Anthiny Bidulka

by Aloha, Candy Hearts (lit)

  Then Elizabeth Taylor came to my rescue.

  "Where's Richard?" I asked Sereena, who, since I'd seen her at the Childhelp luncheon, had completely transformed herself into Liz Taylor, circa 1960s. Her head was piled high with mountain­ous, bouffant black hair, she wore plenty of eye makeup and loads of jewellery. The heaving bosom, though, was all her.

  "I'm so dreadfully tired of him." Her nasal, sex kitten tone was perfect. "I'm in the mood for a senator this week."

  With my hands strategically placed in front of me, I said, "Sereena, about this outfit..."

  "Hello." We were joined by someone wearing a dowdy, brack-ish-hued outfit that might have been natty in the 1920s (probably the last time it saw an ironing board).

  "Let me guess," I said as I appraised Errall's new look. "Alice B. Toklas."

  "Close. Gertrude Stein. I don't really know much about the avante garde literary world, but they were the most famous les­bian lovers I could think of that I had the wardrobe for."

  "You had that in your closet?"

  "Long story." She gave my package an assessing stare, her right eyebrow raised high. "Who are you supposed to be? Jeff Stryker?"

  "Who's that?"

  "Famous gay porn star from the Eighties? Why don't you know that?" Why don't I?

  Sereena gave each of us a piece of paper. "Before the end of the evening I want you to return these to me."

  I looked at the blank slip. "What's this?"

  "I want you to write out a message for the newlyweds. Nothing lengthy required. We'll be entering them into the electric sign, along with the telegrams, e-mails, and well-wishes that have been pouring in from all over the world."

  She pointed to a corner of the room where a road-sign-sized monitor sat. It was the kind that usually delivers messages like: "Reduce Speed—Construction Ahead" or "Traffic Reduced to One Lane

  " or "All Rose Bouquets 50% Off.”

  “That's a great idea, Sereena."

  "Yes," she agreed. "It'll be set up on the lawn during the recep­tion, and scroll through each message while we have our cock­tails."

  "Hi!"

  Everyone looked at the new addition to our group. He was also wearing tights, but, unlike mine, his magnificently embroidered, laced tunic fell modestly to mid thigh. His sleeves were proudly puffy, as was his chest. It was Damien, looking very dashing, I sup­pose.

  "Wow, that's quite the outfit," Errall commented.

  "From the fifteen-hundreds," Damien said with a curt nod of his head, which was resplendent in a plumed hat. "The men were all about being fancy back then."

  I shook my head. There he goes, I thought, showing off that he's smart as well as pretty. Gawd, I hate when that happens. "Who exactly are you supposed to be?" I asked.

  He gave me a killer smile accompanied by an arched eyebrow. "Romeo Montague at your service," he announced with a bow and flourish of his arm.

  Oh save it.

  "Does that mean...?" Errall started off, quickly surveying the room until she found what she was looking for. She shrieked. We all turned to see what had elicited such a reaction.

  "Oh my," Sereena commented dryly. "Juliet has certainly filled out."

  Big, burly, bulky Ethan Ash was lumbering towards us, decked out as the pride of the Capulet family. His dress was crim­son with gold brocade detailing, his hair a hip-length shaft of brown mess. There'd been an unsuccessful attempt at cosmetic application.

  I couldn't quite tell from the set of Ethan's face whether he was mad, sad, or simply in shock to realize he'd never make even a half-decent drag queen. Many gay men, whether they actually ever plan to do it or not, assume—with no real evidence to support this—that throwing on a frock, a pair of stilettos, and applying some lipstick, will magically morph them into Marilyn Monroe, with the voice of Barbra and the wit of Bette (Midler or Davis, doesn't matter). They figure it's one of their unassailable rights as a homosexual. The fact that they have broad shoulders, hairy legs, a baritone, and have never told a joke in their lives doesn't dis­suade them for a second. The result is often shockingly and hideously disappointing.

  As the ungainly Juliet stepped into our circle, Damien fell to his knees and recited in a dramatic voice, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek! Good Night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow."

  Oh, good, lord.

  Errall, however, thought it quite the show of chivalry and gal­lantry. "Oh Romeo, where art my very own just like you?"

  I was about to point out that he'd mixed up the quotes, taking the best bits from Acts I and II, not to mention one of Juliet's lines, but quickly concluded that it would be petty. And, in truth, I knew I was just mad because I wanted to be the man kneeling down before Ethan—ugly Juliet or not. Instead, I looked at him and smiled. We'd not talked since the night of the kiss. I knew I should apologize for it, but I really didn't want to. So I said nothing.

  Ethan gave us his good-natured smile and said, "Does this dress make me look fat?"

  We laughed. Damien explained how he'd come up with the idea of Romeo and Juliet, but at the last minute couldn't go through with wearing the dress. Ethan sportingly took on the role of Juliet, the gown meant for a smaller man, and the ill-conceived makeup job.

  "Come with me," Sereena said as she pulled Ethan from our group. "We have a few minutes before the rehearsal begins. You're a girl in desperate need of a visit to the powder room."

  Damien scurried after them.

  "Does it seem weird to you," Errall remarked, "that Anthony and Jared are getting married tomorrow?"

  I gave her a look. What was she getting at? "No, I don't think so. Why do you say that? Don't you think they should?"

  "Of course I do. It's just that there's been such a rash of gay weddings. It's like a runaway train. I feel like it's taken over my social calendar for the last couple of years. Every weekend I'm going to a 'gay wedding.' And why do people call them that? They're just weddings, people, not gay weddings!

  "I don't know," she continued with a sigh, "it just seems kind of weird. Imagine if all this time eating cornflakes was outlawed. Suddenly the law changes and everybody can eat cornflakes wher­ever they want, whenever they want. So they do, whether they really want to or not. I just wonder if half the people eating corn­flakes are doing it before they've even had a chance to figure out if they like the damn things."

  I gave Errall a sideways look. "Would you and Kelly have got­ten married?"

  "Hell yeah," she said without hesitation, then quickly laughed at herself. "It just seems so odd going to all these weddings at once, all our friends getting married at the same time. These are weddings that should have happened fifteen years ago. But here we are, heading into our forties, attending our first round of nup­tials and getting hitched ourselves. How will we ever find the time to have kids, fool around, get divorced, and discover the joy of sec­ond marriages?"

  I chuckled. For a moment we stood in comfortable silence, watching the people around us. I wondered if now, given her rare companionable mood, was a good time to bring up our concerns about the fate of PWC and Errall's future. "Errall, about this women's clothing store..."

  "Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, I've been meaning to ask you," she said, her eyes glistening with excitement. "I've been trying out names for the shop. What do you think of Errall's Place?"

  I flinched. "Are you offering country fries with your blue plate special?"

  Her face hardened. "Okay. What about No Strane? I really like that one. You know, with my last name being Strane, no strain on your pocketbook, no strain garments...meaning they're affordable and fit well...get it?"

  "Uh, yeah, I get it," I said, looking even less impressed.

  "No?"

  I shook my head.

  "Then what great ideas do you have, Mr. Creative Gay Guy? What would you
call the store? It has to have some kind of name."

  "What about, Errall Strane, Attorney at Law?"

  She made an unhappy sound and, glancing about, asked, "Can we smoke in here?"

  In some ways, Errall was cut from the same cloth as my sister. "No. Errall, I think you're rushing things. Kelly has only been gone a year. You just spread her ashes this week! Give yourself time to settle into a new normal."

  "Kee-rist, have you been reading self-help books again?"

  "I'm not kidding around. I wonder...we've all been wondering if maybe you're being just a wee bit rash."

  '"We? Meaning you, Dr. Phil, and the Amazing Kreskin?"

  "Errall, of course Beverly and Alberta and I don't want to leave PWC. But we also care about you and what you're doing with your life. We'll leave in three months, hell, we'll leave right now if you want us to, but don't change PWC just yet. Don't give up your law practice. Don't rush into something you might regret. Just...just chill for a while."

  "What makes you think you can tell me what to do?" Her piercing blues were flaming. "Then again, I suppose you of all peo­ple should know about regret."

  "What do you mean by that?" Big mistake. I'd taken the bait.

  "Tomorrow you're going to watch a man who you've lusted after for a decade, walk down the aisle with a man who has always looked out for you and been the best friend you ever had." Her words were heavy and spit out like nails meant to be driven into my chest. "Do you regret never telling either of them the truth? Don't you think it's about time you told Anthony that your friend­ship is a sham, because you're in love with Jared? And what about Keith?" she changed direction without hesitation. "Kelly told me all about you and him. Four years the two of you were together. From what I hear, you just walked away. Do you regret that?"

  "We weren't ri..." I stuttered, but she wasn't letting me off the hook yet.

  "And what about now, Russell? You're hiding an engagement with one man, while hanging around here giving puppy dog looks to another man, who you know very well is in love with someone else!"

  The silence that followed the outburst was truly deafening. It felt like an explosion of nothingness in my ears. My cheeks burned with fury and embarrassment and surprise. How could she say these horrible things to me? Had I really betrayed my friendship with Anthony and Jared? Had I been unfair to Keith, my lover for almost four years when I was in my twenties? Was Ethan.. .in love?

  Our eyes met and all the hurt and pain and fear we felt inside were communicated in that gaze, a look too potent to sustain for long. Seldom have I ever seen tough-as-nails Errall Strane cry. Today was no different, but as she stalked off, I saw the sharp blades of her thin back shudder.

  The rehearsal went smoothly. Luckily there were enough jovial people about, behind which Errall and I could hide our misery. We both half-heartedly partook in the medieval feast. We both left early.

  By the time I got home I was feeling black and blue all over, with­out anyone laying a finger on me.

  Giving in to longing looks, I handed Barbra and Brutus each a ham-flavoured doggie treat (a favourite). I made myself a strong gin and tonic with a quarter of a fresh lime squeezed into it. We made the pilgrimage from kitchen to den and settled on the couch.

  I was still wearing my Nureyev getup. Damned if the thing wasn't comfortable, especially once I sloughed off the tunic. Brutus slumped down on the floor next to the unlit fireplace, as if in wait for crisp fall weather. Barbra, a little more in tune with my mood, hopped onto the sofa and set her fuzzy head on my lap. Every now and then her rough tongue would dart from her mouth to lick my hand.

  Errall and I had a long and stormy history of biting each other's head off. We were just that way with one another. Like two hungry locusts trying to be friends. Sometimes it ended badly. Like tonight. Usually the words we threw against each other meant nothing, other than that we were frustrated and needed someone to lash out at. Errall was going through a load of personal crap right now. Her acting like a bitch to me wasn't that difficult to fig­ure out.

  But I had to wonder if she was right about some of what she'd hurled at me. I'd made my peace with how I felt about Jared long ago. Anthony could not doubt that I loved him and Jared as friends. My attraction to my best friend's boyfriend was undeni­able. It went deeper than his looks. Something about him pulled me to him. But all those feelings had come to a head five years ago when Jared and I had been abandoned in the middle of a killing winter blizzard. We had no idea where we were. He'd been wounded. We'd only barely found shelter before hypothermia could set in. We survived. We saved each other. It was during those desperately dark hours that we cemented our love for one anoth­er—as friends—for life. That friendship is the most important thing between me and Jared. Sure, I still think the guy is heart-tug-gingly sweet and drop dead gorgeous, but my yearning for him is long over. In my heart, I knew I was truly thrilled that Anthony and Jared were getting married tomorrow.

  And all that stuff about Keith, well, she knew nothing about that. The relationship was over ten years ago. I was young. Idealistic. A bit stupid, maybe. But what about Alex? And Ethan? I hated to admit Errall might be right in that case. My behaviour over the past week had been abominable. I hadn't returned Alex's call. I'd kissed Ethan. What was wrong with me?

  I feared that this too, wasn't so difficult to figure out.

  I had other problems to deal with as well. There was a murder­er out there. And I had a feeling I was getting very close to finding out who it was. The closer I got, the more dangerous it became. But there was no turning back now. I'd volunteered for this job.

  The ringing of my phone startled me. I checked my watch. Not yet eleven p.m. Probably Sereena wondering where I'd disap­peared to. I set down my drink and reached for the phone.

  "Hello."

  "Mr. Quant?"

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  "It's Reginald Cenyk, from the university archives."

  "Of course, hello." I hadn't recognized his voice. It sounded higher and even squeakier than before. And there was something else I could hear over the phone line. He sounded frightened.

  "I did what you asked," he told me. "I've just finished going through the Durhuaghe collection."

  "Oh gosh, Reginald, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to give up your Friday night to do this."

  "I had to," he told me. "Once you told me you thought there might be something missing from our archives, I had to be sure. I take my position here and the reputation of the archives very seri­ously, Mr. Quant."

  "Of course, I understand. Thank you." I waited a beat, and then asked, "Did you find anything?"

  "I'm afraid I didn't find any indication of your missing journal or the letters. But...I did find something else. Something you might be interested in."

  I got that great little tingly feeling detectives get when a seed of their investigation sprouts a clue. "What is it, Reginald?"

  There was a deadly silence on the line. It lasted so long I wor­ried he'd hung up. Then I heard: "I-I-I don't know if I should tell you."

  "Why not? Of course you should tell me. This could have something to do with Walter Angel's murder. You knew Walter. He was your co-worker, your friend." I had no idea whether the two men had been friends or not, but it was worth a shot. "Why would ­n't you tell me?"

  "I'm...I'm afraid. This involves some very...well, powerful people. I could get fired. Or worse."

  "Reginald, where are you right now? Are you still at the archives? I can meet you there, or wherever you say. Right now. Tonight."

  "No!" he exclaimed. "Not now! I can't do this right now.”

  “Okay, okay. When? Where? If you feel you're in danger, I can help you."

  "Tomorrow maybe."

  My heart sank. The clock was ticking. "I can meet you now," I offered again.

  "Tomorrow," he insisted. "I need some time to think about this some more."

  That's what I was worried about. I worried he'd think himself right out of talking to me.
But the archivist was the one in control. All I could do was make it easy for him.

  "Okay. Just name the time and place."

  There was another silence while he considered this. Then he said, "Do you know the Impark parking lot on the corner of First Avenue

  and Twentieth Street

  ?"

  "The one across from the Galaxy Theatre?

  "Yes. It's near where I live. It should be safe there. Meet me on the top level. Nobody should be able to see us up there. Park in the southeast corner. I'll find you."

  "Yeah, sure. What time?"

  "Midnight. Most of the movie traffic will be gone by then. Can you be there at midnight? If I don't show up it's because I think there's someone else around or something weird is going on...I can't lose my job over this ....I have to be sure."

  This guy was freaking petrified. It made me wonder what exactly he'd found in those archives. "Yeah, for sure. I'll be there."

  Midnight would be just when the party was getting going tomorrow night. I had no idea how I was going to slip away unno­ticed from the wedding festivities, but I'd deal with that when the time came. "And don't worry. I'll be extra careful that no one fol­lows me."

  He hung up and I was left listening to a beep beep beep on the line, telling me I had a message. I hadn't bothered to check when I got home. I typed in my code and listened for the message:

  "Mr. Quant, you have no idea who you're messing with. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from me, and my fam­ily, and my past. If you don't, I will make your life a living hell." I knew the voice. Sherry Fisher.

  And then the power went out.

  Oh crap. The woman meant business.

  Chapter 13

  I'd only managed a couple of hours of sleep. With my power turned off—by the mayor's wife?—my alarm clock was useless and I was afraid I'd sleep in. I couldn't afford to waste one minute today. Not only was I hot on the trail of a killer, but I was best man at the wedding of two of my best friends. That's a nice full day.