The tears subsided. His breathing calmed. He drank water.
Detective Liz was right. It didn’t make sense that the same person orchestrated all the attacks. He wasn’t safe. Even with all those people at the bar interested in his wellbeing. All the attacks had happened at Tamburlaine, except for the Molotov cocktail.
The bell rang. Chris got up from his wallowing and went into the kitchen. He viewed the monitor. Jerry. He picked up the phone and pushed the number to speak. “Jerry. I’m sleeping.”
“Just for a minute.”
“No. Come see me tomorrow.” Chris held no desire to go another round with The Great Jericho Taylor. He hung up the phone, got a fresh bottle of water from the fridge, and walked down the hallway to his bedroom. He dropped his robe and climbed under the covers. He turned the electric blanket up to seven and cuddled with one of the pillows in the warm cocoon wondering when he’d see Liz Nashe again.
Thirty-five
Alone at Tamburlaine. Chris went in early, after the cleaning crew, but before the kitchen staff. He made sure the alley door closed and locked behind him. He walked through the kitchen with only the Exit sign lights to guide him. He went down into the basement, took the big flashlight from the shelf, and turned it on. He walked down the narrow stairs, vowing for the hundred-thousandth time to replace them. The kitchen prep area, with its stainless steel tables and shelves and steel door coolers, reminded him of an operating room.
He walked through the hallway into the old basement. The large space, divided into a dozen rooms, each separated by elaborately patterned brick walls and smooth-worn brick floors, had been a speakeasy in the ’20s and ’30s. Jimmy told him the place was a whorehouse before that. Rooms below the stage had been cleared and cleaned and housed the Dames at Sea and Little Shop stage sets. A trap door allowed the set pieces to be raised and lowered with ropes and pulleys.
Chris passed through to the deeper basement. Here, the floors were still dirt. After entering a code, he opened an old door. The tale: this was an original door from the first building, erected in 1807. It still had leather joints and massive brass nails. He closed the door behind him and shined the flashlight toward the walls. A rat scurried out of the light.
When he’d remembered and thought about Franz a week ago, it stuck in his head that there had been a newspaper article. That there was some odd connection between Jimmy, Franz, and the Picasso. That’s why all the cloak and dagger in the dungeon.
The cabinet Chris sought was against the furthest wall. He tripped on the uneven dirt floor. The lights hadn’t worked down here for a long time. He balanced the flashlight while searching through the ring of keys, sorry he hadn’t found the correct one before he came downstairs. But, he found the skeleton key and opened the wooden cabinet. With some effort, Chris dropped to his knees and searched through the brittle, yellowed newspapers. There it was, well, not it, but rather he. His stomach turned and Chris thought he might puke, but he held back, taking deep breaths.
“Jimmy said he’d show up again.” Chris folded the paper, used the cabinet to regain his footing. He locked the cabinet and then the door with the rusty keys.
Just as Chris came up into the kitchen, Matilda arrived through the alley door and flipped on the bright overhead lights. She shrieked. “Chris! You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here in the dark?”
“Everyone knows I’m a tightwad, hate turning on the lights.” He smiled at the woman.
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“I’ve been prowling Tamburlaine in the dark longer than you’ve been on the planet.”
“Now, that I believe. Can I make you some coffee? Maybe eggs and toast?”
“Coffee would be great. I’ll be in my office.” Chris turned to go. He caught sight of himself in the mirror the wait staff used. Covered in dust, dirt, and cobwebs, he was a fright. No wonder Matilda screamed.
Chris went into his office and shut the door. He rolled open his desk and set the newspaper down on the blotter. He quickly disrobed, changed into a fresh pair of trousers and a clean blouse from the armoire, and ran a brush through his hair; the cobwebs in his curls caused him to shudder.
He thought again kindly of Franz. Jimmy introduced Chris to Franz here at Tamburlaine. Handsome, beyond compare. Great manners. He thought of him as an aged Nicky Arnstein, and himself as a youthful Fanny Brice. They played out the off-stage scenes. Chris sucked him off in the dressing room more than once, let the old man fuck him in the men’s room. Who knew, a few years later, the crazy guy would leave his paintings to Jimmy and then Jimmy would leave them to him?
A knock at the door. “Chris, I’ve got coffee.”
“Come in.” He closed the cabinet.
Matilda entered with her heavy walk carrying a tray with coffee pot, cup and saucer, and a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast that all rattled as she kerthumped into the room. “You should eat.”
He didn’t protest. “Thank you.”
Matilda, with odd maneuvers, set down the tray on his desk and left, closing the door behind her.
Chris wondered if she’d seen the paper or what she might think of his antics. He was sure he’d be the talk of the staff, the crazy old queen with spiders in her hair prowling around the dark club with ancient news clippings; not as bad as Mrs. Haversham in her wedding dress.
He sat at the table and poured coffee in a cup. The bacon smelled good. He ate it and wondered how she’d cooked perfect bacon in just ten minutes. He opened the paper and explored the picture. It was unmistakable. Nigel Folgate stood next to Jimmy, with Franz behind, his arms around them, the Picasso—the Streetwalkers—that hung on the wall of Chris’ office—originally Jimmy’s office—there in the photograph, propped in front of the men. Folgate was there when Franz gave the pictures to Jimmy. It didn’t make any sense. Chris had no memory of the three of them ever being together. He looked. The paper’s date wasn’t part of the clipping.
The young Nigel Folgate in the photograph looked nothing like Norton Folgate—who had been harassing Chris over selling the property. How were those two related? And, why was Nigel, with their shared history, allowing Norton to come after Chris like this?
Chris scanned the article for Folgate’s name, but it didn’t appear anywhere. He started at the headline: “Eccentric Millionaire gives Priceless Collection to Westside Businessmen.” Graf by graf he read. There was Jimmy’s name over and over. Franz’s name and background. Not one single mention of Folgate, not even in the caption. What on earth could it mean? Chris, of course, knew about Nigel’s history with Jimmy; that was a shared history. What he didn’t know: Who was Nigel Folgate to Franz?
Chris folded his dirty clothes and tucked them, along with the old newspaper, into a tote bag. He left the office, making sure the door locked behind him. Without a word to Matilda or her crew, he left Tamburlaine and headed toward home.
When he arrived at his metal door, someone he didn’t know stood there, pushing the buzzer.
“Hello? May I help you?”
An older gentleman, in a long trench coat, turned and smiled with crinkled blue eyes, eyes Chris knew. It took a few moments for this out of context experience to register.
“Detective Nashe? Liz?”
Liz, out of drag, was rather average, a bit drab. “None other.” He twirled; his coat bottom fluffed out.
Chris took Liz’s hand with his free one. A handshake wasn’t enough, so he pulled the detective into him and they embraced. “Thank you. You saved my life.” Chris whispered into Liz’s ear through his tears.
When they separated, Detective Nashe wiped away his tears. “May I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”
“Of course, where are my manners?” Chris finagled the key into the lock and with some effort pushed the door open. As the air grew colder, the door became even more difficult to manipulate. He led the way down the
alley and into the rear entrance of his home. “How about coffee? I can have some made in a few minutes.”
“That would be lovely.”
Chris tossed his wrap over the chair; Detective Nashe took off his coat and did the same.
“So, as you see, I’m a queen, a queer. I’ve always liked that word, queer. It has defined me, in more ways than one, for a long lifetime.”
“I like the word queer, too. I’m glad we’ve taken it over, us, the community. Using it for fun takes away all the power of if.” Chris busied himself with water and grinding beans and filters.
“Oh, it’s too much effort. Just water from the tap for me.”
“Nonsense. Do you really have anywhere else to be?”
“No, actually, I don’t. I broke some protocol and have been relieved of my dispatch duties. It was just a part-time job to keep me busy. They can’t take away my pension, although they looked into it.”
“Why? For what?”
“Well, helping you.”
“You saved my life.” Chris turned in melodramatic disbelief—his hand raised to his throat.
“Well, it’s not the assistance I gave, but instead, the impersonating an officer. You see, I’m retired. And, I’m a man. I was at Tamburlaine that night. I was waiting in line on the street to get in. When I heard them clambering for someone who knew Morse Code, well, I stepped forward. I never thought about how I was dressed. As a policewoman.”
“And they fired you for that? Even though you—”
“Rules are rules.”
Chris sat down at the table. Liz continued to inspect the items hung on the walls, old copper molds and pans, the blue cat clock with its vigilant eyes and swinging tail, yellowed newspaper clippings clinging to the sides of the refrigerator, and hundreds of Playbill covers that papered the kitchen walls.
The room filled with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee.
“Sorry, I don’t have any cake or Danish. Chris stood, filled their cups. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” Liz let out a sigh.
“So, why are you here?” Chris asked. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful to see you. And, even more wonderful to know.”
Liz reached out and took Chris’ hand. “I’m so glad you feel that way, too. I felt like we’d found some bond at the hospital. I like you a lot. It’s obvious you don’t remember me from before.”
“Before?” He liked the feeling of Liz’s hand around his. It felt comforting, familiar somehow.
“Oh, we were just boys. We had sex in an alley. Barely sex. Just a quick blowjob and wank together.”
He whistled. “Pretty sure I was drunk or stoned or both.”
“We both were. You’d gotten out of your show at Tamburlaine—I was third from the right in the second row. I waited on the street for you. We talked about nothing, walked for a bit, to I don’t know where, and we dipped into an alley. We kissed. I pulled out your dick, dropped to my knees, and gave you a blow job while I jacked off. All so fast. I ran off before you’d even zipped up.” Liz drank some coffee, watching Chris.
“Ah, the good old days.” Chris winked her a big, signature wink
“Stop, you almost made hot coffee come out my nose.”
They laughed.
“So, when was the last time you were on your knees in an alley?” Chris watched Liz’s face as his eyes sparkled mischievously.
“So long ago, I can’t remember. I like that you dress and act as you want. I had to keep everything quiet for so long. I got used to being a man by day and a lady by night.”
“There are worse scenarios.” Chris got up, brought the coffee pot to the table, filled the cups, and set the pot on a cork trivet. “So, was this what you wanted to talk to me about? Or, is there something else?”
“Well, I actually was using the something else as the excuse. But, we launched right into it.”
“Liz, at our ages, whatever those might be, we don’t really have time to fuck around.”
“I’m Elmer when I’m a man.”
“Which do you prefer?”
He moved the tote bag to a farther point on the table. “Liz.”
“So, Liz it shall be. What was the other thing?” The movement of the tote reminded Chris of the puzzle he was trying to solve.
“Well, the drug they poisoned you with, I followed up with the hospital. It was an odd combination of poisons from a blowfish, a snail, and some South American frog. They’d never seen anything like it before. But, there have been two other victims since your encounter.”
“Victims?”
“Both men died. Both of them actually had the patches attached to them. Yours didn’t stick to you, and that probably saved your life.”
“You saved my life. You understood what I was blinking.”
Tears again welled into Liz’s eyes.
“Do the names Henri Dietrich or Herman Junker mean anything to you?” Liz reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two small photographs. He faced them toward Chris on the table, pushed them closer.
“This man I don’t know. The cops showed a similar photo after the fire. Chris pointed from the first to the second photograph. “And, this one was my bartender at Tamburlaine. Benny Bushnell. He disappeared right after I was poisoned the first time. He’s dead?”
“Yes. He was the second victim. You were poisoned before? When?”
“A few weeks ago. I’ve been attacked several times recently.” Chris relayed the events to Liz. “Here, hand me that bag.” Chris pulled the old newspaper out. “A memory reminded me of this picture in the paper. That man there, I thought it was Nigel Folgate, but now, I don’t know. There’s no name given in the article or the caption.”
Liz read the article and looked at the picture.
“So, my bartender Benny was actually Herman…”
“Junker. And, I’d guess this guy in the old paper piece is a relative of Dietrich and the guy you call Folgate. You’re right, they’re spitting images, although they’re decades apart in age.”
“Liz, what the hell is going on? Is there a picture in a closet that’s aging somewhere so these guys remain young looking? Are they vampires?”
Liz laughed. “Oh, I love Oscar Wilde and Anne Rice. Nothing like a sexy vampire or an old British poof.” She tapped the news photograph. “I have a lot of time on my hands and a lot of connections in this city. Do you mind if I take this paper?”
Chris hesitated.
“I’ll get it back to you if I can.”
“Take it.” Chris refilled their cups. “Well, isn’t that a kick in the head? All these people not seeming to be who they are. What the hell is it that they want from me?” He scrutinized Liz. “How do I know you’re not one of them or in on this somehow?” It dawned on Chris, even though he’d started out joking, that he didn’t know anyone anymore. How could he know who to trust? Or, who was out to get him?
Liz pulled out his wallet and handed over an ID. He also sifted through some papers and receipts and produced a rather worn business card for Detective Elmer Nashe.
Chris didn’t know what to do, but he knew he had to trust someone. And, if Liz saved him to kill him, there was some level of comfort knowing it was a drag queen queer who might do it.
Thirty-six
Chris, mid-set, saw Liz enter Tamburlaine.
“Come on, booze it up, I don’t make any money if there are empty ashtrays.” Chris stopped playing the piano. “Those were the days, huh? Smoke and drink right inside a club.”
He kept his eyes on Liz as she got a drink from the bar and found a spot in the dark corner of the showroom.
He loved the idea of the Knockers Up March with Liz and her huge bazooms leading the line. But, Liz told him that she never took part, not wanting to be seen. Tonight would be no exception.
“Now, you have to go out
side to light up; if you haven’t tipped the doorman, you end up waiting in line for an hour to get back in.” The audience laughed. He played another song, kibitzed with those sitting at the tables down front, and continued to steal as much of Rusty Warren’s material as he could.
The audience, fairly young tonight, hadn’t ever heard the old jokes before and laughed along. The older folks, especially the older men, didn’t always laugh. They were often lost in the memories of seeing and hearing Rusty in person, or at least remembering listening to the LP albums.
While he talked and sang, he kept track of Liz. She didn’t move from her spot. She nursed her drink. She watched the crowd. Detective Nashe was incredibly alert.
Ain’t Misbehavin’ let out. The room filled with voices. Chris changed to underscore music for a few moments.
“Well, folks, that’s my last set. He’s been playing piano for Nunsense all week You know it’s habit forming? There are still tickets for next weekend’s performances, so stop by the bar or the box office before you leave. Please welcome Jason to the keyboard.” Chris stood, stretched a little, and patted the handsome, mustachioed, too thin Jason.
The audience applauded as Chris left the stage.
Jason took the bench, cracked the knuckles of his spindly fingers, and rocketed into a Fats Waller style stride piano. “Yowsa, Yowsa. Thank you all for visitin’ Tamburlaine tonight. So pleased to play all the ancient hits for you. Yesiree, Bob!” Jason had a whole black, ’20s shtick he did on stage in the showroom. He called it his “Negro Drag.” And, even though he was white, folks on the street would talk about that black piano player. Chris loved the guy and paid him well to take the last set several evenings a week.
Chris walked over to the bar, checked in with Frank, then went into the dining room. All the tables were empty, yet the candles glistened invitingly, just the way he liked it for the last crowd out of the showroom.
The lady’s room still had a line. He went into the kitchen. It was still warm and the floor a mess, but the chrome and steel shined like it was new.
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 15