I gave up on trying to find her, caught a train at Times Square, and ended up in Greenwich Village. Instead of going my normal route, I decided to explore a few side streets on my way to my favorite tea shop. I walked by the Gay and Lesbian Center where I noticed several men going inside. A banner proclaiming Free HIV Testing hung over the door. I’d never been in the building so I figured, what the hell, why not check it out? The door opened into an airy room with comfortable chairs and bookcases. I stood in the middle of the room and looked around. A number of hallways extended from the central lobby.
“May I help you?” a cute young man with closely cropped black hair asked.
He was sitting at a desk near the entrance. He wore a black Keith Haring T-shirt—the one with two Haring men in white outline, one humping the other.
“Just looking,” I said. “I’ve never been inside.”
“Welcome,” he said in his most helpful look-no-further voice. “We offer a variety of services here: free HIV tests, other medical screenings, referrals, counseling, twelve-step groups.”
My ears cocked.
“What groups, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He smiled and then began in earnest, “AA, NA, SLAA, SIA, CA, MA, ACoA—”
I held up my hand. “Thanks. I get the picture.”
“Here’s a brochure,” he said, somewhat disappointed that I had cut him off.
“How many people work here?” I asked.
“Three paid staff, I think. Most of us are volunteers.”
Something prodded me to ask—it was a long shot. Even New York City didn’t have that many black drags.
“Have you ever heard of someone named Ophelia Cox?”
He thought for a moment and then shook his head.
“She’s a tall, thin, black drag queen, who lives on the Lower East Side. Nice looking. She usually wears white or red, her two best colors.”
His eyes widened a bit. “There used to be a great drag who worked at Limelight. She looked like Diana Ross, but I haven’t seen her in years. I don’t know if she’s the woman you’re looking for.”
“Thought I’d ask. If you ever hear that name could you give me a call?”
I was sure he’d ask me if I was a cop—a question straight out of a movie—but he didn’t. He took down my name and number, and I left with the center’s brochure tucked inside my jacket pocket.
I sauntered to my tea shop and ordered a pot of Darjeeling. As I sipped the steaming brew, I looked out on the street and wondered if I could resist Rodney Jessup’s offer. On the other hand, the streets were teeming with men, a good diversion to take my mind off my troubles. I particularly salivated over a few muscle masters dressed in leather. A charge shot through my groin. It had been more than a year since I’d had really good sex with a man. For the first time in a long time I was getting horny. That was dangerous.
A couple of days passed without any contact from Rodney Jessup, the creep who handed Norm the tape, or the cute boy from the center. In the meantime, my head seemed to be centered on my crotch, but rubbing one off didn’t seem to cut it. I jokingly told Norm about my predicament one night at work.
He took my soapy hands in his and said with mock seriousness, “I feel your pain, but don’t look to me to solve your problem.” I laughed at his joke.
The next morning, I got a phone call. I answered with some trepidation because I instinctively felt it might be bad news. It wasn’t. My prophecy genes hadn’t been performing so well lately.
“Cody?” the voice asked.
I didn’t immediately recognize the caller.
“This is Brian . . . from the center. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
I perked up. “Brian. Thanks for calling. I work nights, and I don’t have a machine.”
“Oh?” he asked.
Apparently, my lack of technology had dropped me a few notches in his estimation.
“I’ve got news for you. I asked a couple of friends who live on the East Side if they’ve ever heard of Ophelia Cox. One of them has.” He stopped, waiting for me to respond.
“That’s great, Brian. Where can I find her?”
“Well, my friend’s never seen Ophelia in drag, but he knew the name immediately.”
“That’ll do. At least it’s a lead.”
Brian sighed. “Look, you’re not going to do anything bad, like arrest her, right? I mean, you’re not a cop, are you?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, but the questions were serious, and I admired him for standing up for Ophelia. “Don’t worry, Brian, she and I are old friends—former lovers, to be exact. I think she may need help. That’s why I’m looking for her. Besides, I gave you my name and number. If I was out to get her, I wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“Guess so,” Brian said. “She hangs out at Club Leo on Delancey Street. I think she works as a bar back.”
I was surprised Ophelia might be hauling dirty glasses and dishes at a club, but then I wasn’t one to talk. I thanked Brian and hung up. My next evening off was Thursday night. I’d have to wait until then to check out Club Leo.
I asked a neighborhood gay couple who came into Han’s for a bite, if they knew anything about Club Leo. One had lived in the Lower East Side for a couple of years before moving to Hell’s Kitchen. He said the bar began its life as Club Leo, a hangout for locals, then changed ownership and became a gay club for a year. It didn’t last long because no uptown queens wanted to venture to Delancey Street, so the club converted back to Club Leo and became mixed. About a year ago, punks had taken it over and since then it operated successfully as a venue for area punk revival bands.
I left my apartment about eleven o’clock on Thursday night and caught the train downtown. Because I had been forewarned, I dressed head to toe in leather. I avoided makeup, but put on a pair of white-laced combat boots for effect.
When I arrived, a small crowd of young men and women— most dressed in black, accented with silver chains and loops— stood smoking and talking outside the door in the cold, spitting rain.
Club Leo was a standard Lower East Side joint. The building was painted black. There were no windows on its front, only an equally dark door framed on both sides by two painted orange lions that faced each other like ornamental bookends. As I got closer, I could hear the music blaring inside, as the door pulsed with the frenetic beat. I steeled myself for the noise, pushed past the crowd, and stepped inside.
A garish purple light flooded the club. A band of three men and one woman hammered out a frantic song about carpentry tools and death on a tiny stage at the back of the building.
The lyrics went something like, “Nails . . . die! Screwdriver . . . die! Hammer . . . die!” Probably the opening act for the evening.
A few band groupies were dancing like lunatics in front of the stage. I worked my way toward the bar on the left hand side of the room, afraid if I got closer to the stage my eardrums would burst into uncontrolled bleeding.
A red-haired, tough bartender, attired in skintight button-fly jeans eyed me as I approached. His ample pectorals glistened in the weird light. A pair of wide suspenders stretched over his flat stomach, bare chest, and shoulders. A couple of the buttons at his crotch were strategically popped open, which I found titillating, particularly when he bent over. He was a butch guy who didn’t smile much, but he clearly didn’t mind giving a show to the paying customers.
“Water,” I shouted.
He frowned. Not much of a tip on a bottle of water.
He reached under the counter, pulled out a chilled one, and put it on top of a white bar napkin. I paid him, generously tipping for the erotic thoughts, and retreated to a back corner. As I stood there listening to the band rave on, I considered how crazy it was to be in a punk bar at midnight on a Thursday. My life was sedate these days. Sedate in the truest sense of the word. I would rather have been at home reading some new plays by Sam Shepard. I sighed and sipped my water.
As I stood there watching the band play, a tall bl
ack man at the right side of the stage caught my eye. He was carrying a plastic bucket filled with ice, and was headed toward the exhibitionist bartender. I couldn’t be certain that it was Ophelia— this man looked much thinner than I remembered—but I had to find out.
I walked to the bar and stood next to him. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and fluorescent orange earplugs.
He handed the bucket to the bartender, who dumped the ice into a cooler under the counter.
The man looked at me with no hint of recognition.
I put my hand on his shoulder and he jumped. A lick of fear shot through his eyes, then they narrowed and focused on my face. The skin on his forehead crept up slightly, but he said nothing. He turned and skulked away.
“Ophelia!” I started after him, but was held back by the bartender’s hand that grabbed the back of my jacket.
“Shit,” I said to him. “Let go. I’ve been trying to find my friend, Robert, for days.”
“Look, buddy,” the bartender said while tightening his grip. “The employees got work to do. We don’t talk to the customers other than to take orders. If you want to see him, you can do it when he’s off the clock.”
I had two twenty-dollar bills and the change from the ten I had broken for the water in my pocket. I pulled out the two twenties and waved them in front of his face.
He thought about my bribe for about a second before he grabbed the money and stuffed it in his jean pocket. “Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all. More than that and I’ll throw you out.”
Like hell. I decided to let it go and not waste time.
I rushed after the man who had disappeared in back of a curtain to the right of the stage. I ducked behind it as well and found myself in a narrow hall that led past a couple of dingy dressing rooms to a small area that I assumed served as a green room and employee lounge.
I found him, his head cupped in his hands, sitting on a dilapidated folding chair. The earplugs lay on the table like orange bugs. The band’s noise was less audible here; an ice machine thrummed in the corner. At least it was quiet enough we could talk.
I touched his back and he shivered under his T-shirt. He lowered his hands, turned to me, and looked at me with tearstreaked eyes.
“Des,” he said softly, “I wanted it to be you, but . . . ”
“Talk to me, Ophelia,” I said.
“I’m sick, Des. Deathly sick.”
“I know.”
I leaned toward him. He pressed his head against my shoulder and cried.
I wrested an extra five minutes from the bartender. Robert told me that he did live in the building I had visited in the Lower East Side, not far from the club. We promised to meet late the next morning at my favorite tea shop in Greenwich Village. The shop was a halfway meeting point for us.
When Robert walked in the door, he looked composed, more like the man I had known several years ago in Boston. We sat at a table in the front window and watched pedestrians pass by. The sun broke free from the clouds now and then and splashed the table with light. The warm rays felt good on my body.
“Tell me everything,” I said.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Win Hart told me you were in New York. I hope that’s okay. You know Win could never keep a secret. But I also asked a guy at the Gay and Lesbian Center, and he was the one who led me to you.”
He smiled and his simple expression brought back memories of Boston and pleasant afternoons together when life was easier.
“Yes, Win once told me you killed a man,” Robert said.
“Shit, you know that’s not true.”
Those distinctive dark eyebrows rose.
“He was a trick,” I said, “and he was murdered by the Combat Zone Killer.”
The waiter brought our tea, and Robert poured a cup for himself. His hand shook a bit as he held the pot.
“I read about it later,” he said. “The whole business was nasty.” He brought the cup to his lips and looked absentmindedly out the window. “I’m sorry about Stephen,” he said in almost a whisper. “I know how much you cared for him.”
“True,” I said, “but life goes on and time heals—”
“Spare me the platitudes, Des. You don’t have to suck it up for me.” He turned from the window and his lips narrowed in an angry frown. “I don’t want to hear about healing or how life goes on because I don’t have much time on this lovely little spinning ball. You’re well read—much more than I. You’ve studied the classics. You know tragedy when you see it.”
This was a side of Robert I’d never seen, and I didn’t know how to react. The Robert Martin I remembered was smooth and sexy, not angry and bitter. As Ophelia, she was comfortable holding a martini in one hand and a bejeweled cigarette holder in the other. Ophelia was classy even when she was working the Déjà Vu.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be flip.” I looked at him squarely. “So how did this happen, and, more importantly, how can I help?”
He took a sip of tea and then put his cup on the saucer. “It’s a long, boring story full of rage and tears.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Well, how long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
“About two years, I guess.”
He reached across the table and patted my hand. “Too long. I’ll make it the Reader’s Digest condensed version.” He leaned back in his chair. “The city was closing down the Zone before the murders started. I know it sounds weird, but I felt comfortable there.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I know—the Combat Zone felt like home to me, too.”
“I was making money, and I knew my limits. When I was in public, oddly enough, my vices were more controlled. When things went south in the Zone after the killings, the business shifted. I started getting calls for Boston hotels and Back Bay parties. At first, I was thrilled. The money was great and the men were—what should I say—a higher class. At least, that’s what I thought.
“But something else was creeping into my life. These high rollers could afford a lot more than just me. A lot of white powder appeared out of nowhere, usually spread across a table—and then came the needles.”
Robert rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and showed me his right arm.
I winced.
His chocolate skin was pockmarked with purplish scars.
“The left arm is worse,” he said. “I got hooked. I was high all the time and I made some bad choices. I’ve been clean for a while now, but the damage was done. Now, I’ve got the disease—the unholy badge of honor that’s sapping all my strength and all my resources. I didn’t get it from sex. I got it from sharing needles.” He stopped and stared out the window again. “I wonder which sin is greater?”
“I’m sorry.” What else could I say?
We could have carried on about choices and responsibilities and how sorry we were that life turned out the way it did, but none of that seemed to matter in that moment. Robert was a friend who needed what little help I could provide.
He tapped his fingernails on the table. “You know what? I feel like splurging.” He pointed to the baked goods that were pleasingly arranged behind a long glass display case. “I’m going to order one of those delicious chocolate-chip muffins. I’ve had my eye on it ever since we came in.”
“Get what you want,” I said. “I’m buying.”
“Oh, no you’re not. I’m not broke yet—soon to be, but not yet. It’s sad when life comes down to a muffin or the cost of a pill.”
I couldn’t let a friend down. “I’m not rich either, but I can pay for tea and a muffin.”
I called the waiter over and ordered the muffin.
Robert’s lips opened in a broad smile and he asked, “Do you believe in God?”
I shook my head.
“I’m in a twelve-step program,” he said. “That was one of the reasons I moved to New York from Boston. More anger about AIDS, better services for those who can’t afford it. I’m still so
rting all this spiritual stuff out—God and all that. There’s something to be said for it. I’ve seen some miraculous recoveries. I’m hoping . . . ”
I wanted to believe he was right. “Maybe it’ll work for you.”
The waiter placed a gigantic muffin in front of Robert. The chocolate had melted into a delicious goo in the microwave.
“I haven’t gotten over the anger yet,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like there’s no God at all. ‘Hey, is anybody there?’ It’s like He shuffled off to Buffalo a long time ago and left us alone to fend for ourselves. God is like an absent landlord—never around but still expects the rent to be paid.”
I caught sight of a black Mercedes cruising by the window. It wasn’t Rodney Jessup’s, but it reminded me that there was a whole lot of money waiting for me if I wanted to accept his offer. Tainted money, one might call it, because of the bounty on Stephen Cross’s head.
“Maybe I can work something out for you,” I said. “How badly do you need cash?”
Robert laughed. “This girl is black and poor. I need money for rent, food, and drugs. Real, life-saving drugs.”
“Give me a little time.”
He took a huge bite of the muffin and between swallows, said, “Des, I can always count on you.”
I smiled. “We have a history, Ophelia. I’m not going to let it end over a muffin.”
A mist crept into his eyes, and he nodded. My next step would be to call Rodney Jessup and tell him I was interested in his proposition. A hell of a lot of cash was at stake. And beyond that, it didn’t hurt that Rodney’s hunky bodyguard popped into my mind every now and then, usually undressed. The siren call of caution beckoned to me, but my head told it to take a flying leap. Rodney’s money might be the cure for Ophelia, but it also might be the death of me.
CHAPTER
FOUR
NORM SCOWLED WHEN I TOLD HIM I MIGHT NEED A few days off.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Cody.” He put a tub full of dirty dishes next to the sink.
“Seriously, Norm. You know I wouldn’t ask for the time if I didn’t need it. How many days have I taken off in a year and a half?”
An Absent God Page 3