Provincetown Follies, Bangkok Blues

by Randall Peffer

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday there is a hurricane 150 miles east of the Cape. It is pulling in bands of heavy showers. Oak Bluffs—the square mile of Victorian cottages, restaurants, arcades, clubs, bars that Vinyarders call “Sin City”—clusters around a little harbor on the northern tip of the island. It is an old-school resort. There are scents of pizza and fudge, flooded streets packed with tourists of several races wearing Black Dog rain gear, trying to ride out the blow. Even though it is only three o’clock in the afternoon, the streetlights are on. It is that dark.

  “How’s that feel, sweetheart?” Votolatto smiles.

  Tuki is sitting on a metal stool in the back of a plain white van parked by the harbor entrance. She is naked from the waist up, except for her bra. It looks like a sports bra the way the straps cross her back. She’s got her hands up under the C cups adjusting her breasts.

  “Cool, huh?” Votolatto says to Michael, who is also in the back of the van with a couple of techies. “Latest thing in transmitters. We figure these queens are all touchy-feely. Maybe Nikki or the boyfriend may try to hug Tuki. They might find a conventional wire setup, but no way, now. The mike, transmitter, and battery are right in the falsies. Even if you take the falsies out of the bra, you won’t see the wire unless you know what to look for. Think of it. Tits with ears.”

  Michael nods. Never imagined such a thing. That is for sure.

  “Okay. Showtime, everybody.”

  Tuki pulls on a pink cotton pullover and gray windbreaker.

  “Don’t forget your surprise, princess.” Votolatto hands her a plastic baggie with something small and black in it.

  “You want the umbrella or just go with the hood up?” Michael is asking. He is trying to be helpful. Sweat is soaking his brow.

  Tuki gives him a little kiss on the cheek. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “Yeah, Jesus, would you relax, Rambo?”

  “Maybe she should take the umbrella. In case she has to defend herself, you know?”

  The detective looks at the lawyer, like sit down and cut the shit. “Anything goes wrong, Tuki, somebody starts to get rough with you, five real tough guys are going to be in that bar in about three seconds. You drop to the floor and cover your head, okay?”

  The bar and every table are full at the Bluefin Café on Circuit Avenue when Tuki walks through the door. She pulls the hood off her head and shakes out her curls. Somebody whistles. Maybe a charter boat captain or one of the house carpenters sitting in the corner. A Dire Straits song is playing on the jukebox. “Tunnel of Love.” Duke is working the bar in a ‘do rag that makes him look like the Jolly Roger. He is busy pouring off some beer and does not see her until she sidles up to the service bar.

  “How about a Perrier with lime, la?”

  He looks her way.

  “Holy shit. Tuki! What? How …”

  She reaches across the bar. Grabs him by the strap of his tank top. Leans and kisses him right in the middle of his Fu Manchu. His tan face goes suddenly pale.

  “I’ve missed you, la.”

  Even the techies, Votolatto, and Michael, waiting up the street in the van, know she is not lying. This is a good start. An honest icebreaker. She is shooting from the heart, not reciting a script.

  Duke opens his mouth to talk. But she smiles and presses an index finger to his lips.

  “We need to talk. Where is Nikki?”

  “You on some kind of mission?”

  “I don’t have much time. I’m scared.” Her words are still coming from her heart.

  Duke asks a waitress to cover for him. He ducks out from behind the bar, grabs Tuki by the arm. Michael can hear a swinging door squeak on its hinges.

  “Fuck,” says Votolatto. “He’s taking her out of the barroom.”

  You can hear the crackle of a grill, the clatter of plates.

  “They’re in the kitchen,” he says into his radio. “I want a detail to get around to the back street. Let’s go. On the double. Cover the kitchen door!”

  “Hey, Nik, look who the cat dragged in.”

  Nikki is wearing a chef’s hat, shaking a basket of fries with her back to the door. She spins on her heels as soon as she hears Duke’s voice. When she sees Tuki, she drops the fries back in the frialator. They sizzle. With the heat and the humidity, the kitchen feels like Bangkok during the monsoon.

  “Padruga. My god! Where did …”

  Tuki is on her friend. It is a big back-rubbing hug.

  “You’ve got to get out of here. Like now, la. The cops are coming!”

  “What I don’t understand,” Duke seems to be getting suspicious, “is why?”

  “They want to talk to you about the fire and Alby.”

  “That a girl! Don’t give them a chance to think this through. Jig the bait, sweetheart,” says Votolatto in the tech van.

  Nikki slides out of the hug, wipes her hands on her apron. “Why? I already talked to them for hours. If I could help you, you know I would do anything. I know you didn’t do what they say. You didn’t kill Alby.”

  “Yes, la. But things have changed. Everything is getting confused. You know my boyfriend from Thailand? The police got to him yesterday. I think he is the one. He killed Alby. Set the fire.”

  Duke and Nikki exchange a look.

  “Really?”

  “He is all messed up on heroin. He was jealous of Alby. And he saw what Alby was doing to us. So he just took things into his own hands. I know that is how it was. And you know what? I’m glad Alby is dead.”

  “He was a first-class prick, padruga.” There is real venom in her voice.

  “Nikki.” Duke takes her arm, strokes it, tries to calm her down.

  “Why are the police coming here?”

  “Because he’s lying to them. He told them he was outside in the alley by Alby’s office when the fire started. He said he saw Nikki put a knife in Alby.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “I know. But what if the police find us? Do you think they will let us walk this time?”

  Nikki says something under her breath in Russian. Maybe she is remembering her last showdown at gunpoint with Immigration back in P-town.

  “How did they find us? How did you …?”

  Tuki eyes Duke. “This morning I was in the dressing room. I heard Richie talking to the police. He told them to look for you at this bar. It was the place you were working when he first met you. He said it was like your old crib. You were from this island. I caught the first bus to Hyannis, then the ferry here. What do you think we should do?”

  “Fuck,” says Duke.

  “Where can we go? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “She’s good,” mumbles Votolatto. “She’s got them by the balls. Now squeeze them, honey.”

  Tuki reaches into her pocket. “I almost forgot. I brought you this.”

  Nikki takes the baggie.

  “What’s that?” Duke can’t contain his curiosity. Nikki shakes the onyx pendant out into her hand. “My earring. I thought it was gone forever. Where did you find it?”

  “On the floor in Alby’s bedroom.”

  Suddenly, the kitchen is so quiet you can hear the fries crisping into hard little rocks in the frialator.

  “Come on, Tuki. Set your hook, babe. Reel them in. It’s do or die time!” Votolatto coaches from the van.

  The do or die line gets Michael. He suddenly remembers that today marks the end of the week of grace he begged from Filipa. He has not talked to her yet. “Come on, Tu—”

  There is talking again in the kitchen of the Bluefin. Nikki’s voice now. “I don’t understand, padruga.”

  “It means that you were there. In Alby’s room, la. It means you wore my drag in there and stole his knife. You can see the earrings on the security tape.”

  “I just wanted the knife to scare him. I wanted out. I was sick to death of his telling me he was going to call in Immigration if I didn’t fuck his friends. Sick to death of him threatening to tell Richie about me
and Duke! I just wanted to go off and have a life with Duke. I swear, Tuki, I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I never—”

  “But you framed me.”

  “I’m so sorry. I needed a disguise and your bungalow was open. I just borrowed some of your stuff. I didn’t expect you to get in so much trouble.”

  “Nikki!” Duke’s voice is booming. He’s telling her to shut up.

  “What if I go to the police with this? What if they are listening right now, la?” Something has snapped in her voice. Michael can hear it.

  “Shit!” says Votolatto in the van. “I told her no threats! She’s blowing this.”

  There is the distinct clang of cutlery. Like a sword being drawn. “You won’t have that chance! I’m sorry about this, Tuki.” Nikki screams. “Duke, don’t!”

  But it is too late. He already has Tuki collared with his forearm, squeezing her neck in a vice, with a carving knife at the top of her throat.

  “Go, go, go!” shouts Votolatto to his SWAT crews.

  Michael is already out of the van and sprinting down Circuit Avenue for the front entrance of the Bluefin when a loud metallic thud rings out from the kitchen. Five cops kick in the door.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  There is at least one body on the floor, smoke pouring from the frialator, when Michael gets into the kitchen. He is blocked by a swarm of cops in riot gear. Votolatto is already on his radio calling in an ambulance and EMTs.

  As Michael tries to push through the crowd, his cell phone goes off. He automatically snaps it to his ear. A voice squawks his name. It seems far away, unearthly. And it is really messing with his concentration.

  “Not now!” He stashes the phone back in his jacket pocket and bulls ahead.

  When he finally catches sight of the bodies, the air rushes from his chest with a deep bellowing. Duke lies on the greasy yellow linoleum. Out cold. His head cradled in Nikki’s lap. She sits on the floor shouting for people to back away, someone bring her water. The left side of Duke’s head and his ear are swollen and red. Michael cannot understand what happened … until he sees the cast-iron skillet on the floor next to Nikki. She clocked him. Scrambled his brains. But what about Tuki?

  He shouts her name over the crackle of cop radios.

  “We already got her out of here, Rambo.” Votolatto nods toward the open back door.

  He can see the rain coming down in buckets. Then he is in it. Two women cops stand in the back street holding umbrellas over themselves and a figure squatting down on her haunches, arms locked around her knees. They have put a blanket over her shoulders, and now she is rocking back and forth like an autistic child at Bridgewater.

  One of them catches his eye, reads his concern. “She’s in a shit storm of shock. Where in hell are the medics?”

  “Tuki,” he says kneeling beside her in the rivulets, “It’s all over. It’s all over!”

  She raises her head to look at him. Her eyes are black and wet and dilated. Her mouth opens to talk, but no words come out. Tears are rolling down her cheeks. Then he sees her throat. It has not been cut, but it is already one huge, purple-streaked welt. Duke all but choked her to death before he switched to the knife. She throws her arms around his neck, and they both fall onto the soaked pavement. He can feel her struggling for breath. He is trying to soothe her, just reeling off words to keep her from fading before the EMTs get there. She is trying to tell him something. But all she can manage is a high, faint whistle before she falls limp.

  “Let her go!” shouts somebody. “We’re losing her!”

  Then three EMTs are on her with an intubation kit.

  It is not until the next morning that Michael hears anything. They airlifted Tuki off the Vineyard to Mass General’s trauma center in Boston. And they would not let him on her flight. So he found his way back to Chatham and got stinking drunk with a bunch of fishermen at the Squire. Now Votolatto is on the phone asking him if he wants the good news or the bad news first. “Just tell me she made it.”

  “She made it. I guess it was nip and tuck for quite a while. But she damn well made it. Serious condition but stable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a lot of damage to her larynx. They say it’s going to be a while before she can talk right. Nobody wants to bet on whether she will ever sing again.”

  “Does she know?”

  “I thought you might want to tell her.”

  “Christ!”

  “Exactly. Look, Rambo. I’m sorry as hell she got hurt, okay? She put on a great show. Right up until the end. I’ll give her that. Tell her we appreciate it. Tell her it was made for Hollywood. Tell her she is free and clear. I’ve spoken to the D. A. He’s dropping all the charges. And it seems like Immigration has misplaced her file….

  So do your citizenship thing. This case is a wrap as far as she is concerned.”

  For a second he forgets to breathe. He just sits there on his bed in his boxers staring at the phone in his hand. He thought victory would make him want to run to the window and shout its name. But right now it feels like nothing at all. Just dead space.

  Finally he inhales. “You got a confession?”

  “The Russian, Nikki, and her pal talked. After he came back to life … and everybody calmed down. You know, she really fucking clocked him with that frying pan. Major concussion. No doubt she saved Tuki’s life. The D. A. offered them a deal, no worse than Man One to give it up. Maybe a lot less, especially for the Russian. And we said we might be able to help out with Immigration. So they spilled. You had enough or you want to hear about it? You sound pretty fried, counselor.”

  “Tell me, okay?”

  “It’s what you’d figure. The stiff, Costelano, has these queens blackmailed into working escort duty. Threatening to call in the INS on them unless they hustle their tushies. The Russian wants out with her buddy Duke.”

  “But why steal the fancy knife and the videos? Why frame Tuki?”

  “Pretty much what Nikki told your client. The theft was an act for the benefit of the security camera. Tuki’s drag just a convenient tool. Nikki thought if Costelano got all distracted by someone stealing his trophies, he’d plumb forget about playing the heavy with her. Seems she was a popular moneymaker for the escort service. The guy slapped her around sometimes to keep her in line. Anyway, nobody was thinking about murder, or framing Tuki, says the Russian. Just distraction. I tend to believe her, seeing as how she came to your client’s rescue big time with that frying pan yesterday.”

  “So what went wrong?”

  “Nikki and Duke made plans to run off on the night of the murder. But before they left, our boy Duke had an attack of machismo. He’s a hothead, we saw that yesterday. And he’d had enough of Alby whoring, thumping, and threatening his little darling. Forget stealing off in the night. It was payback time. He took the stolen knife that Nikki gave him for credence and sneaked out from behind the bar in the Follies. He got the key to the big guy’s real estate office that they keep in the register. He let himself into the office. Just waiting to kick the shit out of Alby before splitting town with his honey. The car gassed and ready to go as soon as Nikki packed her stuff into it after work.”

  “But things got dicey.”

  “Next thing you know, here was Costelano coming down the alley from the Follies after his close encounter with Tuki and her flamethrower. He was swearing, kicking up clouds of dust. It’s maybe one in the morning. He went in his office. Turned on the desk lamp and saw Duke sitting on the couch.”

  “A showdown.”

  “Basically. Duke flat out told him that he and the Russian were history. The big guy was in total control-freak mode. This was not his day. Having problems with all of his queens. The whole fucking stable in revolt and at each other’s throats. Tuki and Silver, like fire and ice. Now Tuki was stealing from him. To top it off Richie was raising holy hell because he suspected his main man of plotting to run off to Neverland with the little Russian flit. ‘Screw that shit, my bald buddy,’ says
Costelano. ‘I’m not going to drop a dime on your girlfriend. If you two so much as think of splitting on the Follies and me, I’m going to put her in a bag with a load of rocks and make you drop her ass in P-town Harbor. Stay the fuck away from her. Get back in there and tend bar.’ Tough talk, see?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This went on for several minutes. Escalating when Nikki walked in looking for Duke. Alby flipped out. Zapped her with his bullwhip. Knocked the lamp over into a metal wastebasket where it was sparking to beat the band. He tore into Nikki again with the whip. Then he got on Duke. Real Lash Laroo shit in the sparks and the shadows, I guess. He had Duke all wrapped up in that bullwhip and down on the floor. Stomping the shit out of him when Duke grabbed the stolen knife in his waistband and let Costelano have it in the gut. The wastebasket and a curtain burst into flames. And the whole office goes up.”