by David Stukas
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but no.”
From the look on my face, Vince could tell that I had indeed taken it the wrong way. So he tried to retreat from his declaration—but I beat him to the punch.
“Don’t worry, Vince, I’ve been going through bioenergetic therapy lately. I’m really starting to like myself.”
“Bioenergetic?”
“Yes, it focuses on releasing the true self through physical acts that counter the mind’s attempt to suppress feelings. It sort of undoes prior hurts to the psyche.”
Vince seemed intrigued. “And how is this accomplished?”
“I throw dinner plates at a mannequin that I’ve dressed up to look like Michael Stark and shout ‘Shut up!’ as I fling the china at it.”
“And you feel better afterward?” Vince asked.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” was my response.
“Well, Michael is quite a character, isn’t he?”
“Character? I was thinking that he was more of a bottom-feeding slut.”
Vince laughed while nodding his head in agreement. “I think deep down, he’s got a heart of gold, but he really is self-consumed.”
“Tell me about it. I once bought him a silver-plated hand mirror and had the words ‘you are so beautiful’ printed on the surface of the mirror.”
“And?” Vince implored me to go on.
“And he uses it all the time. I once came into his apartment and he was sitting on a couch and staring into it.”
“He was making fun of your sarcastic gift!”
“I wouldn’t lay odds on that conclusion if I were you,” I cautioned Vince. “So is there anyone else with T-Rex Productions I should know about?”
Vince thought a second, then scrunched up his face in disgust. “The Cunt-tessa! How could I forget?!” Vince said in amazement.
“The . . . ?
“Cunt-tessa! It’s what Rex calls him.”
“Him or her? I’m confused,” I said.
“Not a she. He’s a he . . . sort of. Colorado Jackson.”
“Colorado Jackson?” I remarked. “He sounds like a windswept cowboy who lights matches for his Marlboros on the backs of rattlesnakes while watching reruns of Gunsmoke.”
“Far from it, Robert. Colorado is a vicious queen so toxic, even the EPA won’t touch him. Gays bash him.”
“He sounds charming. So if he’s so nasty, why would Rex tolerate him? Rex doesn’t seem like he has a lot of tolerance for irritating people.”
Vince took another bite of his chicken and continued. “I don’t know. I guess Colorado has some kind of in to the party production community here. Or, has some way of getting favors from the Palm Springs City Council—I don’t know. It mystifies me. Well,” he said, getting up and clearing my plate, “you seemed to appreciate my chicken.”
“Vince, it was delicious,” I said as I thought I saw someone run past the window in the distance. “Vince?”
“Yes, Robert?”
“Is there supposed to be anyone on the grounds besides Michael, Rex, and you and me?”
“No, why?”
“Well, I thought I just saw someone zip through the yard a second ago.”
Vince emerged from the kitchen to look out the window. He peered into the darkness while he dried a plate.
“I don’t see anyone,” Vince replied. “Maybe it was a plastic bag or a tarp flying through the yard. You’d be surprised how strong the winds can get around here.”
“It wasn’t a bag. It was tan and sparkly.”
Vince screwed up his eyebrows at my report. “Tan and sparkly? Maybe it was Liberace’s ghost. He had a house here for years.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, Vince. It was probably the wind,” I conceded, finally giving up the chase.
“Are you ready for dessert? I’ve made chocolate raspberry baked Alaskas.”
“Oh, God, Vince. I’m going to gain so much weight here, they’re going to have to fly me back to New York on the back of a Boeing 747—like the space shuttle.”
“Don’t worry. Tomorrow we go back to low-fat cooking. I just wanted to do something special for your first night here.”
Vince slipped back into the kitchen for a few minutes, the clattering of pots and pans interrupted by periods of silence. Was he praying that his Alaskas would come out all right? After about ten minutes, he reappeared with the individual baked Alaskas. I dug in and was in heaven.
“Vince, this is wonderful! It’s like an orgasm.”
“How do you think I get the Alaskas so creamy?” he replied, eyebrows arched in a suggestive manner.
I couldn’t help but think of his body jewelry as my spoon halted in midflight. “Oh, gosh, Vince, this is so rich I don’t know if I can finish it!” I said, pushing my Alaska a safe distance away. “Now, who were we discussing?”
“Colorado Jackson. The face that launched a thousand surgeons’ knives.”
“Face-lifts, huh? Sign of trouble.”
“Numerous, Robert. Colorado has had more work done on his face than Interstate five.”
“And let me guess. He came from some tiny town where they didn’t even have running water, but he moves here and sets up a ...” I said, grasping for a career.
“An inferior decorating boutique in Palm Springs,” Vince supplied.
“... yes, an inferior desecrator and he makes a little money, and all of a sudden, he’s descended from Russian royalty and gives you attitude because he picked out the draperies for Edie Gorme’s half-sister.”
“Exactly. You don’t need to meet him, since you know all there is to know.”
“I’d rather meet Saddam Hussein.”
“He’s probably nicer,” Vince added. “Well, unless you’re dining out tomorrow, you’re going to run into him. He comes here all the time. Plus, Leo is throwing a kickoff party at his house tomorrow night, and he’s invited—along with everyone who works with T-Rex Productions. I did the invitations.”
I was just about to add that I would bring my AK-47 when there was a tremendous crash that made the entire house shudder. You could hear wood cracking, glass shattering, and items toppling onto floors. Fearing we had just been through an earthquake, I looked at Vince for clues of what to do.
“Jesus Christ!” Vince shouted as he got up and ran into the living room.
I figured that I’d rather face whatever happened in the other part of the house than run outside and face the mysterious person I suspected lay in wait for me, so I hightailed it after Vince. There in the middle of the living room was a palm tree, and this was no houseplant.
“Oh, my God!” Vince said as he stood there in a state of shock.
“This wasn’t an earthquake, was it?”
“No, the wind must’ve blown it over.” A look of worry swept over Vince’s face. “REX? MICHAEL? ARE YOU TWO OKAY?”
Nothing.
Vince was clearly scared. “REX? CAN YOU HEAR ME? IF YOU CAN, JUST FOLLOW MY—”
“Yes, I can fuckin’ hear you!” Rex bellowed back as he came up behind us, surprising me. “I crawled out through the door from the bathroom into the yard and came in the front door. I couldn’t get out through the bedroom doorway!” He pushed aside palm leaves like an irritated Tarzan—except that this Tarzan didn’t have a loincloth on. Rex was wearing medical scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck. Michael, who staggered into view behind Rex, took his place at my side to survey the damage. He was wearing a hospital gown—on backwards. While Vince stood looking at the tree in shock, he didn’t make the slightest mention of the way Rex and Michael were attired. I, however, just couldn’t cast a blind eye toward this. I just couldn’t.
“Michael?”
“Fucking amazing!” he responded, shaking his head in wonder.
“Michael?” I asked again.
“Yes, I heard you, Robert! What is it!?”
“Why are you wearing a hospital gown—backwards, no less?”
“We were playing doctor. Isn’t
that obvious?”
“I thought it was, but I just had to ask. Could you please close your gown a little?” I asked, averting my eyes.
“I can’t believe this!” Michael exclaimed. “It ruined everything!”
“I know, the room is a total loss,” I added.
“Not the fucking room, Robert! Our sex! Our sex. I was really getting into the medical scene and this tree came crashing through the room! Knocked the medical tray over and everything on it!”
“Michael, I’m sorry this tree had the temerity to spoil your Marcus Welby sex scene, but this is serious. Do you realize that this didn’t happen by coincidence?”
“What do you mean? The tree blew over in the wind.”
Rex looked over at me, suddenly interested in the conversation that Michael and I were having.
“I don’t think it did, Michael,” I commented, realizing that my audience now included Rex and Vince. “While Vince and I were eating, I thought I saw someone run past the windows just a few minutes before the palm blew over.”
“And you think the two are connected?” Michael remarked.
“No, Michael, I think it was a Jehovah’s Witness putting a Watchtower on our front door.”
“You saw someone?” Rex inquired with eyes so wide, you felt you could climb through his pupils.
“I swore I saw someone outside in the yard—about forty feet away.”
Rex was still looking spooked, but he managed to get out another inquiry. “Did you get a good look at this person? Was it a man or a woman?” he asked, restrained but still exuding desperation.
“No, I couldn’t say. I just got a fleeting glance.”
Rex looked at me for an answer, which I’m sure was sketchy. “What was the person wearing?”
“I’m not quite sure. Tan, brown . . . something like that. With something sparkly.”
“Sparkly?” Rex asked. “What do you mean, ‘sparkly’?”
“Well, I saw flashes of light coming from something.”
“Flashes of light?” Rex probed.
“I don’t know. Just bursts of light.”
“Bursts of light?” Vince asked. “It could be a spirit. The local Indians believe the spirit of Tahquitz roams the canyons west of here.”
Rex rolled his eyes and looked deeply into mine to get more answers.
I couldn’t stand the cross-examination anymore. I was swept back in time to third grade, when I felt the laser-beam eyes of Sister Mary flashing her instant disapproval. Sister Mary was the nun who terrorized me for one hour each Sunday before church. She would make me stand and challenge me with questions that would stump most Catholic adults. How old was Jesus when he died? What is the shortest sentence in the Bible? And what was Jesus’ favorite color? There was, of course, no answer to the last question, but it was one that I would always fall for, and Sister Mary would greedily pounce upon me to humiliate me for answering. My only revenge for this inhumane treatment came years later from the mother superior, who reported over the classroom loudspeaker that Sister Mary, who had moved to Ghana to teach the unbaptized heathen, was “encountering great difficulties” and that we must all say a prayer for her soul. That same day, a fellow classmate/inmate said that he heard that she had been roasted by pagans and eaten. Had I only known that this fate would befall hateful Sister Mary, I would’ve sent her tormentors a case of barbecue sauce.
I was awakened when I felt Rex’s powerful hand on my arm, tugging at it for an answer.
“So you didn’t see who it was?” he pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Rex. I just caught a glimpse of whoever it was. I didn’t get anything definite.”
Rex looked strangely relieved. “Well, then. Maybe this was all something you thought you saw and the palm just happened to break in the wind. After all, most of the palms in this area are very old.”
I decided to play Monette for a minute and ventured forth. “Rex, do you have a flashlight?”
“A flashlight?”
“To see why the palm fell in the first place. There’s little reason to sit around here wondering why the palm tree made its unwelcome entrance, unless we’re sure it decided to pay us a visit on its own or whether someone helped it along.”
“Sure. I have one in my office. Let me go get it,” he answered, then disappeared down the hall. He returned shortly, holding a flashlight that looked like it could illuminate Pluto.
I led the search party outside, and we approached the remaining stump of the aforementioned intrusive palm tree. I shone the light on its base.
“Look! Sawdust! Someone cut the tree so it would fall down in the direction of the house!” I reported.
No one said anything, but right in front of their eyes was the indisputable evidence that someone had intentions on Rex’s life. The trunk of the tree bore the unmistakable signs of having been sawed. I looked up at Rex and told him that I thought it was time he called the police.
Rex snorted and nodded. “I guess I can’t pretend any longer. It looks like someone is serious about me paying up if I want the Red Party to get off the ground. T-Rex just doesn’t have that kind of money to spare. If we pay up, we’ll be operating right on the edge—if something unexpectedly goes wrong, we won’t be able to cover it. It could bankrupt us.”
“Perhaps this is what someone has in mind. Whoever is behind this may be trying to make a lot of money and bankrupt you at the same time.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
“And,” I added, to make a point very clear, “this person is willing to kill to get what he or she wants.” I pointed to the fallen tree. “Now, I think we better go inside and call the police.”
As we all walked back to the house, Michael bent toward me and whispered into my ear, “I think I’ll wear a helmet to bed tonight,” Michael said.
“Sounds like good protection, but won’t that be uncomfortable?”
“Not really,” he answered. “I’ve worn one before. I was dating a biker guy—”
I put my hand to Michael’s lips. “Not another word, Michael,” I said. “There are enough things that I just don’t understand tonight. I’m afraid that the tale you were about to tell would put me over the deep end.”
The police arrived in a matter of minutes, their sirens screaming and wailing, no doubt alerting people as far away as Phoenix that something nasty was afoot here in the Old Movie Colony.
The police swarmed all over the ground like uniformed ants, some staying outside to investigate and perhaps arrest the date palm, the others coming inside to examine the rest of the tree and to ask questions. Vince was trying unsuccessfully to remove some of the immense palm tree with a kitchen knife and set things right, but he was stopped in midchop by an officer who waved him away, saying that the evidence mustn’t be disturbed. Michael was sitting in an oversized chair, thumbing through an issue of The Advocate, paying no attention to anyone until his eyes lit on the same thing mine did: an officer with arms as big as most people’s thighs, talking to Rex. Michael was on him faster than Shirley MacLaine on a previous life. Michael pretended to be intensely interested in what Officer Biceps was doing, all the while practically licking the bulging biceps with the irises of this eyes.
Rex, on the other hand, was telling the police about his Red Party, his party production company, and who his partners and employees were. He then mentioned the threatening letters to the questioning officer.
“This whole thing started with these threatening letters a few weeks ago.”
“Could you tell me what was in these letters?” the officer asked.
“I can do better than that. I can show them to you, Officer . . .” Rex hesitated.
“Gorski. Sergeant Gorski.”
“Gorski. Fine. Just give me a minute and I’ll get the letters. I’ve got them in a safe in my office—which, thank God, didn’t take a hit from the tree.”
Rex walked off, leaving me with Sergeant Gorski. He didn’t waste time in Rex’s absence, asking me what I knew about
this freak coincidence of gravity and botany.
“I can’t tell you much, but I did see someone run through the yard just a few minutes before the tree hit the house.”
“Could you describe what you saw?”
Again, the same grilling that Sister Mary Appetizer and Rex had put me through. I told them I only got a glimpse of someone in a tan shirt and pants and something glittery. It was as if they were asking me to do an artist’s rendering of the criminal when all I saw was a flash of the person from over forty feet away—in the dark, no less. No, I couldn’t tell them what height the person was. Or how old. Or what race.
Rex returned shortly with the letters in hand. He handed them to Sergeant Gorski and sat down across from him. “Would you like something to drink?” he offered.
“No, nothing,” came the reply.
“Well, I think I could use one,” Rex reported. “Robert? Care for anything?”
“I’ll take a gimlet,” I said, wondering if that was man enough of a drink to ask Rex to make.
No comment from Rex. A liquor bottle rose and fell in the air, followed by a bottle of Rose’s lime juice. Rex looked like he had mixed cocktails as a child. Perhaps he had. It was a skill that must have come in handy in later years. Rex returned to his place on the couch, with a gimlet for me and a manly glass of an amber-colored liquor with two large ice cubes. Probably scotch. Exactly what you’d expect a gay playboy stud to drink.
“Mr. Gifford, these letters aren’t threatening letters!” the sergeant said, shaking the evidence at an imaginary jury.
“Great. I feel better already,” Rex snidely added.
“No, these are extortion letters! Why didn’t you call the police the minute you got the first one?”
Rex looked at Sergeant Big Arms as if he were a pitiful moron—a look that I’m sure Rex cast at just about everyone in his path. “Sergeant, first of all, I didn’t take them seriously at first. I mean, asking for two point five million dollars? Now, who in their right mind is going to pay someone that kind of money and have no assurances whatsoever? And asking me to tie a handkerchief on the trunk of the tree by the mailbox to signal that I was going to pay? Now, come on! It sounds like a thirteen-year-old writing these letters.”