Wearing Black to the White Party

by David Stukas

  “Oh, it’s you, Robert,” he said. “Come on into the kitchen and I’ll fix you a cocktail.”

  “Thank you, Vince,” I replied, following the clink-clink of his stairway to heaven. “The table looks beautiful, Vince. Did you do that yourself?”

  “Everything but the flowers. A guy named Gil does them. He moved here from San Francisco and started his own shop. He does only the best houses in town.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. Just beautiful!” I commented. Not only was Gil supremely talented, but Rex obviously had the taste to appreciate his skill—and had the deep pockets to afford it. “The table looks incredible, Vince.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So this is what you do—make guests feel at home here?” I asked.

  “I try my best.”

  “You do a good job,” I offered.

  “Thanks. Rex is one of the few people who really appreciate my talents. I cook and clean and run his private life. I’m kind of like a naked valet and estate manager. That’s all I want out of life, and Rex hires me to do just that. I travel around the world, I make my own hours, I can be naked all the time, and I never have to worry about where my next paycheck is coming from. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I think I live a pretty good life.”

  “I’d trade your life with mine in a second, Vince. Living in this beautiful estate is a lot better than writing advertising copy for feminine-hygiene products like I do. So, may I ask you a personal question, Vince?”

  “No problem.”

  “Rex has told you about the threatening letters he’s gotten over the past few weeks?”

  “The ones asking for money or else?” Vince asked.

  “Yes, those. Who do you think is behind them?”

  “It could be any number of people. These people in the circuit party field can be so vicious. There’s so much money at stake. Millions,” Vince stated.

  “You don’t think that someone would resort to violence unless Rex paid up?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them. These circuit parties are big money. More than you can ever imagine. And Rex is raising the stakes considerably. The Red Party is going to be part circuit party, part Cirque du Soleil. And it’s going to be bigger than any party ever. He has skydivers parachuting out of planes carrying self-contained laser light shows, a J-lube slip-and-slide party, dancing go-go-boy holograms forty feet tall, bungee-cord air dancers in black-light bodysuits, and hydrogen fireball cannons. Guys are going to be talking about it for years. And they’re not balking at paying five hundred dollars a head to be there, either.”

  I was about to ask what a hydrogen fireball cannon was when I was startled by an outburst of laughter behind my back. It was Michael Stark braying about the length of some unspecified thing.

  “. . . So I said to this guy, what do you want me to do with it? Fly it?”

  “Michael,” I started. “So nice to see you! I’m sorry I interrupted your conversation about airplanes.”

  “Dinner’s ready. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll get the date soup out of the refrigerator,” Vince said.

  Michael was about to grab a chair when I made a grab for it first. The one I wanted had its back to the wall, just in case a bullet came crashing in through the window—I wanted to see it coming—plus, whoever sat across from me would take the bullet for me. I contemplated maneuvering Michael into that seat. His ego alone would stop a mortar shell fired from twenty feet away.

  “Michael, I’m very feng shui and I need to sit with my back to the wall.”

  “Since when are you into feng shui?” Michael asked with an equal mixture of surprise and disbelief.

  “I got into it just recently. Like a few seconds ago.”

  “Whatever,” Michael replied as he picked the chair next to mine and sat down. Rex seated himself in the death chair, then tossed some pieces of paper toward me.

  “These are the extortion letters I received. I said I’d show ’em to you.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I replied, not knowing exactly why Rex wanted to show them to me. It must be because of the curiosity that I showed earlier. I unfolded the letters and looked at them one by one.

  YoUR Red PaRTy WiLl nOT

  HapPEn UnlEss You PaY

  $2.5 MilLIOn to us

  TiE HANkerCHief on TrEE

  By YouR MailBoX to

  SIGNal you AgReE

  We’Re noT KIDding

  The next one was more specific:

  Pay UP or YOU’Re a

  DeAd MaN

  The last one was brief and to the point:

  YOU’re AbOut

  TO SEe ThaT

  We MEan BUSineSS

  Vince entered with a tray of four soup bowls filled not only with date soup but with a Phalaenopsis orchid bloom floating in the creamy brown broth. It was a work of art.

  “There we are,” Vince remarked as he placed the soup bowls just so.

  I couldn’t believe that people actually lived like this; it was hard to imagine. My apartment in New York looked shabby no matter what I tried to do to it. I bought expensive soaps, luxurious towels, beautiful wine goblets, and exotic flowers, but it was like putting great actresses on shitty stages: no matter how hard they tried, they just couldn’t overcome their surroundings.

  “The soup looks marvelous, Vince!” I exclaimed, trying to get the conversation ball rolling. Rex had ideas of his own.

  “I got another of those threatening letters today,” Rex remarked to his soup.

  “Another one?” Vince replied. “What are you going to do, Rex? You’re not going to pay them, are you?”

  Rex snorted and laughed out loud. “Over my dead body.”

  As we were all contemplating the intended irony of Rex’s response, there was a tremendous bang as something large and heavy hit the French doors behind Rex. The suddenness of whatever it was that hit the window startled all of us, but no one more than Rex, who jumped so suddenly, his soup spoon flew out of his hand and into guess-who’s lap: mine.

  As Rex calmed himself and apologized to me, Vince got up and jangled over to the doors and looked outside, trying to ascertain what it was that had attacked our peaceful dinner.

  “It’s just a palm frond,” Vince reported. “The wind can really kick up here in the spring and just tears the dead fronds off the trees. These date palm fronds can be surprisingly heavy. Thank God it didn’t break the window!”

  Rex tried his best to show that he had recovered like the rest of us, but the incident had clearly shaken him.

  “Don’t worry about your shorts, Robert. Vince will send them to the cleaners in the morning,” Rex added, trying to steer the dinner conversation back to more innocuous topics.

  Michael broke the uncomfortable silence. “You know, I once had sex with this guy in a palm tree. We both had on pole-climber lineman boots with the cleats in the bottom. We both had those fall-prevention belts on. It was one of the hottest scenes I’ve ever had.”

  I just had to know more about this. “Michael, so this guy likes to have sex in palm trees?”

  “No, but he had a boot fetish and he had hundreds of pairs of boots that he liked to wear. We tried some on to have sex in, and I saw that he had two pairs of the telephone lineman boots. I just made the suggestion that we put the boots to good use and have sex in a tree.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I had never done it in a tree before. Haven’t you ever wanted to do it someplace wild?” Michael probed.

  “Not really, Michael. I find that a nice, clean bed suits me just fine.”

  Michael was not about to be halted by my answer. “C’mon, Robert, you’re not being honest. What’s the kinkiest place you’ve ever had sex?”

  “Michael, I just told you—a bed. Does that make me a freak?”

  Michael kept up his goading. “C’mon, Robert, you can tell us! C’mon, c’mon.”

  “No, Michael.”

  “C’mon, c’mon. I won’t stop asking until you tell us,�
�� Michael clarified for me.

  “Oh, all right, Michael . . . in a barn.”

  Michael was stunned. “In a barn? That’s it?”

  “I think that’s pretty kinky,” I said, defending myself.

  “Did you do it with an animal?” Michael asked, with saliva almost falling from his lips.

  “Sweet Jesus, no! I just had sex in a barn.”

  “I wanted to hear something like ‘the confessional booth at a Catholic church,’ or ‘while hanging upside down from a chain,’” Michael said, expressing his disappointment.

  “Michael, not everyone has to have outrageous sex for it to qualify as a good time.”

  “You are the only one who’s never had anything but vanilla sex,” Michael shot back.

  “Okay, Michael, let’s test your theory,” I stated, turning to our host. “Rex, what’s the kinkiest place you’ve ever had sex?”

  Without hesitating a nanosecond, Rex said, “On horseback at full gallop, wearing a wrestler’s outfit and knee-high rubber boots.”

  “Okay, so I’m boring. Where were we?” I asked.

  “Getting horny,” Michael added.

  “Me, too,” Rex replied. “Vince, do you mind if Michael and I finish our meals later?”

  “No, not at all. Go on; I’ll put your dinners in the refrigerator and you can reheat them when you’re finished. I’ll have dinner with Robert,” Vince finished.

  “Yes, go have fun; I’ll just sit here completely rejected,” I added, trying to play the martyr but to no avail. Rex’s hand on Michael’s ass indicated that nothing else in the world would matter to Rex and Michael for the next two hours.

  The minute they were out of sight, I asked Vince who he thought was sending those extortion letters.

  “Hard to tell. There are so many suspects. The first one that comes to mind is Jimmy Garboni, gay mafia miniboss. He runs one of the largest catering businesses in Southern California. You don’t throw a big event without using him.”

  “You’ve mentioned his name before. I just can’t believe he’s gay and mafia. It conjures up all sorts of pictures. It’s too funny!”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “I know you are, Vince, but I can’t help but laugh. Jimmy Garboni? It’s too funny!”

  “Believe me, it’s no joking matter. I’ve heard about too many party production company owners who had ‘accidents’ with meat cleavers for daring to use another catering company.”

  “Let me guess, those accidents didn’t happen anywhere near a kitchen?”

  “The man gets one thousand dollars for the correct answer,” Vince replied, pointing his finger at me.

  “I’ve never heard of a gay mafia boss. I suppose that when he gives the kiss of death, he trades tongues?”

  “No, it means that his gun always matches his handbag,” Vince added.

  “Well, I think he makes our list of suspects, doesn’t he?”

  “He seems a natural choice. He’s not the only one, though,” Vince cautioned. “There are plenty of people who’d do just about anything to protect their share of the circuit party.”

  “I guess the next obvious choice would be the guy who throws the White Party.”

  “Kip Savage is his name. He backs it, but he doesn’t own it. No, he wouldn’t stoop to something like this—I know him very well. Why would he threaten all that he’s built up by extorting money from Rex? No, I just can’t imagine him doing anything like this.”

  Vince seemed too sure of this Kip Savage for my comfort. How much does anyone know anyone? I continued. “Vince, I once befriended this guy who was the nicest person you ever met. But I later found out that he wasn’t what he seemed.”

  “And he turned out to be what?” Vince inquired.

  “A woman.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against transsexual women. It’s just that they don’t fit the bill for a gay man. It’s why I moved out of Hetero World in the first place.”

  “Yes, I bet that this made things difficult.”

  “So can you think of anyone else who stands to lose money if the Red Party becomes a great success?” I asked.

  “Darlene Waldron. A royal cunt. She owns Circuit Toys for Party Boys and has big concession stands that rake it in, not just at the White Party but all year round on the Internet. Darlene and Rex have almost come to blows before. Well, to be truthful, they have come to blows before.”

  “You mean he hit her?”

  “No, she hit him—with her car! Or tried to . . . just a few months ago. She tried to run him down when he came out of his office. He was crossing the parking lot to his car when she screamed by in her Toyota Landcruiser, missed Rex, and took out two Miatas and one Lexus. She said her heel got wedged under the gas pedal.”

  “And let me guess. She said she was coming over to his office to discuss a business arrangement that she couldn’t give a shit about.”

  “Something like that. Rex said he didn’t want Darlene to be associated with the Red Party. Rex is very moral and says she was overcharging for laser gloves and glow-stick belly jewels.”

  “Whoa, Vince. Now slow it down. Laser gloves? Belly whats?”

  Vince looked at me as if I had just told him I didn’t believe the world was round. “You’ve never heard of these things?” he remarked.

  “No, Vince, I can’t say I have.”

  “Oh, God, they’re the latest things. Laser gloves are just what they sound like. They’re gloves that you put on with lasers in the tips of each finger. You dance around and fire the laser beams in any direction your fingers point. Fun stuff. Glow-stick belly jewels are just the thing to show off your washboard abs. They’re round glowsticks with an adhesive backing that you peel off and stick on your belly button. Puts a light right in the middle of your abdomen.”

  “And this stuff sells?” I asked incredulously.

  “Like hotcakes.”

  I shook my head and rested my chin on my hand. “I’m in the wrong business.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Vince asked. Silly him.

  “I write ads and brochures, mostly for feminine-hygiene products,” I responded.

  “I’d think that selling laser gloves would beat douches hands down.”

  “Don’t remind me. But it could be worse, Vince.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I could have to write ads for the Snuggle fabric-softener bear.”

  “Yes, that would be about the bottom of the barrel. Could you hold a minute, Robert? I’ll tell you more just as soon as I clear the soup bowls and bring the entrées in,” Vince proposed.

  Vince cleared the table with the efficiency of a seasoned waiter and puttered in the kitchen while I stared out through the glass doors of the dining room. I knew we were inside a walled compound, but I couldn’t help the feeling that I was being watched.

  In a few minutes, Vince returned with our entrée, which was as striking as the soup before it. I took one bite, proclaimed it delicious, and started my line of questioning.

  “So who’s involved in Rex Productions, Vince?”

  “T-Rex Productions,” Vince corrected me.

  “Tyrannosaurus Rex. Very clever—and appropriate.”

  “Rex is the president and he has several investor partners. Leo Thomas is vice president and is the biggest bodybuilder you will ever see. He’s just huge . . . very sensitive, too. Of course, Rex can be a little gruff.”

  I almost swallowed my fork. “A little?”

  “Rex is Rex. Sometimes the stress gets too much for him and he’ll do something careless and call Leo a steroid-freak muscle-fuck.”

  I took a bite of my goat-cheese-stuffed chicken breast, nodding my head as I chewed. “I have no idea why Leo would get upset about a comment like that. You’re right; he’s too touchy.”

  “Rex likes Leo a lot—he just doesn’t always show it.”

  I continued. “So Leo does what?”

  “He takes care of all the
arrangements, from the flowers, backdrops, sound systems, tables, audio-visual systems—you name it. Without Leo, this company wouldn’t move an inch.”

  “Okay, who’s next in line?” I asked.

  Vince looked puzzled. “In terms of investment or title?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Oh, yes. David McLeish is a big investor, and he doesn’t really have a title. He’s just an investor to the tune of a few million. You do know who he is, don’t you?”

  I squinted my eyes, looking for an answer behind Vince’s back. “I can’t say that I do. Irish?”

  “Close. He’s a famous soap opera star. Handsome, well-endowed, and completely closeted—until he’s off the soundstage at ABC, then watch out!”

  “Watch out for what?” I replied.

  “You’ll find out. He should be out here tomorrow.”

  “Pretty wild?” I ventured.

  “You could say that, in a matter of speaking,” Vince answered.

  I wasn’t quite sure what Vince was getting at, but I wanted to know so I wouldn’t be shocked when David started eating bugs or flashing his genitals at little old ladies driving oversized Buicks.

  “Don’t ask any more, Robert,” Vince cautioned me. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “Okay, who else works with Rex?”

  “Marc Baldwin. Sweet as can be—kind of like you. No, a lot like you.”

  “A lot like me?” I asked, surprised. I had lived with myself for over three decades and wondered how others perceived me.

  “Like a cuddly, gay teddy bear,” was his answer. “Brown hair, blue eyes—like yours.”

  “Well, thank you, Vince, I’m flattered. So nothing about me makes you think ‘muscle stud’ or ‘hunka-hunka burning love’?”