“Sugar, you look amazing.”
Sugar Pilson was originally from Texas. Not the oil part of Texas, the dusty, tarpaper shack part of Texas. The official story is that she was a cheerleader for the Houston Oilers when she met one of the older Pilsons—who may or may not have been a minority owner of the team—promptly married him and then a year later just as promptly divorced him. There are problems with the story. For one thing, there are rumors that she was never a cheerleader, though with her almost naturally blonde hair and perky figure she certainly looked the part. And, for another, there’s her divorce settlement. The Pilsons gave her far more money than necessary for a one-year marriage. Even in a community property state, which Illinois was not, she would have received a nice settlement that would have kept her for years in a modest condo close to Evanston if she was careful. Instead, she had a three-story home in the most expensive part of Chicago, a car and driver, a condo in Florida for those days when winter was just too dreary, and enough ready cash to devote most of her time to giving it away. Obviously, she knew something about the Pilsons they did not want known, and not just something embarrassing, something potentially devastating.
Brian and Franklin picked out a table and, before I could offer, went to get a round of drinks.
“You’ll find this interesting,” Sugar said leaning close. “Since I shifted so much of my charitable giving over to fighting AIDS, Gloria Silver won’t write a word about me for her column.”
“That’s not true,” I said, trying not to slur. “There was that blind item she did. ‘What cheerleader cum socialite is not recalled at all by her former teammates?’ That wasn’t about you?”
“It’s not. This may come as a surprise to you but Chicago is full of former cheerleaders. Most of whom lie about their ages, making teammates hard to come by.”
There was a little edge to her voice, so I said, “Sugar I don’t care where you came from. You’re all right by me no matter what.”
“And that is the sign of a true gentleman.”
Brian and Franklin came back with a bottle of champagne and three glasses.
“This is the best they have Sugar. It’s nowhere near as good as the bottle we had in the car,” Franklin fawned. “That was amazing.”
“Darling there’s a theory about wine. A very important theory. You always serve the best bottle first when the palate is fresh. The second bottle can be good but need not be too good. The palate has begun to tire. The third bottle can be rotgut. No one can taste it at that point so why waste good wine on people who can’t taste?”
Franklin smiled in a way that was brittle and forced. She was disappointing him, I could tell. He wanted her to be all excess; the best of everything around the clock. And she wasn’t. She was a good-humored woman with a strong will and a lot of money that she liked to put to good use.
Brian tugged on my arm and whispered, “Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry. I owe you an apology.”
“I was worried. You don’t have the safest job in the world.”
“I rented an apartment.”
“Really? You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes I did. If I spent much more time sleeping on your sofa I’d have permanent damage to my spine.”
Franklin asked Sugar how much time she spent in Europe each year. “I went to Europe on my honeymoon. I don’t think we met a single person who wasn’t rude. I can’t think of any reason to go back.”
Brian pulled me a few feet away. “It’s because of Franklin isn’t it?”
“He’s not my favorite person in the world, but he seems to like you. I don’t want to fuck that up.”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“I know he likes me but…I have the feeling that if I get sick, he’ll leave me.”
My heart bounced painfully when he said that. “Are you sick? Do you feel okay?”
“Yeah, I feel fine but you know…it could happen any day. Right?”
“You don’t know him well enough to know what he’ll do. Sometimes people surprise you.” I didn’t want to say it, but Ross surprised us both. And Harker certainly surprised me. And not in good ways. One of us was due for a good surprise.
“I’m not sure I want to take that kind of chance.” He frowned at me again. “I feel like I’ve screwed everything up.”
“You haven’t screwed anything up. I was always going to move out. I’m right around the corner. You can help me paint if you want.”
“You’re going to paint the apartment?”
“Yeah, it’s that ugly white they always paint apartments.”
“What color?”
“I don’t know. Not beige.”
“No. Beige is ugly.”
Franklin walked over. “What are we talking about?”
“The ugliness of beige,” I told him.
“I love beige. It’s so warm.” The look on his face said he didn’t believe us and with good reason; no one needed privacy to talk about beige.
“Nick got an apartment.”
“Congratulations.” I think it was the first time he’d ever smiled at me.
“Where did Sugar go?” I asked, just noting her absence.
“Ladies room.”
I suspected she was going to be a while in that dress. Unless she was just “powdering” her nose. It was the kind of night that invited that sort of thing.
“Nick’s going to paint his apartment. That’s why we were talking about beige,” Brian said.
This was the moment most friends would volunteer to help. I hoped Brian wouldn’t say anything about helping since that might force Franklin into doing the same and there was no way I wanted to spend that much time with him. Quickly, I said, “I’m trying to pick a color. I have no idea how to do that.”
“Go with beige,” Franklin said dryly. Then turned to Brian and said, “Sugar is amazing. How do you know her?”
That made my stomach queasier than the booze. Brian had met Sugar at Harker’s funeral. Fortunately, he just said, “I met her through Nick,” and didn’t elaborate. Franklin didn’t like that answer, though. Too much of Brian’s life came back to me.
“Well, she’s just terrific.”
“She is,” Brian agreed. Though I had the feeling they had different definitions of terrific.
I stepped back over to the table so I could set down my glass and light a cigarette. Brian and Franklin said a few things I couldn’t hear. Just then Marilyn Monroe came out of the back and one of the guys at the bar held her hand while she climbed a set of plywood steps to get onto the bar. She was a very tall Marilyn and her wig nearly touched the ceiling as she undulated across the bar. The bartender handed her a microphone, which she tapped with a press-on nail to make sure it was working. It was.
When she reached the middle of the bar, she stopped and said, “Good Evening Ladies and Gentleman. My name is Norma Jean Faker. And I want to welcome you all to Glory Hole. We have a wonderful show for you tonight with some of Chicago’s most glamorous glamour girls here to entertain you. Starting with… moi!” She waved at someone in the back and said, “Hit it maestro!”
There was a semi-dramatic pause while we waited for the music to start. When it finally did it took just a moment to recognize that it was the real Marilyn singing something I’d never heard before, the chorus of which was “Every Baby Needs a Da-Da-Daddy,” so maybe that was the name of it. The recording was crackly and old but it was clearly her. Norma Jean did a good job of faking her way through it. Just then, I noticed someone I knew walking in. He was short, thick, and had the most remarkable eyes. His name was Bobby Martin and I fucked him a very long time ago. Back then, he had floppy hair that he let dip over one eye. Now his hair was clipped close and he looked a little tired. Like he was up after his bedtime even though it couldn’t be past nine o’clock.
I excused myself and walked over to him. “Hey Bobby. How you doing?”
“Oh hello! Nice to see you, Nate!”
“Nick, that’s right. How’ve you been? I’ve been terrific. My life is amazing.”
“So you’re still acting?” People liked you better if you remembered things about them. Though I didn’t want to admit to myself why I wanted to be nice to Bobby.
“Well, no. You can’t be gay and be an actor. Not in this city. I tried doing commercial work but there are really only two big casting directors. One is a fat old woman who tries to fuck all the pretty young boys. So I’m out of luck there. I don’t even fuck attractive women. And the other is an awful cunt who gives you thirty whole seconds, and if you make even the tiniest mistake she’ll never see you again.”
“I thought you preferred the theater anyway?”
“Ugh! You’ve never seen bad behavior until you’ve worked with people who aren’t getting paid. When there’s no money involved it’s all about ego, ego, ego, and when it’s all about ego someone is bound to turn into a monster.”
“So what’s so great about your life if you gave up your dreams?”
“Money. I’m making it hand over fist. I’m like this WordStar Wiz. I’m going from company to company giving classes. What I used to make in a week, I make every single day. Who needs dreams when you can have money?”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Has Sugar Pills been on yet? She’ll murder me if I’m late!” He laughed realizing what he’d just said. “Ha! And then you can investigate. Who’s that woman in the red dress? She looks like the real Sugar Pilson. But she couldn’t possibly be. Are you going to buy me a drink or are you just going to stand there?”
“You’re the one with money, why aren’t you buying me a drink?” He just rolled his eyes at me until I laughed. “All right, what do you want to drink?”
“Oh...get me a greyhound.”
I walked over to the bar and ordered the drink. I didn’t order one for myself. I didn’t need it. Apparently, fucking Bobby again was a forgone conclusion so I might want to sober up a bit. On second thought, I ordered a Coke. The caffeine might help.
When I brought the drinks back to Bobby, he said, “Freddie’s not well. He has KS.”
“What’s KS?” I had the feeling I knew but didn’t know.
“Karposi’s Sarcoma,” he said, pronouncing it carefully and correctly. I did know what it was. I’d read about it. Brian had talked about it. I was pretty sure I’d seen it on Ross’ neck. I couldn’t help but think how discomforting it was that people like Bobby were suddenly speaking with the authority of doctors about things they didn’t understand three years ago.
“I don’t think he’s going to make it much longer. You should come see him. He remembers you fondly.” I’d fucked Freddie once and, if I recalled correctly, it was a memorable experience. But I didn’t see how that might require a deathbed goodbye.
Norma Jean Faker had finished her song and done a little monologue. Now she was working up to introduce another drag queen. “And now, one of my favorite ladies. One who’s never afraid to tackle a weighty issue. The corpulent Cora Copious.” Norma Jean Faker scurried off the stage and down the steps. Up came an overweight man in a dress. His outfit was mediocre. More like a toga than a gown. He’d stuck wax fruit all over it. When he got to center stage he pulled a couple of Twinkies out of his bosom and tossed them out to the audience. “I love Twinkies. And the snack cake’s not bad either.”
He waved a fat hand in the direction of whoever was turning the tape player on and off, and his song began. He lip synched to “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No,” which was from some musical I couldn’t think of. If Joseph were there I would have asked him.
As her song began, Cora Copious pulled a banana out of her bosom—making me wonder what else was down there—and ate it during her song. Well, first she made suggestive moves with it. Then she ate it.
I had no choice but to bring Bobby back over to my friends. I wasn’t ready to leave with him and I certainly didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening talking to him, so it was my best option. They were only paying a little attention to Cora Copious.
Sugar was saying, “It’s important that the message gets out to everyone. It’s not just about gay men. Straight people are starting to get it. Haitians. Drug addicts.”
“But they’re not the kind of straight people Middle America cares about. I mean, if the cast of Happy Days came down with it people might care,” Brian said.
“I think you’re underestimating people,” Franklin disagreed. “People are basically good.”
“That is absolutely true,” I said. “The problem is that the word good means different things to different people. For some people killing you in the street is good.”
“That is so extreme,” Franklin said. “I hate it when gays act like we’re being attacked in the streets on a daily basis.”
My blood pressure spiked. “I’ve actually been attacked on the street. With my ex. He was badly hurt.”
Franklin paled. “I’m sorry. My point wasn’t that it didn’t happen. I meant that it didn’t happen as often as they’d like—”
Bobby interrupted him, “I know at least four people who’ve been bashed.”
“I know people too,” Brian said.
Fortunately for Franklin, Cora Copious’ song ended and we all had to applaud her. Norma Jean Faker jumped back on stage the minute Cora got down, and announced, “And now ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to announce the diva herself, Sugar Pills!”
Sugar Pills’ real name was Phil Camora. When he wasn’t in drag he was a tall, slender, over-plucked young man with brown hair. Forgettable, in a word. Which might be part of why he liked to put on a dress and a wig. When he climbed onto the bar he was wearing a royal blue dress with a huge skirt and a bodice that wrapped around this bare shoulders like a tortilla. He had a large black purse hanging on one arm. As soon as he was fully on the bar, he opened the purse and began dropping fake money on the patrons. The real Sugar let out a huge guffaw that drew Sugar Pills attention. He squinted out into the audience. When he saw Sugar he squealed. “It’s you, darling! I can’t believe it! I’m so happy I could write a check! Who should I make it out to?”
“Howard Brown Clinic!” Sugar yelled out the name of her new favorite charity.
“You got it babe. Just as soon as I marry again. My bank account is running on empty, so let me tell you the kind of man I’m looking for. I’m looking for a daddy.” This was apparently a cue because her music began. The thing that made Sugar Pills stand out was that she sang for herself. She didn’t lip synch. The recorded music began, but it was just instrumental. She began to sing about the daddy she wanted, and the lyrics made it clear that her daddy would buy her just about anything. She was good, too. When the song was over she made a few more jokes about how much money Sugar had and then left the stage, bar, whatever.
Sugar Pills didn’t even wait for Norma Jean Faker to bring the show to a close, moments after he left the stage he was hurrying toward our little group with one of those funky disc cameras.
“Oh my God, it’s absolutely fabulous that you came, darling. Can I get a picture?”
“Of course,” Sugar replied. “If you promise to send a copy to Gloria Silver at the Daily Herald .”
“Will I!” Sugar Pills gasped. “What a girl wouldn’t do for a little publicity.”
“Oh she won’t print it. It’s my way of saying ‘fuck you.’”
“You want me to say ‘fuck you’ to the most powerful gossip columnist in Chicago.” His eyes glinted for a moment. “Sure, why not? For you, anything.”
He handed the camera to Bobby who was already in a snit. “Hello!” Bobby said since he’d barely been acknowledged.
“Hello. I love you. Shut up and take the picture,” Phil said in rapid fire. Bobby frowned but complied while the two Sugars posed. After the flash went off, Sugar Pills turned to S
ugar Pilson and said, “Now, make me a happy woman and tell me you know the lyrics to ‘Sisters’ from White Christmas .”
“I wouldn’t say I know the lyrics. But I have seen the movie three or four times.”
“Oh my God, we have to. There’s another show in an hour. You have to do that number with me. We’ll lip sync it, don’t worry.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could.”
“She said she didn’t want to,” Franklin said.
“A lady just wants to be coaxed,” Sugar Pills said. “Oh my God, we should put together an act and go on the road. Pills and Pilson.”
“Pilson and Pills,” volleyed the real Sugar.
The negotiations continued. Someone tapped me on the shoulder I turned around and looked at a guy I hadn’t noticed before. He was kind of cute.
“I’m Mickey Troccoli. You’re looking for me?”
Chapter Eighteen
Mickey Troccoli was not what I was expecting. He was about five foot eight, with a thick chest and a narrow waist, dark brown hair, absolutely straight and parted in the middle, while his eyes were the color of rich, fertile soil and rimmed by thick eyelashes. A mustache gave him a ’70s clone look, one that most guys were now trying to avoid, but Mickey was embracing it in a way that almost made it cool. He wore a very tight black T-shirt, Levi’s, a jean jacket and motorcycle boots.
“Yes, I am looking for you,” I said, leading him away from our group. I had no idea how this was going to go down.
“Why the fuck are you looking for me? I don’t know you.”
“I’m working for Jimmy English,” I told him. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Who are you?”
“Nick Nowak.”
“I work for Jimmy but I never heard of you.”
“I’m a private investigator. I work with Jimmy’s attorneys.”
He chewed that over. I doubted he even knew the names of Jimmy’s attorneys. I decided to start asking my questions. “There’s a task force trying to take Jimmy down. Have you heard anything about that?”
Boystown 7: Bloodlines Page 16