by Jack Wallen
“Sure, kid. But you’ll have to wait in the car so you don’t mess things up.”
“I just wanna get some fresh air.” Jason grabbed his can of caffeine and followed me upstairs. “You don’t know how stuffy this place gets after twenty-four hours bent in front of a computer screen. And by ‘bent,’ I mean…”
He had to be kidding.
“…not the opposite of straight.”
He wasn’t.
“When we get back, I’m going to scour that machine for anything suspect.”
“Now, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, and not a word of this to anyone. The chief has this case closed, and I don’t want him knowing I’ve gone against His Lard-Ass’s authority.”
FIVE
Seven o’clock on a Friday night was a strange time to be stepping into a church, especially when it was to meet with a cross-dressing informant. I couldn’t wait to try and keep this one under wraps. I was counting on Jason to keep quiet. I had still asked him to remain in the car, though. The last thing I needed was for something to go horribly wrong while an innocent government employee was with me.
The inside of the church was dim enough that I had to strain to search even for a six-foot man in a black dress and blond wig. But just as he said, he was there, sitting down center with his head bowed.
Trying to be as quiet and reverent as possible, I slowly made my way to the front of the sanctuary. Fortunately, S’Fonda was the only person in the front row, so the awkwardness would quickly subside.
“S’Fonda, I presume?” I spoke in my best church voice.
“Unless you see another man in drag around, you presume correctly.” His whisper was caught somewhere between masculine and feminine. “Please sit with me, but let me finish my prayer.”
The man made for a very proper woman. He bowed his head again, his satin-gloved hands clasped in the familiar prayer position, as I sat. The sanctuary was silent. Not being a regular at any church made the silence of worship somewhat frightening to me. I was always afraid that inside a church your thoughts could be heard, thoughts that I certainly didn’t want others to hear. It was a discomforting, irrational fear, which kept me away from religion for the most part.
This particular church was actually pretty amazing; it was almost gaudy. The sanctuary could easily seat over a thousand; there were video cameras, screens, and studio-quality microphones. This place was loaded for prayer with gilded wings. Obviously, the rich knew the path to heaven was wide enough for their SUVs, and it began here.
So, S’Fonda was either a trust-fund drag queen or a closeted lawyer. Either way, he had my rapt attention for the moment.
“Officer Davenport, I really don’t know what to say about Jamee,” S’Fonda said in that oddly mixed-gendered voice. “Jamee was my best friend. He had been for years.”
I had to interrupt. There were obvious questions to ask. “S’Fonda…..” Before I could even get beyond his name, he lifted a tortuously long finger up to my lips.
“Shhhhhh. Don’t speak, just listen.” Dumbfounded, I sat staring straight forward as he spoke. His voice was sounding less and less masculine.
“There is an unwritten law among cross-dressers that if one does not share their real name, one remains anonymous. There is another law—that we do not make sexual advances to one another unless it is publicly welcome. We are not a group of sexual perverts. Do you understand? These laws are strictly upheld within this community. But there are those who come in with the sole purpose of breaking those laws. Even worse, there are those who come in with the sole intention of breaking down our community. I have witnessed this type of incursion a number of times. I am, shall we say, wiser than I look.”
The man flashed me a smile and a wink. The metaphor of age did not go unheard. Neither did the stoic tone of the voice. This man, clad in his best Jackie Kennedy-wear, was one serious cookie, as well as my only lead to proving that Walter Jameson did not commit suicide. There was something else to Miss Heels. I couldn’t quite place it, but it was as if the person was hiding behind an unreal mask, making everything seem so false it slid, unseen, into the realm of reality.
“There will be more deaths in our community. I can promise you that.” He caught my attention that time!
“How can you be sure?” My tone remained calm and hushed. S’Fonda reached into his purse and pulled out an envelope.
“Inside this envelope, you will find a portion of a letter that was sent to the president of the Southern Belles, which would be me. In case you’ve not done your homework, the Southern Belles is an officially recognized organization for the furthering of the transgendered culture in Louisville. We are a peaceful, warmhearted group and have done nothing to bring this about.” His satin-gloved hand relinquished the envelope as if he were handing me the deed to his soul. “I know this isn’t a direct threat to the safety of our group, but there is something hidden in those words, something I can’t discern. But this is a warning, I’m sure of it.”
Inside the envelope was a folded half-sheet of printer paper that had an obviously manufactured yellowed look. Fortunately, I carried a pair of examination gloves with me; I never knew when I was going to need to play either doctor or detective. The paper had apparently been ripped in half and contained the left half of a printed message. Unfortunately, the paper had been ripped in half vertically, so none of the sentences were complete. The message read:
You may think me a mad
I hold the key to your
I know your very secret
I know the path to your very
I will hand you your dreams.
Once you have been touched by me,
holds the change and you will
You will finally become that which
Love and hugs
Dr. Gabrielle Lakmé
“I’m assuming you don’t have the other half of this letter?” I gently prodded S’Fonda, in the hope that he was only playing some sort of rite-of-passage test on me.
“I wish I did. This is the original copy of the letter and has only been touched by me; and, as you can see, my fingers were in satin.” He held up his gloved hands. “I copied the letter and tried to finish the lines, but it was a bit too much for me. I assumed that you might have better means to deal with such a puzzle.”
I wanted to tell him that he was correct, but the truth of the matter was that it would just be a bunch of caffeinated brainiacs sitting around a table attempting to piece together this riddle. But I played the hand exactly as he was hoping I would. “We have the means, yes. I’ll make sure this goes directly to forensics. Is that all you have?”
His demeanor seemed to change ever so slightly. The proud shoulders slumped in defeat; the steady breath began to herald tears. “I just want you to catch this man and bring him to justice for snuffing out a very bright light in our community.” There was a genuine tone in his voice as he said this that I hadn’t heard in his previous words.
“We’ll do our best, S’Fonda.” God, I could be so lame, sometimes! We’ll do our best was all I could muster? Well, it seemed enough because it bolstered the man to his original demeanor.
“Thank you, Detective. I bet your mother is very proud of you.” His last statement sent a shiver down my spine. There was something, I don’t know, kind of voodoo about the way he made his last proclamation. Before I could react, S’Fonda was up and crossing to the altar to kneel and pray. Of course, it was over for me. I might have desecrated a lot of sanctity in my time, but a church was not included on that list. It was time for me to make my exit, but I couldn’t stop thinking of what S’Fonda had last said. Why did he mention my mother? Had this man gone digging into my past? I wasn’t sure if it was my inexperience, but something about that man gave me pause to suspect, which was in direct opposition to how my heart felt.
As I walked out of the church, I decided the man had just been speaking out of kindness. I marched to the door and walked out into the Louisville evening air.
Jason was still waiting in the car. As soon as I shut the door, he looked at me as if I had the answer to the meaning of life. I filled him in on the odd conversation with S’Fonda, as well as the contents of the letter. The letter excited him most of all. Jason loved a good challenge. I promised him he would get a crack at the letter soon enough. He promised me the day was far from over for him, and he would be able to put in plenty of time on the letter tonight.
Geeks – their work is never done.
I also knew the letter would need to be submitted into evidence. That was a problem. The second the chief got wind of me pursuing a case he was in the process of closing, my ass would be dead. This bit of evidence would have to remain on the down-low, if I was going to remain an officer.
SIX
Club Connect was crazy with youth when he arrived. People from every corner of Louisville were out in force to celebrate the opening of the weekend-long Gay Pride Festival, so the festivities had started extra early. Louisville’s gay community was an open one, so no matter how damning the religious right became, the pride flags would fly righteously in the sky. The purple neon of the club illuminated the silk cloth like nature’s own rainbow.
Tonight, no one would suspect that he would be among them. He didn’t stand out. Even the name he had chosen for himself so long ago wouldn’t stand out. ‘Lakmé,’ taken from the opera his mother adored, was such a fitting name…but it would do nothing to make the man stand out in a crowed of eccentric beauties. Average in every possible way, he stood outside the club doors like any middle-aged gawker hoping to score a trick or two. And there were definitely tricks. But the trick he wished to score was sequestered deep within the bowels of the club, preparing to put on a show for the boys, girls, and everything in between.
Club Connect was the proud sponsor of the National Drag Show where the crème de le femme arrived sporting more lamé and feathers than Barbra, Liza, and Cher combined. Of course, Barbra, Liza, and Cher would all be here, represented by one state or another, just as they had in nearly every drag show held at Club Connect. Ah, the old standards.
He hadn’t yet caught the scent of the wannabes. Tonight, his scalpel was fixed on a local favorite, Tye Siam. Tye was fortunate to naturally have the slender beauty that so many queens suffered for. She was a scrawny beanpole of a man, which made for a very majestic woman. Siam would make a delicious prize whose transformation would be the most splendid yet. The remolding of that toy would be artistic and perfect. This would put his demons at peace, and he could live a life without shame. Finally.
His watch reported 10:25. It was five minutes until the first of two shows, but he would sit and wait patiently. He had to bathe in patience, or else be taken down by his own desire. For him, waiting for the procedure had become a Zen-like art form. As always, he sat and focused all of his energy forward. He stared ahead at the bare stage, which would soon be flowing with the Asian beauty he currently coveted, and focused his thoughts on what was to come. He walked through the perfectly rehearsed steps in his mind. The invitation, the courtship, the tease of transformation, and the tortured fear the patient would most certainly display. He knew the night would be quite special. He had stalked Tye for many months in preparation for what would bring him the silence of his own lambs.
He closed his eyes. Turning ever inward, he drifted off to wait for his cue. The plan was in place. The game had started. It was only a matter of time.
****
In the dressing rooms, things were hopping along as they typically did on Friday nights. The girls were fighting like cats, and the ego was as thick as a drag queen’s lashes, but not nearly as inviting.
“Now listen here, you third-rate, hackneyed queen of a bitch, I’ve been in this biz for over a decade. I don’t need kiddies like you flappin’ their gums trying to tell me how to run my numbers. I’m an old pro and…”
“More like, old crow,” S’Fonda whispered. This brought every shaved hair on every back in the room to stand on edge. A new rivalry had been born and bred among the queens of Club Connect; it was one that promised to last well beyond the hose, highlights, and hair spray.
Shantee very slowly slithered over to S’Fonda’s side. “Now you listen, and you listen good….”
“Does Grandma have a story to tell me?” S’Fonda spoke in a childish voice for effect. That brought about a pause only a queen could fill.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t even say that. You see, if I were to acknowledge the fact that your nasty mouth uttered those words, I’d have to have you shit-canned from this stage.” Shantee spit out the tail of the sentence and flopped hard in front of his mirror. S’Fonda wasn’t finished.
“Now, you listen, you washed-up, coke-snorting queen. Just because you happened to get your willy snipped and married his highness, the Lord God mayor of this town, doesn’t mean…” Shantee’s open hand met S’Fonda’s cheek, leaving a bright red thank-you card.
“I’m only going to warn you one last time. That news travels no further than this dressing room. Everyone in this town thinks I am a genetic woman, and it’s going to stay that way. If it were to leak out that the mayor’s wife could have been his brother, he’d be laughed out of office and out of town. And if it were to leak out, my dear, you’d be laughed out of a job and quite possibly your life. I promise you that.”
Shantee’s threats were not hollow. So far, the ranking officer of the Louisville drag circuit had managed to get rid of seven of its top queens. No one dared to cross the elder, not even a hot-headed, up-and-coming star like S’Fonda Heels.
“I may be rash at times, but I’m not stupid. We all know the rules. Outside of this room, the mayor’s dear wife has always been a woman through and through. I may not like you, but I do know how to play the game.”
The two stood meeting eye to eye quite possibly for the first and only time. The room was ripe with sweat, hair spray, and venom. No one uttered a word as the two girls breathed deep the air of power, each hoping to overtake the other. But, as usual, the reigning queen would not relinquish her throne. There was good reason; she was queen of the queens…
“Thank you.” The words slithered out of Shantee’s crimson lips. S’Fonda sat back down at his dressing mirror and started the lengthy transformation process.
Tye Siam was the first to break the tension. “Thank God that’s over. I was afraid I was going to have to pull off my wig and get my referee hat on!”
Sugah Brown leaned over and whispered, “Shoo, girl, I was sho someone was gonna up and break a nail on this one! Damn, we’d a had ta call the man in on this one, fo sho.”
“Mmmmm hmmmm…” Tye managed before Shantee snapped her fingers to demand the silence she required for preparation. Once again, Sugah Brown leaned over to Tye.
“I wish dat bitch would up an’ git her own dressin’ room. I’s fed up wit dis quiet shit. I wanna part-ay ‘fore I shake it like dat.”
S’Fonda whispered softly, “Well, get used to it, Sugah. Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that but ‘til death do we part.”
Sugah Brown rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers. “You know, I gots friends what could take care o’ dat.”
S’Fonda’s eyes grew as wide as pies. She looked over at Sugah and slowly shook her head in an attempt to instill the fear of Jesus into her soul sister.
“Now, don’t go an’ think I’d be doin’ nothin’ like dat. I may not be the smartest dress in da closet, but I sho ain’t stupid, girlfriend. You catchin’ my groove?”
S’fond winked at Sugah, and the only sounds heard afterward were a blow dryer’s hum and satin being pulled over hose.
SEVEN
There was a cloud of smoke wafting over the heads of the audience. Unseen by the masses was another cloud billowing around the house, a cloud of shame and angst. But only he knew of its existence. Only he knew that between male and female lay a darkness that no one should have to suffer. He had suffered in the past, but he would suffer no longer. With the transformations
came peace and a sense of righteousness. Bringing the gift of womanhood to the gender-confused washed him of his sins and the guilt that was so deeply rooted in his childhood.
The familiar pain hit him like a bolt of lightning to the eye. The pain of remembering. He often had flashes of his youth, accompanied by a chain reaction of headaches that traversed the landscape of his entire skull, before he approached a patient. Each memory struck him through the heart and threatened to stop its thumping. He held his hands to his head. Everything and everyone around him drizzled into darkness and was replaced by a memory.
His fourth birthday. Cakes and clowns and children. His mother had yet to bring the birthday boy out to make his big entrance. It was always a spectacle for the adults, but now the child was of an age that he could begin to appreciate the attention and affection. But this year, the attention would most certainly be unwanted. This year, the mother would finally have the little girl she had always wanted. She brought the birthday boy out to his cake and presents clad in the prettiest pink ruffled dress, patent Mary Janes, and lace bonnet. All of the children screamed at the prospect of getting cake, and all of the adults looked on in embarrassment.
The memory flashed to the mother and father, vehemently arguing about the incident. Father, face blood-red with anger, swings his arm in contempt and strikes the mother. Mother falls to the floor. Father turns and leaves. Mother remains on the floor. Child cries. No one hears. No one comes to the naked child’s rescue. The child cries, tears falling on the naked boy’s belly.
Without warning, the memories stopped. The pain, however, remained for a curtain call and received a standing ovation from the roaring crowd in his head.
The glass in his hand had shattered from his grip during the fugue. There was blood pooling on the table in front of him. He knew that sight all too well, and would know it again and again until the pain and suffering ebbed away.