsing after me with stun gun in hand? You have to promise me you are not going to tell a soul.”

“But-”

“Promise!” I commanded, planting both hands on hips. And since I towered over him by a good two inches now, he conceded.

“All right.” He thrust his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I promise.”

I made him double pinky swear and felt a little bit better about it. Just a little. Swearing Marco to secrecy was about as effective as using a Sharpie to cover up scuffs on my favorite black pumps. A temporary fix at best. But I had no choice. I could only hope Marco sat on the gossip of the century long enough that Felix and I could get to the desert and it would be too late for either Mom or Ramirez to stop me.

Okay, part of me hoped that. As I stared at my madeup reflection in the mirror the other part of me, the one that preferred all my limbs exactly where they were, was silently chanting, “Somebody stop me!”

Felix met me at the valet parking area at exactly 7:02. If all went according to plan, he wanted to be in place long before the Marsuccis showed up. He took one look at my outfit and I could see him mentally warring between a dozen ready-made snide comments.

“Don’t start with me,” I warned. “These are five-inch heels. I could kill a man with these.”

His grin widened, but he held up his hands in surrender and wisely refrained from comment. Instead he handed the valet his ticket (and a fifty-cent tip-cheapskate), and ten minutes later we were on the road.

I fidgeted nervously in my seat as we motored up the 15, my stomach tying itself in enough knots to macramé a plant hanger. The thing is, I wasn’t the world’s biggest fan of undercover work. Once, last summer while investigating the disappearance of my ex-boyfriend Richard, Dana had convinced me to go undercover as a hooker. As if the neon spandex she’d made me wear wasn’t bad enough, the evening had ended with a dead body. And considering I was currently the only player in this little drama without a gun, I really hoped tonight wasn’t a replay.

I was chewing the Raspberry Perfection off my lips, debating whether I could tell Felix to turn around and forget the whole thing, when we pulled into the employee lot of the Victoria. The two Town Cars were still parked up front and the lot was populated with half a dozen more rent-a-wrecks than it had been earlier in the day. Though I was relived to see Ramirez’s SUV conspicuously absent. I prayed Bruno had the night off. (Or was spending it out trying to find one escaped blonde.)

I stared at the back door as Felix killed the engine. Okay, I could do this. I was a tough chick. I was dangerous. On a mission. Take no prisoners.

“You ready?” Felix asked, grabbing his camera case from the backseat.

“Hell yeah!” Only somehow my pep talk hadn’t convinced my body. My feet had turned to lead and my butt was glued to the faded seat.

“So…you want to go in, then?” he asked.

I nodded. “Nuh unh.”

Felix paused. “You know, it’s not too late to change your mind. If you don’t feel comfortable with this, we can call it off.”

Did I feel comfortable with it? No. But neither did I feel comfortable in my gorgeous four-inch, leather Gucci logo pumps that angled in at the tip until my pinky toes turned blue. But if I could survive cutting off circulation to my feet for fashion, I could survive a knotted stomach for my father.

“No, I’m fine,” I lied. “Let’s do this.”

Somehow I pried my booty off the seat despite feeling like it was covered in Elmer’s, and crossed the few feet of pavement to the back door. All the while feeling the heat of Felix’s camera lens at my back.

The steady beat of dance music vibrated through the thick walls of the building, spilling out into the night as I opened the door. I blinked in the dimly lit interior, wishing I could take my dark glasses off. I took a moment to orient myself. I was in the backstage area. To my right was a panel of levers and pulleys, behind which sat a guy in a John Deere cap with a cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth. To the left, a changing room, the sounds of clacking heels, hair dryers and catty gossip mingling with the dance rhythms.