Biceps Of Death

by David Stukas

  “Eric Bogert,” I answered.

  “Yes, Eric. I would think that killing off the first personal trainer would be enough to scare the second into abandoning his blackmailing. See, we don’t know enough about what happened before the two murders. If we understood that, we’d know the motivations the killers have. Robert, I think it’s time we got on the Internet. I may be a committed lesbian, but I’m dying to see what a traffic cone looks like up a man’s butt.”

  5

  How the Hell Did That Get Up There?

  We gathered around Monette’s computer in her living room and watched eagerly as the screen came to life.

  “Now where did you store the pictures?” she asked, clicking her way around from site to site. I gave her the website address where I have online storage facilities. She clicked on the folder marked Vacation Pictures and downloaded the contents to her own computer.

  “Hey, those are my pictures,” I said as I now realized that myself and a very clever burglar were no longer the only owners of the incriminating pictures.

  “I can’t believe you, Robert. Here I am assuming great risk to myself by downloading these potentially valuable pictures and you’re being stingy. Plus, this way, I can look at them at my leisure without having to go on the Internet.”

  I looked at her skeptically.

  Monette rolled her eyes back at me in response. “Robert, I know that my sex life isn’t that good right now—okay, ever—but sitting around with a vibrator inside of me looking at pictures of naked men ...” she said as she clicked on one of the folders and was presented with a man doing, well, what I thought was impossible. “... successfully sitting on a mature eggplant is one of the last things I can imagine doing. Look at it, Robert, he’s swallowed the—!”

  “Yes, I see ... the whole vegetable! Monette, dear, could you please click on another folder ... this is something I don’t want to see.”

  “Okay, let’s go about this thing logically,” Monette suggested. “I think we’re looking for two different people. One stole the original CD from your locker. The other, from your apartment. I can’t believe the two are the same. What I’m theorizing is that our suspects are so desperate to keep their pictures out of the public eye, that everyone is about to go over the edge—and two just did.”

  “Yes, Monette, but stealing a compact disk and murdering two people are not quite the same thing.”

  “True, but I said some people are quite desperate. They killed to suppress the CD, then broke into your locker and your apartment to get the disk.”

  “So now that they think they have the disk, they might rest, right?” I said hopefully.

  “Let’s hope so,” Monette replied. “Okay, it’s time to make a list of our suspects so we can go strong-arm them into giving us some information.”

  “Monette, these guys aren’t going to let us blackmail them into telling us information.”

  “Remember, Robert, if you’re going to be a great detective, never assume.”

  “Because you make an ass out of u and me,” I added, reciting what hundreds of college kids before me have heard by nerdy professors thinking this was the first time their class ever heard it.

  “Okay, let’s go through the index of Eric’s clients, match them up to their particular fantasies, and come up with a list of suspects.”

  Click, click, click. Monette moved from the index to the various client picture folders. “Check this out,” she implored me.

  I peered into the computer glow to see a man with a heavy five-o’clock shadow with barrettes in his hair and heavily applied lipstick dressed in a bustier with hot pants and hairy legs tucked into red-hot marabou mules. It was like watching an extremely bad drag show.

  “Now I know where Frank got the inspiration for his last collection,” I said.

  “Frank Addams. Forced feminization.” Click, click. “Add that to the pad, Robert,” Monette instructed me.

  “Check,” I replied.

  “Chet Ponyweather. Horse-riding gear, ass beating with a riding crop. Wears a horse saddle occasionally. Hey—you and Chet have something in common, but his top rides sidesaddle—very proper.”

  “Very funny. Got it. Proceed.”

  “George Sheffield, Republican mayoral candidate, into dressing like a baby. Now where the hell do you get oversize infant clothing like that?” Monette asked to the air around her.

  “Baby Gap for Big and Tall Men?” I offered.

  “Two points, Robert.”

  “Uh-huh. Next.”

  “Oh fuck me backwards on a tractor!” she blurted out in tones that would not only wake the dead, but make them put their boney hands to their ears. “Hardcourt, my boss! He’s into wearing superhero outfits!” she laughed. “I don’t believe my luck today. Spiderman, Batman, and here he is tied up as Robin. Heh, heh, heh, something tells me I’m going to be getting that raise after all. Are you getting this down, Robert?”

  “Yes, Hardcourt, Robin, Spiderman ...”

  “And the saddest-looking Batman I’ve ever seen. Not even Adam West on TV’s Batman was that paunchy. It’s a good thing he’s wearing that chest plate with the built-in abs. Okay, okay, I’ll stop. On to the next.”

  Click, click.

  Monette began shouting in horror. “Please, gouge out my eyes! I’ve seen the flabby ass and Baptist-sausage-and-pancake-church-supper stomach of televangelist Allen Firstborn!”

  When she was done performing her theatrics, her eyes lit up and sparkled like supernovas. “Allen Firstborn ... ALLEN FIRSTBORN! I DON’T BELIEVE IT! It’s like someone just gave me a banana cream pie and a clear shot at Dr. Laura!”

  It was too good to be true, but there he was in the flesh, literally.

  “Eeeeeuuuuuw!” the two of us chorused.

  Monette shielded her eyes in horror. “I don’t ever want to see anything like that again. Oh, are we going to have fun with this!” Monette squealed, which was quite something since Monette was not the kind of woman who squealed.

  “You read my thoughts exactly. And Monette ...” I said, placing my hand on hers in mock seriousness. “No matter what happens to me, you get these pictures to any Rupert Murdoch newspaper, okay? Promise me.”

  “You have my solemn word, Robert. So was Allen doing what I thought he was doing before I considered gouging out my eyes with grapefruit spoons?”

  “If you lived on upper Park Avenue, you’d say he was getting a high colonic.”

  “Very tastefully presented, Robert.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I assume that there is some kind of fetish thing going on here. You don’t think he’s one of those overpampered people who can no longer take a dump like normal people?” Monette asked.

  “I think this guy is into medical scenes. See the speculum on the rolling medical table?”

  “Bravo, Robert. A good point well spotted. You know what I’m noticing about all these photographs?”

  “That it makes you want to swear off sex completely?”

  “That too. No, none of these pictures have Eric in them. Cody seems to have taken them all. I’m getting the feeling that Cody did all the work and Eric did the blackmailing.”

  “I’ve had the same sneaking suspicion,” I added.

  We continued to go through the folders of clients, with me making detailed notes on our legal pad matrix. Monette looked at me with a sudden seriousness. “Jesus, now I know just how badly people want to get their hands on this CD. Millions of dollars are at stake here ... in political circles, religious circles—and we’ve just begun to lift the rocks up in this messy affair. There’s no telling what will crawl out next.”

  Without taking my eyes off the computer screen, I asked, “Monette, you’re not sorry you let me stay here for the night, are you?”

  Her reply was instantaneous. “Heavens no, Robert. We’ve been through three murder cases, wars, famines, and one showing of Dogma, with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon. No, I wouldn’t desert you in this time of need.” Just to
emphasize the point, she gave me one of her rib-cracking hugs. “You did take more than one cab, didn’t you?”

  “To lose the reporters?”

  “Well, them, but, more importantly, someone nastier.”

  “Oh, Mr. X? Yes, I took several. I even had cab number two do an illegal U-turn on East Seventy-Ninth Street, followed by a dash down Eightieth, then back onto the FDR Drive.”

  “Good boy. Okay, first things first. We need to know who’s after that CD because until we do, your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel.”

  “Well, when you put it like that, Monette, my future all seems so bright.”

  “You know what I mean. Now who is the detective assigned to your case?”

  “McMillan. Luke McMillan.”

  “Yes, Detective McMillan. Unfortunately, he is not going to come out and give you a lot of information because that’s privileged for the grand jury. But I think we have enough to go on with our little fetish matrix. Don’t you worry—we’ll find out who’s after you—and why.

  “Wow, I just can’t get over how rich Cody’s clientele was. It looks like he did most of his calls to the clients’ apartments. Jesus! Look at these apartments, Robert! The guy in the last folder had a place on Fifth Avenue, around Eighty-Fourth Street, judging from the position of the Metropolitan Museum in the photo. Outrageously expensive furniture, stunning views. Look at this guy’s place, Robert. A genuine Van Gogh on the wall.”

  “Wow. How can you be sure it’s Van Gogh?”

  “It’s early Van Gogh. Look at the brushstrokes. It’s his usual theme, too. Peasants in rural France. Coming out of a church on a Sunday morning in autumn. Beautiful.”

  “Do you think it’s real?”

  “Without a doubt. Rich people don’t have posters and framed copies from the Metropolitan Museum gift shop on their occasional tables. No wonder someone’s going to such extremes to get that CD. There are reputations at stake. Some of these guys could be the CEOs of companies that manufacture household cleaners that Methodists in Kansas use to clean their toilets. Knowing that the CEO likes paying a personal trainer to stick fruit and vegetables up his bum isn’t going to fly very well with its customers, whose brains have been disintegrated by these very cleaning products. No, these people will be out for blood. The guys on this disk are probably shittin’ on their priceless Persian rugs right now.”

  “Did you notice the Picasso etching on the table in that one guy’s apartment ... the one wearing the riding outfit in the last folder?”

  “Chet Ponyweather’s? Yes, I did notice it. I also noticed that Frank Addams has several Julian Schnabels in his apartment.”

  “Hmm, there’s a lot to be explored here,” Monette remarked, closing folders and putting her computer to sleep. “Well, I think that’s enough for tonight. How about bad movie night?”

  “The Testicles from Planet Eros?” I asked.

  “Robert, forget about exposing yourself for the cameras. By tomorrow, everyone will have forgotten about it. How about The Beast with a Million Eyes? And I could make my famous nosebleed nachos ...” Monette suggested like a sadistic Julia Child.

  “How about a pizza?” I countered.

  “Robert, you always love my five-alarm nachos.”

  “Of course I do, but not tonight. My stomach’s upset about this mess I’m in.”

  Grabbing my chin, Monette looked straight into my eyes, and perhaps into my heart. “Remember, you’re not in this thing alone. I’m always here.”

  “Thanks, Monette. You’re the kind of friend I need right now.” I was silent for a moment, then changed the subject. “Besides, I need a pizza because I’m not getting any younger, Monette. The last batch of your nachos taught me the meaning of the word flaming asshole.”

  Monette gave a loud laugh that stopped short of cracking plaster. “Okay, I’ll call in the pizza. But at least let me have some jalapeños on it.”

  “On half ... I want mushrooms on my side.”

  Monette opened a bottle of red wine, popped the tape into the VCR, and we waited for the pizza to arrive. Monette didn’t start the movie just yet—that would be blasphemy to watch a bad movie without a slice of cheese pie in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. So we talked about nothing important for some time until the door intercom blared in Monette’s hallway.

  “Yes?”

  “Pizza delivery,” the voice yelled.

  (Why, I wondered, do people always feel they have to yell into the intercom? If you would just talk in a calm rational voice, you’d be heard loud and clear. But no, everyone has to talk so loudly, they make the entire point of the intercom unnecessary or cause so much distortion that you can’t hear the person on the other end.)

  A minute later, there was a knock on the door. Monette opened it.

  “Mmmm, smells wonderful!” she said. “So where’s Gino?” Monette asked.

  “Gino?” the deliveryman asked.

  “Gino, the usual delivery man.”

  “Oh, he sick,” pizza man replied.

  “Well, tell him I hope he feels better.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him,” the man said, smiled, then closed the door gently behind him.

  “Movie time,” Monette announced, carrying the pizza box into the living area, where we sat on the sofa she once rescued from a dumpster and watched the movie to its pathetic conclusion. True to my fear, my nose started bleeding after eating one too many jalapeños.

  When we had finished the movie and cleaned up, Monette helped me prepare the sofa in the living room for my slumber. As I climbed into bed, I asked the question that had been on both of our minds since before I arrived.

  “Monette?”

  “Yes, little Jimmy?” she said like a mother with 2.3 children living in Cleveland, Ohio.

  “Monette, I’ve been here a whole evening and you haven’t played one practical joke on me yet. In fact, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop after the last one I played on you.”

  “I assume you’re referring to the incident where you sent that e-mail to me at work labeled Compromising Photos of Ellen DeGeneres, and when I opened it, the damn thing shot the volume control on my computer way up and screamed, ‘Hey, everyone! I’m looking at porn over here!’ Everyone on my floor heard the fuckin’ thing.”

  “Yes, I recall that I might have had some kind of remote connection to that occurrence.”

  “Robert, it had your signature style written all over it,” Monette said, giving me a sly look. Don’t worry, you’ll get yours,” she added with an evil grin.

  Ever since I met Monette over a decade ago, we both enjoyed playing practical jokes on each other. I think it was the soul mate connection we had with each other that made us both enjoy it, and it was the mental combat that kept things exciting.

  I bid Monette good night and settled down to a well-deserved sleep. The noise from the street kept waking me up since I was used to sleeping in a room in the back of a building. It’s funny how living in New York can make you appreciate the difference between sound levels that would deafen those used to the quiet of the suburbs. My apartment on the Yupper East Side was like sleeping inside the muffler of a taxi cab, and Monette’s apartment was like the inside of a Pratt & Whitney jet engine—it was a difference that mattered.

  At around two-thirty, I awoke to faint noises coming from the window facing Monette’s balcony. Again, I’d slept right through several fire engines a few blocks away, but awoke because of some tiny scratching noises.

  I got up, rubbed my eyes, and went over to the window only to find a man wearing a ski mask partially protruding through an opened window a mere twelve inches from me. The man stared at me for a second and I stared at him, neither of us moving a muscle. Suddenly, there was a horrific, primal growl behind me as I turned to see two glowing eyes racing toward me from Monette’s bedroom down the hall. Amelia must have chewed through her chains, pried opened the bedroom door with her meat hooks and was now barreling down the hall toward my face for a t
aste of blood. Fifteen-pound Ameila bounded through the air and hit me like a linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys, causing me to lose my balance in the darkness and fall back against the window and our burglar. The window, which our nocturnal guest had apparently propped open, came down on his head like a guillotine blade with a sickening bang. Dazed and contused, Mr. Ski Mask raised the window enough to extract his aching head backward, letting the window slam shut a second time. Ameila had landed on the ground nearby and crouched there, growling at me with eyes afire while the burglar (or was he an assailant?) stood unsteadily outside on the balcony, trying, no doubt, to figure out what had just happened. While he was regaining his composure, I went into action.

  I grabbed the nearest heavy object and tossed it through the window at the burglar. The burglar, startled not only by my appearance but also by an unknown object crashing through a window, fell backward over the edge and disappeared, followed by Monette’s 2002 Big Apple Lesbian Soccer Championship trophy.

  Monette flew into the living room like a bat out of hell (which was what she resembled until she had her first cup of coffee in the morning), asking, “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Someone just tried to break in here, and I threw something at him,” I shouted.

  We pushed back what was left of the window and stepped out onto the broken glass of the balcony in our slippers, figuring that we’d be looking down onto the crumpled corpse of the burglar, speared perhaps by Monette’s trophy in a twist of irony—but what we saw was even more amazing. The assailant rose from the sidewalk below and sprinted off, then hobbled, followed by more sprinting, then more hobbling in a painful dance of escape.

  We both sat looking down at Monette’s trophy, lying sadly—but intact—below on the street. During its trip down with our burglar, it must have bounced off the convertible roof of a car parked at the curb and landed somewhat safely in the street.

  “Thank Goddess that you and the trophy are safe,” Monette said with obvious relief.

  Just as Monette’s uttered those words, a taxi came barreling down the street and clobbered the trophy with a speed that left us with jaws agape. The moment of triumph of the Leaping Lesbians of Park Slope was no more.