by David Stukas
“Enjoy yourself—and good luck,” I said, crossing my fingers in the air for her to see.
She headed off for Djuna, humming to herself—a good sign. Monette was off in search of love, I had already found it, and Michael was off—getting off, I assumed. I couldn’t imagine him doing anything else. Michael was a member of that class of gay men whose lives revolve completely around dancing, shopping, and fucking. Put them in a remote cabin without a telephone, television, or a CD player, and they’d go stark, raving mad. I tried to make a correlation between the evolution of a person’s mind and the reliance on electronic appliances for one’s very existence, when I heard Grayson’s voice call out my name. He was standing next to the Rolls Royce with Clifford, who was looking at me with smoldering bedroom eyes. I kept a safe distance.
“So did Martin say anything of interest?”
“He said he’s glad Rex is dead.”
“Hmm ...” Grayson contemplated the fact. “It seems to be the standard response around here. You should have seen Darlene eyeing Clifford and me from a distance. I could feel the daggers from clear across the center. She must really be under the gun.”
A thought occurred to me. “Grayson, I told myself that I wasn’t going to ask you this question, but I can’t stand it any longer.”
“Yes, what is it, dear child?”
Now I was being called a child. I guess from Grayson’s perspective, I might be considered an ovum. I continued. “Did you knock over that display of Darlene’s?”
“My dear, I did nothing of the sort,” he said with an air of theatricality that didn’t exactly convince me of his innocence. “My shirttail must have caught the edge of the display. I would never do such a thing!” he stated. He held his hand up to shade his eyes from the sun, scanning for something in the distance.
I think I had my answer. After a life of making the outrageous the everyday, I had the feeling Grayson would do just about anything if he could get away with it.
12
A Call to Arms
Monette eventually returned to the car with a piece of paper held triumphantly above her head. She had indeed secured Djuna’s cell phone number and was beaming with pride. The way she danced back and forth, waving the piece of paper in joyous celebration, you would have thought it had Jesus’ autograph on it.
Clifford turned the key, and the Rolls purred to life. Clifford pulled out onto Amado Road and crept slowly back to Pink House, where we were soon deposited near our not-so-luxurious Chevrolet Metro. We thanked the two of them and assured them that we would keep in close contact. Ten minutes later, we pulled in through the gate into Rex’s former compound, now Casa Vince. Since I had met and fallen in love with Marc, I hardly spent any time here. I felt guilty about leaving Vince on his own, but he assured me that he was just fine. Michael, of course, was not there either and probably didn’t feel guilty about it at all.
“Don’t worry about me,” Vince said to the two of us. “I’ve been over at Greg and Minnie’s. They’re a straight couple who love to cook like I do. We’ve been cooking up a storm—it keeps our minds off things.”
“I understand completely,” I replied, patting Vince on his bare shoulder. I turned to Monette, who stood there trying not to stare at Vince’s body hardware, since she had seen it before, but she was shocked to see it all the same.
“Vince, I gotta ask you this,” Monette said, smiling with amusement.
“Oh, about the body jewelry?” Vince remarked.
“Yeah, do you avoid magnets?”
“That’s a good one,” Vince replied, actually coming back to this dimension and chuckling.”
“Vince, have you seen Michael?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him all day.”
“He’s over there on the sofa, taking a nap. Or at least I thought he was.”
“I was—until you three started stomping around and making all kinds of noise,” Michael said with not a little irritation in his voice.
“What’s wrong with Princess?” I asked Vince, thumbing toward Michael.
“From what he told me, he’s had very little success in getting laid. If you don’t count his encounter with Rex and the palm tree.”
“To set the record straight—if you’ll excuse the expression—I’ve had several encounters already. It’s just that they weren’t up to my standards of depravity. Too vanilla. But I did have sex on the tram,” Michael added, making reference to the cable car that ascends to an 8,000-foot ledge on Mount San Jacinto.
“You had sex at the top of the mountain?” I asked.
“Not on the mountain—in the tram itself,” Michael boasted.
“And how, pray tell, did you manage that?”
“Well,” Michael said excitedly, “I was so bored, I took the tram up for something to do. Well, on the way down, I was the only person going down.”
“Figuratively speaking, I suppose.”
“Going down—oh, yeah.” Michael chuckled, finally getting the joke. “So the tram operator was giving me bedroom eyes, and before I knew it, he unzipped his pants and, well, you know. I had to hurry, because the ride down is only fifteen minutes long.”
“Michael, are you sure you’re not a member of the Kennedy family?” I commented.
Vince cleared his throat and continued. “Grayson DeVallier called and said that Sergeant Big Arms wants to talk to you at his house.”
It was as if Michael had been hooked in the mouth and landed like a graceful Marlin at our feet.
“You know,” he said, slithering from the couch to my side so quickly it startled me, “I was thinking that you two are in over your heads in this case. You could use a little help from someone big and strong, in case things got a little rough,” Michael said, flexing his biceps to show us that he wasn’t just a glamour boy.
“Michael, you are so transparent, you should be wrapped in cellophane.”
“I’ve done that before,” he said, making a reference to some past kinky episode that Monette and I didn’t want to hear about.
“Michael, I will not have you gawking and drooling over Sergeant Big Arms,” Monette said, standing all six feet, four inches of her ground.
“Oh, c’mon, I really want to help,” Michael said, lying through his capped and bleached (twice a month) teeth.
While the two of them argued it out, a thought sprang into my head. This thought sent an electrical tingle down my right leg, causing me to lift my leg and kick Monette in the shin ever so slightly.
“You know, Monette, I think that Michael is right. He should come along since we can use his help. And if all else fails, if the bullets start flying, we can use him as a human shield.”
The electrical signal sparked by my kicking Monette’s leg raced up her leg and alerted her brain that I was trying to set Michael up for something. She made an abrupt change of thought and looked at me for more clues.
“Listen, I think that Michael could work closely with Grayson—and especially Clifford—to help us solve this case,” I said, jerking my head ever so slightly at the name Clifford.
“Yes, yes, I see what you mean. Michael could be a very valuable member of our team.”
“Fine, then it’s settled,” I replied. “I’ll give Grayson a call and let him know that we can meet Sergeant Big Arms right away.”
I called Grayson and discovered that Sergeant Big Arms would meet us at Pink House in half an hour.
“Vince?” Monette asked.
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if we use Rex’s computer for a few minutes?”
“No, go right ahead. I can’t imagine what harm it would do,” he replied.
“We’re not going to look at any personal documents. I just want to have access to the Internet for a few minutes.”
“It’s all yours,” Vince answered.
“Vince, do the words butia or A.D. mean anything to you? Did Rex ever mention them?”
“No, I have no idea what a butia is.”
“Robert, could you go get the
drawing that you found behind Rex’s desk?” Monette asked.
“Sure,” I replied, fetching the folder containing the drawing of the strange pyramid-shaped building, which I had copied and put back in its original spot behind the desk. I brought it to Monette, who opened the folder and showed the drawing to Vince. I watched his face carefully—not even a glimmer of recognition.
“I have no idea what it is. Rex never mentioned it to me. Offhand, I would say that it’s a studio party for some Egyptian movie opening. You know, that was the bread and butter of T-Rex: movie premier parties. But I know for a fact that it isn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“Because the drawing was in a red folder. That means it’s a personal item. Rex was very anal about that kind of stuff. Proposals were always in blue folders, current projects in green, and so on. Red always meant personal. Did you ask Marc if it meant anything to him?”
“Yes, we showed it to Marc and he’s never seen it before,” I added.
“Well, it was worth a try,” Monette said dejectedly.
Monette and I went into Rex’s office and fired up the computer. A couple of clicks later, we were on the Internet, trying to find out what the hell a butia was. And we found it.
Monette was hunched over my shoulder, looking at the computer screen with me.
“It looks like it’s a palm,” I remarked. “Butia capitata. It’s native to Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina. Slow-growing with edible fruits. Well, I guess I stumbled on a folder of landscaping ideas—a dead end.”
“But that doesn’t explain the A.D. part. After death is all I can come up with,” Monette mused. “I can’t help but think this folder was something he prepared in case he was killed. But what the hell does a palm tree have to do with it? Wait a minute, what kind of palm tree fell on the house?”
“How should I know, Monette? I killed every plant I ever tried to grow.”
“Let me go ask Vince if he knows,” Monette said, then left the room for a minute and returned. “Phoenix Daffytickera or something like that, Vince said. Nope, no connection. God, this is bugging me. This means something, but I don’t know what.”
I was trying a few more Web sites under A.D.—nothing really significant—when Michael stuck his head in the door and told us that it was time to go. Half an hour ago we couldn’t drag Michael to Clifford and Grayson’s, and now he was hurrying us along. I had turned off the computer and followed Monette out to the tiny Metro when we both laid eyes on Michael. With what he was dressed in, he could’ve been arrested. He was wearing a muscle tank shirt that scooped so low in the front, you could almost see his navel, and his white shorts were so brief that I don’t see how they could support pockets. On his feet, he wore his favorites: black combat boots, the long laces tied completely around his calves (the way straight boys laced their boots, Michael once told me—it was very butch) with just a hint of white socks peering out at the top of the boot. Playboy centerfolds showed off less flesh.
“Michael, you’re a disgrace to the gay race,” I said, offering my only comment on his outfit.
“You’re a slut, Michael. Plain and simple, you’re a slut,” Monette added, heaping another all-too-true statement on Michael’s shameless head.
Michael looked down at his clothes, not having a clue that his intentions were so blatant. As we crammed ourselves into the sardine can on wheels, Monette and I could hear Michael still trying to keep up the charade: “What do I have to do to convince you guys that I’m really interested in solving these murders?” he said.
When we arrived at Pink House, there was a Palm Springs Police Department cruiser in the front driveway. Michael was magnetically drawn to the car, and he was still pressing his nose against the windows of the black-and-white car when Monette and I rang the doorbell. It was amazing that Michael had such a fetish for authority figures, because in everyday life he ignored them completely.
Clifford answered the door, his face lighting up on seeing me, but I almost had to pick up his eyeballs off the ground and put them back in this head when I introduced Michael.
“So nice to meet you, Michael! My, you are a handsome one, aren’t you?” Clifford drooled, his paper-thin hands running all over Michael’s ample shoulder muscles. “My goodness, they grow ’em big in New York nowadays,” Clifford said while giving a quick pinch to Michael’s ass.
Michael spun around to find Clifford grinning lasciviously at him. The hunter was about to become prey.
We were ushered into the living room, where cocktails were offered and heartily accepted by all but the officer. After all, it was way past noon by now. Like the pro that he was, Michael sat right next to Sergeant Big Arms. Michael, however, was outdone by Clifford, who waited for him to sit down, then planted his delicate grandfatherly frame right next to him.
Grayson started things off. “Sergeant Gorski, could you tell everyone what you know, and then Monette and Robert can add their two cents. Why don’t we go down the line of suspects one by one, shall we?”
Sergeant Big Arms—I mean Gorski—started us off. “As you probably found out, I talked to several suspects before you did. I first talked to Kip Savage and Brian Keeper. Kip Savage has a long record of living up to his last name, which is miles from the happy and helpful exterior he puts on. His first conviction was for slashing the tires on the van of a rival party production company back in nineteen eighty-eight. Since then, he’s had a host of charges against him—all of them eventually dropped-for similar acts, including a charge of arson at a competing event planner’s warehouse, destroying most of the planner’s props. He pointed to the fact that he offered to help Rex with the Red Party, but upon further questioning, it turns out that before Kip extended a helping hand to Rex, he tried to buy Rex out when he realized that Rex was going through with his plans. And get this: Kip has kept his nose clean for a decade now, but his event planning company has had no competition to speak of.”
“That’s very interesting,” Monette commented. “The things people will say when there’s a badge staring them in the face.”
“That’s so true,” Michael added. “I practically turn to Jell-O when a guy in a uniform is standing over me.”
I could see Monette rolling her eyes. The remark had a profound effect on Clifford, who got up from his position next to Michael and disappeared down a hallway.
Sergeant Gorski continued. “Brian Keeper has a clean record, but he previously worked in public relations for several of the major studios in Hollywood, so you can imagine, uh...”
“... so you can imagine the sleazy stuff he’s capable of,” Monette said, completing the thought that the sergeant seemed reluctant to say himself for fear of appearing biased.
Gorski smiled, then continued. “Darlene Waldron is facing money problems. The dot-bomb she teamed with on the Internet went under a year ago and took a hundred twenty-five thousand dollars of hers with it. She can’t afford to lose any sales to the Red Party—or anyone. She tried to make things look rosier than they are, but several people I talked with said she’s in desperate straits.”
“And her alibi?” Monette asked.
“Like several of the others, she went home the night of the murder by herself.”
“Big surprise,” Grayson interjected. “A convict with sexual-compulsive syndrome just completing a thirty-year sentence would run the other way from that woman.”
Another smile from Sergeant Big Arms—no comment, however. “No witnesses saw her return to her hotel room—she’s one of the few who don’t have a second home here in the desert,” the sergeant replied. “Jimmy Garboni has ties to organized crime. He muscled his way into catering about ten years ago. He controls a big part of the catering and linen supply business in Los Angeles. He doesn’t like competition—ask his competitors, if you can find them. I figure most of them are at the bottom of the Pacific or are out in the desert pushing up cactuses somewhere. I couldn’t get much out of him and probably wouldn’t without a warrant.”
I looked over at Monette and grimaced. Perhaps we were getting in over our heads. Monette raised her eyebrows and bit her lip—a sure sign that she was feeling the same way, too.
Big Arms was about to continue as Clifford returned to the room and retook his seat next to Michael. He folded his hands in his lap and told the sergeant to continue.
“I also talked to Martin Stevers and questioned him about the lawsuit he lost to Rex.”
“We found that he was angry enough to say that he wished he could pay the guy who bumped Rex off,” Monette added.
“Wait until you hear what I discovered,” Gorski said with pride. “He has plenty of reason to wish Rex dead.”
“Rex stole a big event from Martin?” Monette asked quizzically.
“Nope,” the sergeant said casually. He was still beaming with pride. I suppose that being a police officer in Palm Springs, you didn’t often get the excitement of a big case like this one. I assumed he spent more of his time chasing down hustlers who stole gold watches from old gay men, or handing out fines to businesses with unauthorized pots of geraniums on their doorsteps.
“There was more than one lawsuit?” Monette guessed again.
“Nope. Martin and Rex once were lovers.”
The sergeant’s pronouncement produced a stunned silence and even one or two whistles of amazement. This was big news. In fact, this could, in Monette’s words, break the case wide open.
“You see, Rex and Martin were in business years ago together,” Gorski said. “According to Martin, Rex fell for a younger guy and decided to split with Martin. When he did, Martin said he took the bulk of the business and the furnishings in the house.”
“Martin told you this?” I said, astonished since he had revealed almost nothing to us. Or had he?
Monette nodded her head in an of-course manner. “So that’s what he meant when he said that Robert and I had no idea what Rex had done to him and how he got tired of Rex cleaning him out. Now it all makes sense. There was much more than a lawsuit gone bad.”