Chagrined, I turned down the walkway to see what was going on at the Atlantic House. Mayhem was going on, with wall-to-wall people, hyper-decibel music, and frenzied fun in and out of costume. I tried unsuccessfully to fight my way to the bar. The floor vibrated so badly I really wondered if we all might spill into the basement. Somebody handed me back a bourbon and ice. I wasn’t even sure who had bought it for me, until I saw my friends Dan and Mike waving. I had no hope of approaching them and just waved my thanks.
I fought back the way I had come and took my drink (illegally) outdoors to join a smaller crowd, where I at least had air to breathe. It was getting time for the show at the Crown and Anchor, so I downed the drink—I’d better watch that—left the glass on a rock wall and retraced my steps up the alley.
The Crown was busy but not frantic. It was a largely male crowd, and somewhat older, or at least more conservatively behaved than those at the A-House. I found a small table and sat down at the banquette behind it. A waiter brought me a drink, took some money and I settled down to wait. If they were running on time, Ms. Garland would soon come tripping down that yellow brick road. Meanwhile, the band played Cole Porter songs, and I wondered what the gay world would have done without him.
“Excuse me.” A pleasant-looking man somewhere in his fifties stood in front of my table. “There’s not a seat left in the place, and I wondered if I might share your banquette?”
“Why not? I’m Alex.”
“Marc.” He put out his hand. Shortly, a waiter appeared and took his order for a scotch and water, “plus whatever the lady is having.”
“The lady is having a very light bourbon and water, please.” Then I laughed. “Well, congratulations, sir! You are the one millionth person not to be fooled by my disguise tonight.”
“As bad as that?” He smiled.
“Actually, an acquaintance of mine let on earlier that he thought I was a man. I realize now he was just teasing.” I moved the ashtray closer to me.
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the lack of a beard. That’s probably the reason I don’t wear costumes anymore . . . everybody always knew me anyway.”
“I’m with you,” I agreed. “Unfortunately I’m going to a party later where costumes are required—like tiaras or medals or something. Frankly, it’s a pain.” The waiter set the drinks down and stood there until Marc paid him. No tabs on a busy night like this.
Marc stirred his drink and looked around. “I haven’t missed Judy Garland, have I?”
As if on cue, the band stopped playing and the lights went black. The noise in the room faltered and twittered into silence. I hoped this wouldn’t be either an embarrassing failure or a tasteless parody. One or the other seemed likely, and I thought both Judy and Peter deserved better.
There was a fanfare . . . a drum roll . . . moving spots that circled, crossed and then stopped on a barstool that held . . . Judy Garland.
Peter actually looked like her. He wore a long black skirt with a discreet slit, a white cotton shirt with cuffed back sleeves and a stand-up collar, several gold chains and a dark, ragged-cut wig that looked real. He had her startled-deer eyes and full lower lip to begin with, and makeup did the rest. I was impressed. He and the band swung energetically into “San Francisco” and I went from impressed to amazed.
Peter must have been well corseted, because he looked no chubbier than I had seen Judy look in some TV clips. He handled the mike well, moved vigorously and gracefully, just as she had done. Maybe there was an extra wrinkle, maybe he took a breath when she would have held the note, maybe he slid into some of the high notes instead of hammering them dead-on. But the energy, the nuance, the timbre, the voice . . . was there. The band segued into “Embraceable You,” and I simply gave myself to the music. She did three or four more Garland songs—by now I was thinking of her as she—well, you know what I mean. Applause was loud and long, and I was thrilled for Peter. Then she drifted into “The Man That Got Away,” with that tearing low-pitched heartbreak. They gave her the most sincere accolade an artist can receive: the room was dead quiet when she finished. There must have been a twenty-second time lapse between Peter’s last note and the first cheer from the standing audience. I felt tears building against the dams of my lower eyelashes and observed others reaching for napkins or handkerchiefs.
Of course her signature “Over the Rainbow” was the finale, with everyone standing and joining in. Another blackout. And the little stage was empty save for a barstool with a mic lying on the seat. No bows, no clever repartee, no roses thrown and caught. Judy had triumphed . . . and she had gone.
I was drained. I couldn’t make immediate small talk. I didn’t even say thanks when the waiter delivered another round. It was several moments before Marc spoke. “Did you ever see her before?” he asked.
“No and no,” I replied. “As for Peter, I really don’t know why not. As for Judy, only movies and clips of some of her appearances. In person, I think she left the planet about the time I was landing.”
Marc nodded and sipped his drink. “Yes. I figured that. Well, I can tell you, Peter is damn near as good as she was, certainly better than she was at the end. She got to be a mess. I was a kid in Provincetown when she was last here, just before she died or killed herself or got killed or whatever she did. She was always drunk or stoned, hung out here and at the old Town House Bar. It was sad, demeaning, humiliating. I used to wonder why I went and watched her, night after night. It was like looking at the same train wreck over and over.”
He paused, and I could tell he was far away. I waited, and finally he continued. “She would try to sing and slurred the words, or forgot them entirely. Once she fell off the piano. But we gay boys milled around as long as she was there. We still adored her . . . and she us. It was strange how she loved gay men, but virtually ignored any lesbians who tried to become friendly, even just to compliment her. She was often plain rude.”
I lit a cigarette and wondered idly what number smoke it was. “Yes, I’ve heard that. What was her beef with lesbians?”
Marc waved a hand dismissively, or possibly to disperse the smoke. “A dozen theories. Some thought she was straight and didn’t like a lesbian making a pass. That’s silly. Surely, with all her years in show business, she would simply have laughed it off. Others said she’d had a lesbian experience and found it unpleasant. Most lesbians said she had not had a lesbian experience and was afraid she’d like it, thereby making her life even more convoluted. All she would have needed was the same luck with women she had with men.”
I took a drag and carefully blew the smoke away. “She sounds a very confused woman who was comfortable around gay men because they were safe, yet made her feel adored and wanted.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Marc reached for his jacket and began to shrug into it. “I think the problem was Judy and that big devil called intimacy. I think the lady probably literally died looking for love, yet afraid of losing herself if she found it.”
Now that was food for thought. And possibly indigestion.
Marc finally got his jacket on straight. “Well, I gotta run. I’m due at a party in Truro. It’s been pure pleasure, Alex. I hope we meet again.” He gave me a light kiss on the cheek and began to weave through the crowd.
I leaned back to finish my drink and wished he hadn’t left. For some reason, I didn’t want to be alone at that moment. Then I had one of those idiotic thoughts that make you absolutely certain you’re going mad. I looked around the hundred-plus people in the room and was convinced that each of them was with a partner, that I was the only soul there who was single. Everyone would go home with that partner, wake up together, live out their lives together. I was the only person in the place who would go home to a partner with four legs and a tail. If I could carry a tune, I’d go on the road as Judy Garland looking for love in all the wrong places. Where the hell were the right places? What the hell was love? Why had I found so many women exciting in bed and so deadly dull out of it? Why did I always feel
smothered at the thought of living with someone? And why did my lovers always accuse me of becoming distant and withdrawn?
I thought of Cassie and Lainey. They didn’t seem the least bored or suffocated. Of course Cassie flew all over the place, and Lainey nursed at all hours. Sometimes they actually spent days apart. Because of their crazy hours they often used two bedrooms, yet they were very much a faithful and loving couple. They just weren’t joined at the hip.
Maybe I should advertise in one of those personal mags. Gay, 30-ish female private investigator desires female pilot or nurse for intermittent romance. That should get me enough lunatic replies for a lifetime of entertainment. I raised my arm for another drink and quickly lowered it. Not wise.
Chapter 7
When I walked outside, the cold air gave me a jolt. Obviously, I had had a bit to drink . . . or two. As I walked to Cassie’s and Lainey’s house I was not sorry it was some eight blocks away. I could smell rain in the air, but at least the parade had managed to complete its course ahead of it. I hoped I could, too. One miserable soaking a day was more than enough.
I heard the party before I got to the house. It seemed in full swing as I walked around the side and onto the deck. There, Peter Pan sat on a railing singing “I Won’t Grow Up” in a rather appealing girlish soprano. I smiled and applauded. At least she looked genuine in her costume. As I slid back the screen door to the living room, Lainey came through it wearing a coat and carrying a large plastic bag.
“Dull party?” I asked. “Going to try the one up the street? I hear it’s better.”
“Certainly not!” she bristled. Then, tumbling to the unique Peres humor, she smiled. “Oh, no. We goofed. We’re already running out of ice. I’m going to rob the hospital. Be right back.”
I walked through the door into a wall of people, noise, music and smoke . . . at least some of the latter, illegal. Dan and Mike had beat me here, so I had a chance to thank them for their generosity at the A-House. I chatted for a moment with Katie and Marian, enjoyed a moment of triumph with Cherie, one of the other artists whose paintings had been selected by the bank, and carefully avoided eye contact with Mary Sloan. I made my way to the bar, where Cassie was keeping busy. Finally, it was my turn. She gave me a welcoming grin.
“Glad you made it, ol’ buddy. We were beginning to think you’d succumbed to the curse of the gypsies or whatever. Now, here”—she pointed—“we have a bowl of vodka punch. And here, a bowl of some nonalcoholic punch that no one seems to like. We have several bottles of fairly bad white wine. But for you, soldier, may I say . . .” She reached under the bar. “This Bud’s for you!”
I took it with a smile for her thoughtfulness and a slight worry as to how it would mix with bourbon. I noticed Cassie was drinking O’Douls and raised an eyebrow. “Flying at noon tomorrow,” she explained. “I switched to this a while ago. I like a good amount of time with no booze before takeoff.” Tomorrow I would probably wish I had done the same.
The CD player moved to something slow, and a tall blonde tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I would like to dance. I liked very much, and turned away from Cassie with a wink. The blonde and I moved easily across the floor, and she felt very good in my arms.
Her name, she said, was Kerry. Mine, she said she’d heard, was Alex. I agreed to that and asked if her last name were Blue. She said no, it was Morris. Obviously, she had not followed my clever Kerry Blue Terrier train of thought, so I concentrated on my dancing. As we turned, I noticed her nod and give a half-smile to a hefty woman standing with two men. Was she Kerry’s lover? I knew the woman worked in the office at the clinic where Lainey nursed, but I didn’t know her name. I decided to approach the subject obliquely.
“Kerry, you’re not from Ptown, are you?”
“No, uh, I’m visiting friends of some guys who know the women giving the party.”
“Ah.” That sounded about right for Ptown. “Having a nice visit?”
“Now I am.” She moved even closer against me, and I began to think the evening might end on a very up note. A moment later the music switched again, and we stood for a minute, looking hesitant.
Then Kerry said, “Look, there’s a chair near the fire. Grab it and I’ll get us a drink.”
I yelled, “Budweiser! There’s one on the bar that’s mine.” I turned to nab the chair.
Kerry returned swiftly and sank gracefully to the floor, leaning her head against my leg. I stroked her hair and thought we looked like one of those TV commercials with the handsome couple sitting before the fire drinking expensive wine, while outside a Jaguar with a big red ribbon is being silently delivered in the snowy driveway. I started to mention my thoughts, but Kerry didn’t seem attuned to some of my offbeat comments, so I let it go.
She had one arm around my lower leg—not the scraped one, fortunately—and was sort of caressing my ankle and the top of my foot. It was different and kind of exciting. My fingers moved from her hair to the back of her neck, ventured lightly over to her collarbone and finally down just to the beginning of her cleavage. She leaned closer as if inviting further explorations, and I was just about to suggest we have a private party at my house, when something out on the deck caught my eye.
Peter Pan was walking with precarious balance along the top railing of the deck, and I could hear the small voice faintly caroling “I’m flying!” I knew it was quite a way to the ground, flying or not, and felt it would be a simple kindness to convince the elf to get the hell down.
“I’ll be right back.” I kissed the top of Kerry’s head and stood up. I took a step, crashed over the coffee table and re-skinned my shin, landed on my left wrist and felt something give, and finally rolled elegantly onto my back with a yelp. Kerry . . . Kerry Blue Bitch had tied my damned shoelaces together.
A cast of thousands arrived to offer assistance. I was mortified and kept saying I was fine, though my leg and arm were telling me I wasn’t. Through the crowd I saw Kerry and Hefty holding each other up through their fits of laughter. First that slimy Lewis and now this pair—I’d have liked to put the bunch of them on their asses. I wondered what on earth had prompted Kerry’s little trick, it had to have been a set-up. Somebody finally got my shoelaces untied and retied and attempted to give me a hand up. I yelped again and Lainey took over.
She got me into the bedroom, pronounced my leg a lovely mess and smeared something on it that felt wonderfully cool. She checked my swelling wrist and asked if I could make a fist. Yes, but it hurt. Could I wiggle my fingers? Yes, it hurt. She diagnosed probable sprain and gently taped a washcloth-wrapped baggie of ice around my wrist. “Sleep with that,” she said, and tucked an Ace bandage into my pocket. “That’s for tomorrow. If the swelling and the pain haven’t decreased by then, check with the clinic.”
Cassie insisted on driving me home. As I limped across the deck, I heard a soft voice calling, “I can’t get up.”
“Cassie, I hate to mention this, but I think Peter Pan has flown into your roses.”
“Sweet Jesus in the foothills!” Cassie snarled. “That witch of yours make house calls? What next?” She turned to the house calling, “Lainey! You got another effing casualty here!”
While various people assisted in Peter Pan’s rescue, I leaned against Cassie’s car, feeling slightly sick. Kerry came out, looking shamefaced. “I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, “It never occurred to me you’d get hurt. Nell put me up to it. But I really apologize. I’m sorry,” she said again.
“So am I,” I said. “I’ve got a business appointment Monday that this will not make any easier. I guess I accept your apology. But, tell me, I don’t even know Nell. What the hell has she got against me?”
Kerry looked as if she thought I should know. “Your brother. He’s a cop, right? Last week the cops gave her a parking ticket and a speeding ticket. She said she didn’t deserve either of them, and she’s mad as hell.”
I opened the car door and shook my head in disbelief. “Tell her she’ll really be thrilled at what h
e gives her when I tell him she tried to kill me.” While Kerry was digesting that thought, Cassie came out and we drove away.
I told Cassie the reason for my own crash landing over the coffee table and she shook her head. “Nell is probably just drunk. Lainey can’t stand her. I don’t really know her.”
“Then why did you invite her?”
“I don’t think we did.”
I was awfully glad to get home, and Fargo was just as glad to see me. He looked concerned, whuffled all over me, checking out aromas of people, places and medications. I let him out, and he was back whining at the door in record time. As I let him in, I saw why: it had started to rain. Fargo is convinced he is made of spun sugar and will melt in rain.
We were about equally happy to climb into bed. Out of habit, I switched on CNN and got a couple of talking heads discussing whether or not the Fed would raise rates on Thursday. That and the booze and the sound of the rain drumming on the windows was all it took. We had survived Halloween, Fargo and I.
Hopefully the curse had expired at midnight.
Chapter 8
I’d been dreaming something about Judy Garland and “The Trolley Song,” when it dawned on me the bells were not in a song, but my telephone. And dawned was the operative word. Unbelievably, my clock said 7:08 a.m.
At some point in the night I’d obviously clicked off the TV, because I rolled over onto the remote control. In an effort not to lie on the remote, I dislodged the now-thawed icebag from my wrist and got it wedged under my elbow. As I picked up the phone, I leaned on the baggie, and because it was Sunday and I was hung over, God made it break. Cold water seemed immediately to fill the entire bed. I yelled, “Shit!” and from far away a tinny voice agreed, “You got that right.” I was holding the phone wrong-way, too.
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 7