I gather the garments into a pile, eyeing my phone warily. I can only imagine Matteo’s phone ringing off the hook already. “Yeah, me too,” I answer, leaving without a goodbye as Lawrence rants and raves in his closet.
CHAPTER 2
It’s not often L wants to dress himself for a show without last-minute adjustments, but Friday night arrives with me sitting in the crowd like an everyday Joe. The room is packed, and not with the typical crowd—it looks like Cleo’s media stunt was successful. I don’t know whether to be happy or mad about it, so I settle for eyeballing the obvious newcomers near me. There’s a tall, dark guy with some seriously beautiful hair to my left, seated with a table of men dressed in various shades of business casual. Definitely not the usual. And it’s no wonder . . . with the promise of a possible Golden Arrow sighting, Cleo got the world’s interest.
While the attention is perhaps ultimately good, the interview with Cleopatra hasn’t just pissed Lawrence off. It’s caused a domino effect, the result of which is a brand-new number involving several of L’s queen friends, last-minute choreography, and updating the revue information on the website to include “superhero” night. In fact, up until Wednesday, L was an utter stress case, but . . . then something switched. He said he’d had a stroke of good luck and talked about a “secret weapon”—right before he forbade me from attending either the dress rehearsal or the pre-show rehearsal tonight so I wouldn’t spoil the surprise. I was glad to give up Thursday night to be with Matteo, but . . . my eye twitches with the thought of all the little fixes I won’t get to do tonight. In a normal runway show, maybe not so bad. But queens use their looks . . . I foresee a bunch of hem repair in my future.
“There are a lot of people here,” Ryan mutters, looking from our crowded little round table to the nearly SRO room. Over Ryan’s shoulder, I catch sight of Simon, Kyle, and Tej at a table near the back, rubbernecking unabashedly. Since Simon’s divorce finalized last month, Kyle has been taking him out as often as he can, in admirable best-friend fashion, to prove to him that there are more fish in the sea. And from what I gather from limited office gossip, one hopes that this next fish doesn’t run away with an accountant.
I have a brief flash of shame that I didn’t do the inviting, which in itself is new to me. Up until this year, I haven’t exactly been the friendliest or most open officemate. I’m happy to see them here, even if I know the reason isn’t a love of drag. It’s a fascination with the Golden Arrow—something most of LA shares, if the attendance tonight is a good measurement. The Pink Boa isn’t big to begin with, but crammed full of a buzzing crowd hoping to see a real superhero in their midst? The place feels like a mosh pit.
A martini clinks down in front of me, the harried waitress not even apologizing for the slosh that follows. A mosh pit that serves martinis at least, I think, taking a sip, then immediately grimacing. Watered-down, not-their-usual-quality martinis. I sigh.
“The crowd? Or the drink?” Ryan asks, casting a baleful eye over me. Sure, it’s a million gigawatts of sound in here, but he hears my one sigh.
“Both.”
“You’ve been mopey lately. I thought true love would take an edge off your surly side. You know. Twitterpated. Joined at the hip. All that.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say, leaning back in my chair and turning my own glance on the empty chair across the table from me. “Your partner in crime doesn’t seem to be here either.”
Ryan gives such a start that the table is rocked from beneath, further demolishing my martini. My twelve-dollar, barely drinkable martini. “What the hell, Ryan?”
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” A voice comes from behind, and while I’m mopping up a dollar’s worth of alcohol with the inadequate cocktail napkin, I see two arms slide around Ryan’s chest from behind. Even before I see her face, I recognize the effortless elegance of Genius’s VP and Ryan’s current girlfriend, Lelani. “I didn’t mean to startle you; I thought you heard me call your name,” she says, leaning over and dropping a brief peck on his cheek before seating herself in the third chair.
Overhead the lights dim once, signaling the show is shortly to start. “Yeah, well, Mr. Jumpy here owes me another drink,” I grouse. The glass is definitely half-empty, not half-full, and the olive is gone. I direct my stare at Ryan and attempt to Magneto-lift his wallet from his pocket with my mind powers. Nothing happens, but he gets the point anyhow, raising his hand to flag down a waitress. When one fails to materialize, he sighs in resignation and wades against the tide of people toward the crowded bar, leaving Lelani and me alone.
I sip at the dregs of my drink for a full two minutes, and Lelani studies her nails after making a production of removing her jacket. I never know if we should talk about work or . . . . not-work. It’s not like I know much of what she does with her free time, and the only thing I do know about her outside of work—that she and Matteo were once engaged—I don’t want to talk about. “So, uh, traffic?” I ask finally when the silence has stretched to an unbearable thinness.
“Hmm? Oh, no. I was backstage. I’ve been here for a few hours.”
I set my glass down and eye her critically. In all the din, maybe I misheard her. “Backstage . . . here?” Specifically, the backstage where Lawrence asked me not to be tonight?
Lelani flashes me a Cheshire cat smile. “Yes, I’ve been helping Latifah put the finishing touches on tonight’s surprise performance.”
“You’ve been helping. Latifah.” It’s so nonsensical all I can do is parrot her words back.
“I’m just a minor part of the team; I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” she says with a smirk. I get the distinct feeling she’s enjoying holding something over my head.
“The . . . team?” I mutter, unsure of what exactly that means. She’s not part of the usual team of Latifah, Ryan, and me. Why did she get to go backstage when I was expressly forbidden? I don’t have to wait long to find out. Just as Ryan shoves back to our table, the lights dim for good.
In almost no time, Latifah appears on the stage, stunning in an all-white bell-bottom suit. I blink rapidly to clear my vision. It’s not one of the costumes I made for this show. What the hell. Totally tuning out Latifah’s greeting in favor of studying her costume, I finally relax a little, recognizing an early effort of mine—an Elvis-esque suit that has been pinned, tucked, bedazzled, and most likely hot-glued to look like a full seventies disco suit. But who did it?
“You’ve been promised a superhero-level show,” Latifah purrs into the cordless microphone, “and we thought we’d have some fun with the theme. So tonight, we’re serving up capes and costumes and sequins and sexy crime-fighting in a super-special head-to-head Queen Superhero versus Queen Superhero lip-sync spectacular! It’s all the glam and glitz and booty and—well, you know the rest—that you’re here for, but now with kapow!” Latifah leans over and gives a suggestive wiggle of her cleavage before snapping up in a fairly impressive karate kick specifically designed to show off her dexterity.
The crowd claps appreciatively, and Latifah takes a moment to smooth her suit back into place over her curves, bantering with one fellow up front. “Did you like the view, honey? You never know what you’re going to get with Latifah; my gentlemen have to be ready for anything, if you know what I mean . . .” She raises her gaze to the next tier of tables as the audience gives the expected chuckle. Latifah is such a show-woman, and only I catch the slight bobble in her persona as she scans the grouping of tables that includes ours. Her witty banter trails off; I see her eyes dart around and a little “oh” of surprise hit her lips just before she pastes a big smile on her face, does a little shimmy, and turns to smile at the next section of people. It’s maybe a few seconds, but something has thrown her off.
I crane my neck around, looking for something out of place, but the only thing I see amiss is the table full of business-casual Muggles. True, they’re not the normal cuppa, but nothing Latifah hasn’t seen before, surely?
Onstage, L has recovered
nicely, and no one except me is the wiser. “We’ve broken into two superhero teams, and we’ll battle to the death—well, no, not actually. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of white leather? And honey, I just got this suit cleaned. We’ll call it Battle to the Shade; we’ll use applause and tips as a measure, and the winner gets this!” Latifah brandishes a silver sequin cape, twirls it, and settles it around her shoulder before placing a huge, fake dollar-store crown on her head and winking broadly at the audience. “And the rights to host the Halloween Drag Revue. Bragging rights, hosting rights, and a crown. It’s looking good for Team Latifah.”
“Uh-uh, girl.” Cleopatra sashays onstage and plucks the crown off her head. “Not until the fat lady has sung.”
“Wasn’t that last week?” Latifah banters back.
“I believe you’re thinking of your rehearsal,” Cleopatra cuts in, and the crowd laughs. “Team Cleopatra is more than up for this battle of the Super Dupers, but let’s not forget that I am the only one who has a connection to the real celebrity—”
“Your mama doesn’t count as a celebrity,” Latifah jokes back, always game, though I notice she’s quick to cut Cleo off from expounding on the Golden Arrow. “May the best queen win!” They shake hands with the jingle of bracelets and the swish of white fringe, grinning with a perfect mixture of theatrical drama and good-natured competition. Only I note the steel in Latifah’s spine. To her, this competition isn’t just some campy superhero battle; it means something—this is her ground, and she isn’t going to let Cleopatra win.
The crowd breaks into wild applause. Queen versus queen is the norm, but this twist—the team approach—both sounds fun and promises fierce competition. Latifah and Cleopatra make a big show of flipping a huge, joke-size coin to determine who will go first. The audience eats it up, everyone scrambling to verify which, heads or tails, has surfaced.
“Tails!” Cleopatra says in triumph, reaching into a pocket of her sleek black catsuit and producing a classic superhero mask. She hands the cordless mic to Latifah, ties the mask on, and does an elaborate ninja jump off to stage right.
Only seconds later, a guitar riff tears through the small lounge space, and I recognize Prince’s “Batdance” from teenager-hood. What transpires next can only be described as grunge-superhero hip-thrusting, with Cleopatra playing a sexy, vixen Catwoman to a strapping Batman, dressed all in glitter and tights. A third queen joins them, dressed as a campy and sexy, gender-bent Robin (Grayson, of course, pre-Nightwing—she has good taste), complete with mask. The song shifts to “Iron Man,” and the group of glittery superheroes end their number in a wild, head-banging, thrash air-band cover. It’s good. It’s really good. Half the crowd is on their feet, cheering as the song ends on the iconic refrain, “I am Iron Man.”
I can’t help but cheer along, despite my allegiance to Latifah. It’s different enough from a typical drag number to be refreshing and captivating. The head-thrashing isn’t exactly high-level choreography, but the heavy music and fun costumes are compelling, to say the least.
Cleopatra gets up from playing air-guitar on her knees and yells, “Golden Arrow forever!” to the crowd before exiting stage left, waving to an honestly adoring crowd. Money pours onto the stage and into the hands of designated collectors. A pit of worry starts in my stomach. Latifah is a gifted performer, but . . . that’s a tough act to follow. And since I’ve literally seen nothing of what she’s cobbled together in the past few days . . . I certainly hope it won’t fall flat. I want my friend to win, not go home with consolation prizes.
I shouldn’t have worried. The second ABBA’s “Super Trouper” starts, I’m hooked. Even more so when not only L but also a dozen white bell-bottom–clad figures march onto the small stage—four queens, whom I recognize as close friends of L’s, and about eight people I’ve never seen before in my entire life.
The choreography unfolds deliciously. First from military-precision marching onto the stage, then to baton-twirling, sexy oompah-pahs to the music, and L standing out front like a shining general of a disco superhero army. The music shifts to an electric version of “I am Superman,” and things break into an all-out dance party. Someone swings in on a rope—a rope—suspended from the ceiling. This person is dressed all in white but wears a golden cape and mask, an arrow painted across the front of his leotard.
The audience gasps, and my heart stutters to a stop in my chest. Is this L’s secret weapon? The Golden Arrow? Surely the GA wouldn’t agree to be a part of a drag revue.
“Oh, there’s Daniel!” squeals Lelani. Squeals. I cannot imagine this woman doing anything that bubbly, but there you have it. She catches my eye and smiles. “He’s part of the act.”
The audience and I figure it out around the same time, but the amp in excitement has added to L’s performance. “Daniel” brings down the house by fake-fighting all the backup dancers onstage as if they’re criminals. Latifah and the two other queens join in, using some fairly impressive kicks, given the general tightness and elaborateness of the costumes. Latifah and the queens form the classic Charlie’s Angels pose, and the montage concludes with Daniel doing a roundoff back handspring right into Latifah’s arms as the music ends.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’m on my feet. Lelani’s on her feet. Beside me, Ryan is standing on a chair and whistling. A bra lands up onstage. Latifah tosses Daniel’s considerable bulk up into the air, and he lands spryly on his feet before removing his mask dramatically, taking Latifah’s hand, and taking a bow as if this whole thing were an elaborate stage production. Coins and dollar bills rain down on the stage as the whole group executes another bow and exits the stage.
I have no doubt who won this competition. The amount of money Latifah collects far outstrips the amount thrown onto the stage for Cleopatra, but how on earth has she pulled this off? I’ve never seen half the people onstage. And the guy who swung down on a rope, fought some criminals, and then flipped into Latifah’s arms? He wasn’t a queen, or wasn’t dressed as one, at least. Latifah has backup dancers. This is a whole level of production that baffles my mind.
“How did you like it?”
I blink, finding Lelani wearing a “cat who ate the canary” smile on her face.
“It was . . . phenomenal,” I answer, still struggling to understand how this was achieved.
“Wasn’t it, though?” Lelani smiles, cheering again. The crowd is still going crazy, though most of us are finding our seats. How could the drag revue continue after this? “Of course, all the credit goes to Daniel and L for putting it together so quickly.”
I bristle slightly at her use of my pet name for Latifah, but I don’t have time to stew. A moment later, L’s back onstage, wearing an enormous grin. “You are all so generous. Details will emerge at the end of our show, but it looks like preliminary results say that you’ll be attending my Halloween Revue.” The crowd cheers. Latifah waves and laughs. “Now, now, all our superheroes did an amazing job, and don’t worry, the show’s not over yet. Keep those wallets available and your spirits open to enjoying more of our talented performers!”
The rest of the night goes off more or less how I expect it, albeit more amped than usual by the utterly electrified atmosphere from the show opening. It’s one of the best drag shows I’ve ever been to—and that rankles because it’s one I’ve been least involved in. As the last number ends, all the queens come back out onstage, wearing little plastic Zorro masks. I clap and whistle wildly.
“We’ll see you all in just a few weeks; stay tuned for details!” Latifah says, leading everyone in a theater-style bow. Despite the cheering crowd, Cleopatra is wearing a face that I’d describe as “Lemonhead-level bitter” instead of pleased. She’s not happy she’s lost.
“And I’ll see you tonight if you’re headed to my after-party,” Cleopatra calls as everyone at the tables starts to gather their things. I wonder how many of these same folks will show up to the Zebra just to see if the Golden Arrow materializes. My gaze catches
on my coworkers making a beeline for the front door. I know at least three supergeeks who will be there. My allegiance to L says I shouldn’t go . . . but my curiosity about Cleopatra’s claims to know the Golden Arrow are of equal strength.
I lead the way against the crush of people heading for the door, like a salmon swimming upstream. Largely, it looks like everyone is tired and ready to go home or headed to the party; we’re among the few headed for the door to the back.
I’m delayed at the stage for a few minutes while queens catch up with a few friends and fans; the door to the back is crowded. Ryan and Lelani peel off after a moment to go grab one more drink, and I wave, intent on making it backstage to see if Latifah needs any help with the costumes.
I finally manage to squeeze myself through the little door. Just down the short hallway and to the left, I can hear all manner of whooping and yelling. The queens are still amped up over their show, as they should be. It was amazing, and I’d be surprised if it weren’t a record tip night for nearly every single one of them. I poke my head into the changing room briefly, searching the sea of people, wigs, and clothes for Latifah. I can’t find her in the crush, so I turn my back to the wall, content to wait. It’s our usual routine; Latifah will know I’m here if she needs help.
I’m now facing the “green room” for the bands that play here, and usually its only occupants at this time in a show are, well, me, or queens who need more space than the dressing room provides. Tonight, however, the room is pretty full of people. I check my phone—nearly midnight—and no way there’s another band playing tonight, right? I push off the wall and poke my head into the room.
It takes catching sight of a white tracksuit for it to click. These are the backup dancers that took the stage. Everyone is stuffing their costumes into bags and picking up shoes and coats. Several of them have matching black duffels emblazoned with “LA Dance” and an address down on Third Street. My eyebrows raise. No wonder these folks had been good . . . they’re part of a dance school of some kind.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 2