The Chemtrail Conspiracy Set (Lady Justice Book 22)

by Robert Thornhill

  Knowing we were still close friends, the captain had sent Ox as the department’s emissary, hoping he could persuade me to participate in yet another humiliating undercover operation.

  “You’ll be absolutely safe,” he said. “You’ll be wearing a wire and we’ll have eyes on you all the time.”

  “It’s not my safety I’m worried about,” I replied. “It’s my dignity.”

  “Dignity be damned,” Kevin interjected. “It’s a job and a very lucrative one I might add. The department is offering a very handsome consulting fee, and if memory serves me, people aren’t exactly busting down the door to hire two septuagenarian gumshoes.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I replied. “You aren’t the one trying to hobble around in high heels. Besides, it took me a week of shopping at every thrift store in town to find an outfit that didn’t make me look like a bag lady.”

  At that moment, my wife, Maggie, poked her head into the room. Due to budgetary constraints, the office of Walt Williams Investigations was one room in our third floor apartment that also doubled as Maggie’s real estate home office. Needless to say, privacy was practically non-existent.

  “Not a problem. I have your ‘Tina’ outfit safely tucked away. You were so cute, I just couldn’t part with it, so I boxed it up and had Willie store it in the basement. With a little freshening up, it should be good to go.”

  “Swell. Just swell.”

  It seemed that once again, my dignity was about to be sacrificed for the greater good.

  Sometimes Lady Justice can be a cruel mistress.

  The plan was pretty simple. When my transformation to ‘Tina’ was complete, I would simply drive to the bar, hang around for a while and leave. The mugger had attacked his previous victims on the way to their cars or to the bus stop a block away. I would be wearing a wire and both Ox and Kevin would be watching my exit from the bar the whole time. The mugger’s previous victims had been banged up and disparaged, but none were seriously hurt.

  The metamorphosis of a seventy-two year old guy into a drag queen is not a simple process. We began the ordeal mid-day, knowing it would take all afternoon to get me looking halfway presentable.

  Applying the makeup is always the most gruesome part.

  Maggie has a box of cosmetic crap that she doesn’t use anymore, but somehow it’s perfect for me.

  After I shave, the first thing she applies is some brown gunk she calls foundation. It’s supposed to smooth out my complexion and cover any flaws in my skin. I noticed right away that it couldn’t hide my waddle which had sagged significantly since my last transformation five years ago.

  Next, she tackles my eyes. This is the really scary part.

  She starts by ripping my eyebrow hairs out by the roots with a little tweezer thing, then she clamps my lashes with a pair of pliers. After my lashes are curly enough, she smears some blue stuff on my eyelids and comes at me with a sharpened pencil. I always cringe when she says, “Now don’t wiggle or I’ll poke your eye out.”

  Then she applies a dusting of powder so my nose won’t shine. A girl certainly doesn’t want that.

  She finishes me off with a tube of lipstick called Dusty Rose.

  “Here. Blot,” she commands, handing me a tissue.

  Grimacing, she stands back, surveying her work. “That’s about as good as it’s going to get.”

  Just what a girl wants to hear.

  Makeup on, I’m ready to dress.

  The undergarments are the biggest challenge.

  It didn’t take long for me to remember that Tina’s silk undies and pantyhose are like cheap hotels --- no ball room. Mr. Winkie and the boys wasted no time informing me of their discomfort. I just hoped I wouldn’t be singing soprano by the time this gig was over.

  Bras can be tricky. Five years ago, I almost broke my arms trying to hook the damned thing behind my back. Then Maggie taught me the secret, hook in front, rotate to the back. Prior to that time, my experience with bras was primarily focused on unhooking. Now I have expertise in both installation and removal. Not many guys can say that I’ll bet.

  After stuffing the cups with pantyhose to fill out my 34B, I was ready to slip on my dress. I can still remember how difficult it was, picking out just the right dress. I recall standing in front of mirrors asking Maggie if certain dresses made my butt look big. I don’t ever remember caring about how my butt looked when trying on trousers. I guess it’s a girl thing.

  I was pleasantly surprised that the dress still fit after five years. A testament to my healthy lifestyle.

  Next to pantyhose, the shoes are the worst. After much shopping, we found a pair of women’s shoes with two inch heels in my size. For most gals, I’m sure two-inch heels are no problem at all, but for me, it was like wearing ice skates. My ankles turned in and out and I staggered like a drunken sailor. I practiced for half a day before I could perambulate without crippling myself. I was surprised when I put them on this time and discovered I could actually walk. Maybe it’s like riding a bike. Once you learn, it sort of sticks.

  The crowning touch was my wig. Five years ago, I must have tried on a dozen until I found just the right one. Most made me look like Imogene Coca or Phyllis Diller, but I finally found one that gave me just a hint of Tina Turner, hence the name I adopted for my feminine persona.

  The last thing to go on were my earrings. Maggie has pierced ears and there was absolutely no way I was getting my ears pierced. We finally found a pair of big dangly things that were screw on. I just had to be careful not to turn my head too quickly or I would poke out my eye.

  At last, my transformation was complete.

  At the risk of being called a male chauvinist pig, if this is what women must go through every day, I totally understand why they are often testy.

  It was six o’clock when Maggie proclaimed that she had done all she could do. I was ready to roll.

  I was to drive to the Foxy Lady, park a block or so away and just hang out, having a drink or two. If everything went as planned, the perp would accost me on the way to my car and we’d nab his sorry ass.

  Maggie gave me a good-bye kiss and wished me well. As I stepped into the hall, I hoped with every fiber of my being that I could avoid a confrontation with the other residents of my three story building, but it wasn’t to be.

  My dad, John Williams, and his squeeze, Bernice, both 90, live in the two second floor apartments. Jerry the Joker and the Professor live in the two first floor units. Willie, my old friend and maintenance man lives in a studio apartment in the basement.

  As fate would have it, I met Dad and Bernice on the second floor landing.

  We all stopped and just stared at one another for a minute, then I saw a big smile spread across Dad’s face.

  “Holy crap!” he bellowed, falling into a laughing fit.

  “John!” Bernice admonished. “You’re being rude. Why are you laughing at this poor woman?”

  “That’s no woman,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “That’s Walt!”

  Bernice came closer and squinted. “Oh my!” she exclaimed, clutching her chest. She grabbed Dad and the two of them laughed so hard they had to hold on to one another for support.

  Naturally, the commotion brought everyone else into the foyer to see what was going on.

  Dad couldn’t wait to share his glee. “That’s my kid,” he giggled. “Thought I had a son, but looks like I’ve been wrong all these years.”

  Jerry and the Professor were about to add their two cents worth, but I raised my hand in protest.

  “Go ahead and laugh, but for your information, I’m on an undercover operation in co-operation with the Kansas City Police Department. This is serious business.”

  For obvious reasons, they just weren’t buying the ‘serious’ part.

  “I love it,” Jerry said. “I’m on my way to amateur night at the Comedy Club. I’m doing some Rodney Dangerfield stuff, so this fits perfectly.”

  He paused for a moment. “I knew a girl so u
gly they used her in prisons to cure sex offenders. The last time I saw a mouth like that, it had a hook in it.”

  “Okay, enough! I’d love to hang around and continue to be humiliated, but I have important work to do at the Foxy Lady. I’m out of here.”

  “Ooooh,” Jerry cooed. “The Foxy Lady, a drag bar. I’ve got some good icebreakers for you. What do you call a transvestite cow? A Dairy Queen, of course. What do you call a marathon where all the runners are transvestites? A drag race.”

  “Thanks for the support,” I mumbled, hobbling down the stairs in my two inch heels.

  Dad called out, “I’d say ‘break a leg,’ but you’re probably going to do that anyway.”

  As I drove north on Troost, I recalled my previous encounters with the LGBT community. In addition to my previous dalliance at the Foxy Lady, Vince Spaulding, another member of the City Retiree Action Patrol, and I, were sent undercover at the Cozy Corner, a gay bar in midtown. We were completely out of our element, but fortunately, we met Larry and Mike who took us under their wings.

  We became friends, and in fact, if it wasn’t for them, Ox and I would have been blown to bits when the Avenging Angels bombed the Gay Pride Parade a few years ago.

  I have always been a ‘live and let live’ kind of guy. I have never been judgmental of other people’s lifestyles. Lord knows I have enough quirks of my own. I find it difficult to understand why I’m ridiculed because the only kind of wine I like is Arbor Mist. Maybe that’s not quite in the same ballpark, so to speak, but you get the idea.

  Those were the thoughts running through my head as I parked a block and a half from the Foxy Lady.

  The dimly lit bar was pretty much as I had remembered it. On my first visit, I expected to see drag queens in sequin dresses and feather boas, but I soon learned that such extravagance was only found at the fancy clubs like the old Jewel Box Lounge.

  I took a seat at the bar and ordered a margarita, one of the few alcoholic drinks I could tolerate, and on most occasions it was usually accompanied by a taco. I figured I should nurse it slowly. On the rare occasions when I’ve had two, Maggie had to drive home. To say I’m a lightweight would be an understatement.

  Most of the patrons were couples huddled together at tables or occasionally on the dance floor. There were a few singles like myself scattered around the bar.

  I had been there for about an hour when an old guy who looked like Marjorie Main from the old Ma & Pa Kettle movies slipped onto the bar stool beside me.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asked.

  Since I had been nursing my margarita, my glass was still half full.

  “No thanks, I’m good,” I replied trying to be polite.

  “How about a dance?”

  “Don’t dance,” I replied. “Two left feet.”

  Not to be deterred, he pressed on. “Do you believe in the hereafter?”

  I recognized the line right away. It was from a Ruth Buzzi skit on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In show from the late 1960’s. He was definitely old enough to have seen it in person. I figured I should let him have his fun.

  “Why, of course I believe in the hereafter.”

  He didn’t skip a beat. “Then you probably know what I’m here after.”

  I tried to let guy down easy. “I’m sure you’re a nice --- ahhh --- person, but I’m just not interested.”

  A look of disgust came over his face. “Really? I was trying to do you a favor. You’re not exactly setting the bar real high you know.”

  I was through being nice. “Maybe not, but I’m not desperate enough to hook up with you. Now beat it!”

  As he slid off the bar stool, he turned and gave me the finger.

  “Is that your mental age or IQ?” I shot back. Real mature.

  A moment later, I heard snickering in my earbud. I had forgotten that Ox and Kevin could hear everything being said. I just hoped they weren’t recording it.

  “Real smooth, Walt,” Kevin quipped. “Playing hard to get, I see.”

  Evidently the other singles in the bar had seen my exchange with Ma Kettle and maybe figured it was my time of the month. No one else approached me the rest of the evening.

  At nine-thirty, I whispered, “Maybe we should call it a night. There’s nothing left of my margarita but melted ice and the bartender has asked me four times if I wanted another. I may be wearing out my welcome.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ox replied. “When you leave, don’t be in a hurry to get to your car. Give the perp time to make his move.”

  “Will do.”

  My butt was asleep from sitting on the barstool for three hours and my legs were in a cramp. I’m sure I was a pathetic sight wobbling to the door in my two inch heels.

  I stepped out into the night, yawned, stretched, and made my way slowly to my car. I tried to be oblivious to what was going on around me, but it was hard not to sneak a peek down the dark alleys I passed.

  I just had to be confident that if I was accosted, Ox and Kevin would be Johnny on the spot.

  Much to my disappointment, I reached my car without incident. I had hoped the perp would attack. I really didn’t want to spend another night at the Foxy Lady.

  I rummaged around in my purse as long as I could and actually dropped my keys, hoping to give the perp ample opportunity to strike, but no such luck.

  Once safely in my car, Ox said, “Too bad. Let’s pack it in for tonight. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  We said our good byes and headed for home.

  I was fortunate to find a parking spot in front of our building. I was really pooped and my feet hurt from hobbling around in those ungodly shoes. I was anxious to wash all the gunk off my face in a hot shower and hit the hay.

  I stepped out of my car and had just hit the lock button on my key fob when I felt something hard pressed against my back.

  “Put your hands behind your back and don’t move or this ends right here. Understand?”

  The perp had changed his M.O. Instead of hitting me at the club, he had followed me home.

  Not wanting to be found dead in a dress and wig, I readily complied. The perp bound my hands with a plastic tie and shoved me toward a car idling a half block away.

  He opened the back door and shoved me inside.

  “You’re all mine, faggot, and now you’re gonna pay.”

  My heart sank as he pulled away from the curb. Once I had said good night to Ox and Kevin, I disconnected my wire. The perp had me and nobody knew. I was on my own.

  Jerry the Joker had just returned from his gig at the Comedy Club. All the spots in front of the building were taken, so he parked a block away.

  He was halfway home when he saw Walt, still in drag, get out of his car. He was about to call out when he saw another figure accost Walt and press a shiny object against his back. He watched, horrified, as the man secured Walt’s hands and pushed him in the opposite direction to a waiting car.

  He knew immediately that something had gone terribly wrong with Walt’s undercover operation.

  He pulled out his cell. “John, something terrible has happened. Someone’s taken Walt at gunpoint and they’re about to drive away.”

  “Follow them, Jerry, and for God’s sake, don’t lose them. I’ll get my pants on and be right behind you. As soon as I’m in my car, I’ll call and get directions. In the meantime, call Ox and tell him to get his ass in gear.”

  The moment John Williams pulled away from the curb, he dialed Jerry. “Where are you?”

  “Heading east on Armour, almost to Paseo.”

  “Did you get ahold of Ox?”

  “He’s coming, but he’s at least fifteen minutes behind us.”

  “Shit! We’ve got to do something. Walt may not have fifteen minutes. Where are you now?”

  “South on Paseo. The guy just pulled up in front of an apartment building at 4001 and they’re going inside.”

  “Follow them, find out which apartment and wait for me. Oh, and call Ox and give him the address.
”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “No time. Just do as I say.”

  As we were driving, I thought about the perp’s words, “You’re gonna pay.”

  “You said that I’m going to pay for something. Do you mind telling me exactly what I’m paying for?”

  “Are you kidding? Just look at yourself. You’re a man, for chrissakes, and you’re dressed like a two-bit hooker.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you upset because you think I’m a hooker or because of my clothes?”

  “The get-up, of course. I got nothin’ against hookers.”

  That was good to know.

  “So why is my outfit so offensive to you? I’m not hurting anyone.”

  “It hurts me. Barbara Walters’ ‘Most Fascinating Person of 2015,’ Time Magazine’s ‘Person of the Year.’ Give me a break.”

  Then it hit me, Bruce Jenner’s transition to Caitlyn was definitely his hot button.

  I was about to pursue the subject when we pulled up in front of an apartment building on Paseo.

  “Okay, out,” he ordered, “and no funny stuff or I’ll ice you right where you stand.”

  Naturally, I complied.

  Once inside, he bound me to a wooden chair and produced a straight-edge razor like barbers use.

  “So, you guys want to be women? Well I’m going to help you with that. After all, you can’t be a real gal with all that junk between your legs. I’m going to take care of that for you.”

  Seeing the sharp razor and hearing its intended use made my hiney pucker.

  I tried to stall for time.

  “I just don’t get it. Why is this cross-dressing thing so difficult for you?”

  “It’s an abomination. It says so in the Bible.”

  After seeing the guy and his apartment, I seriously doubted he was a Bible-toting zealot.

  “So you believe everything in the Bible.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “I think it says somewhere in there you’re not supposed to eat pork, and I see a can of Spam on your counter.”

  He looked confused.