Killer in High Heels by Gemma Halliday

they were three inches high and the thought of standing around on the sidewalk in them for an hour made my toes curl. Literally.
    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.